JEAN-CHRISTOPHE VOLUME I

DAWN, MORNING, YOUTH, REVOLT

by Romain Rolland

Translated by Gilbert Cannan

PREFACE

"Jean-Christophe" is the history of the development of a musician ofgenius. The present volume comprises the first four volumes of the originalFrench, viz. : "L'Aube, " "Le Matin, " "L'Adolescent, " and "La Révólte, " whichare designated in the translation as Part I--The Dawn; Part II--Morning;Part III--Youth; Part IV--Revolt. Parts I and II carry Jean-Christophe fromthe moment of his birth to the day when, after his first encounter withWoman, at the age of fifteen, he falls back upon a Puritan creed. PartsIII and IV describe the succeeding five years of his life, when, at theage of twenty, his sincerity, integrity, and unswerving honesty have madeexistence impossible for him in the little Rhine town of his birth. An actof open revolt against German militarism compels him to cross the frontierand take refuge in Paris, and the remainder of this vast book is devoted tothe adventures of Jean-Christophe in France. 

His creator has said that he has always conceived and thought of the lifeof his hero and of the book as a river. So far as the book has a plan, thatis its plan. It has no literary artifice, no "plot. " The words of it hangtogether in defiance of syntax, just as the thoughts of it follow one onthe other in defiance of every system of philosophy. Every phase of thebook is pregnant with the next phase. It is as direct and simple as lifeitself, for life is simple when the truth of it is known, as it was knowninstinctively by Jean-Christophe. The river is explored as though it wereabsolutely uncharted. Nothing that has ever been said or thought of life isaccepted without being brought to the test of Jean-Christophe's own life. What is not true for him does not exist; and, as there are very few ofthe processes of human growth or decay which are not analysed, there isdisclosed to the reader the most comprehensive survey of modern life whichhas appeared in literature in this century. 

To leave M. Rolland's simile of the river, and to take another, the bookhas seemed to me like a, mighty bridge leading from the world of ideas ofthe nineteenth century to the world of ideas of the twentieth. The wholethought of the nineteenth century seems to be gathered together to make thestarting-point for Jean-Christophe's leap into the future. All that wasmost religious in that thought seems to be concentrated in Jean-Christophe, and when the history of the book is traced, it appears that M. Rolland hasit by direct inheritance. 

M. Rolland was born in 1866 at Clamecy, in the center of France, of aFrench family of pure descent, and educated in Paris and Rome. At Rome, in1890, he met Malwida von Meysenburg, a German lady who had taken refugein England after the Revolution of 1848, and there knew Kossuth, Mazzini, Herzen, Ledin, Rollin, and Louis Blanc. Later, in Italy, she counted amongher friends Wagner, Liszt, Lenbach, Nietzsche, Garibaldi, and Ibsen. Shedied in 1908. Rolland came to her impregnated with Tolstoyan ideas, andwith her wide knowledge of men and movements she helped him to discover hisown ideas. In her "Mémoires d'une Idéaliste" she wrote of him: "In thisyoung Frenchman I discovered the same idealism, the same lofty aspiration, the same profound grasp of every great intellectual manifestation that Ihad already found in the greatest men of other nationalities. "

The germ of "Jean-Christophe" was conceived during this period--the"Wanderjahre"--of M. Rolland's life. On his return to Paris he becameassociated with a movement towards the renascence of the theater as asocial machine, and wrote several plays. He has since been a musical criticand a lecturer on music and art at the Sorbonne. He has written Lives ofBeethoven, Michael Angelo, and Hugo Wolf. Always his endeavor has been thepursuit of the heroic. To him the great men are the men of absolute truth. Jean-Christophe must have the truth and tell the truth, at all costs, indespite of circumstance, in despite of himself, in despite even of life. It is his law. It is M. Rolland's law. The struggle all through the bookis between the pure life of Jean-Christophe and the common acceptance ofthe second-rate and the second-hand by the substitution of civic or socialmorality, which is only a compromise, for individual morality, whichdemands that every man should be delivered up to the unswerving judgment ofhis own soul. Everywhere Jean-Christophe is hurled against compromise anduntruth, individual and national. He discovers the German lie very quickly;the French lie grimaces at him as soon as he sets foot in Paris. 

The book itself breaks down the frontier between France and Germany. If onefrontier is broken, all are broken. The truth about anything is universaltruth, and the experiences of Jean-Christophe, the adventures of his soul(there are no other adventures), are in a greater or less degree those ofevery human being who passes through this life from the tyranny of the pastto the service of the future. 

The book contains a host of characters who become as friends, or, at least, as interesting neighbors, to the reader. Jean-Christophe gathers peoplein his progress, and as they are all brought to the test of his genius, they appear clearly for what they are. Even the most unpleasant of them ishuman, and demands sympathy. 

The recognition of Jean-Christophe as a book which marks a stage inprogress was instantaneous in France. It is hardly possible yet to judgeit. It is impossible to deny its vitality. It exists. Christophe is as realas the gentlemen whose portraits are posted outside the Queen's Hall, andmuch more real than many of them. The book clears the air. An open mindcoming to it cannot fail to be refreshed and strengthened by its voyagedown the river of a man's life, and if the book is followed to its end, thevoyager will discover with Christophe that there is joy beneath sorrow, joythrough sorrow ("Durch Leiden Freude"). 

Those are the last words of M. Rolland's life of Beethoven; they are wordsof Beethoven himself: "La devise de tout âme héroïque. "

In his preface, "To the Friends of Christophe, " which precedes the seventhvolume, "Dans la Maison, " M. Rolland writes:

"I was isolated: like so many others in France I was stifling in a worldmorally inimical to me: I wanted air: I wanted to react against anunhealthy civilization, against ideas corrupted by a sham élite: I wantedto say to them: 'You lie! You do not represent France!' To do so I needed ahero with a pure heart and unclouded vision, whose soul would be stainlessenough for him to have the right to speak; one whose voice would be loudenough for him to gain a hearing, I have patiently begotten this hero. Thework was in conception for many years before I set myself to write a wordof it. Christophe only set out on his journey when I had been able to seethe end of it for him. "

If M. Rolland's act of faith in writing Jean-Christophe were only concernedwith France, if the polemic of it were not directed against a universalevil, there would be no reason for translation. But, like Zarathustra, itis a book for all and none. M. Rolland has written what he believes to bethe truth, and as Dr. Johnson observed: "Every man has a right to utterwhat he thinks truth, and every other man has a right to knock him down forit. . . . "

By its truth and its absolute integrity--since Tolstoy I know of nowriting so crystal clear--"Jean-Christophe" is the first great book of thetwentieth century. In a sense it begins the twentieth century. It bridgestransition, and shows us where we stand. It reveals the past and thepresent, and leaves the future open to us. . . . 

GILBERT CANNAN

CONTENTS

THE DAWN

 I IIIII

MORNING

 I. THE DEATH OF JEAN MICHEL II. OTTOIII. MINNA

YOUTH

 I. THE HOUSE OF EULER II. SABINEIII. ADA

REVOLT

 I. SHIFTING SANDS II. ENGULFEDIII. DELIVERANCE

THE DAWN

 Dianzi, nell'alba che precede al giorno, Quando l'anima tua dentro dormìa. . . . _Purgatorio_, ix. 

I

 Come, quando i vapori umidi e spessi A diradar cominciansi, la spera Del sol debilemente entra per essi. . . . _Purgatorio_, xvii. 

From behind the house rises the murmuring of the river. All day long therain has been beating against the window-panes; a stream of water tricklesdown the window at the corner where it is broken. The yellowish light ofthe day dies down. The room is dim and dull. 

The new-born child stirs in his cradle. Although the old man left hissabots at the door when he entered, his footsteps make the floor creak. Thechild begins to whine. The mother leans out of her bed to comfort it; andthe grandfather gropes to light the lamp, so that the child shall not befrightened by the night when he awakes. The flame of the lamp lights up oldJean Michel's red face, with its rough white beard and morose expressionand quick eyes. He goes near the cradle. His cloak smells wet, and as hewalks he drags his large blue list slippers, Louisa signs to him not to gotoo near. She is fair, almost white; her features are drawn; her gentle, stupid face is marked with red in patches; her lips are pale and' swollen, and they are parted in a timid smile; her eyes devour the child--and hereyes are blue and vague; the pupils are small, but there is an infinitetenderness in them. 

The child wakes and cries, and his eyes are troubled. Oh! how terrible! Thedarkness, the sudden flash of the lamp, the hallucinations of a mind asyet hardly detached from chaos, the stifling, roaring night in which it isenveloped, the illimitable gloom from which, like blinding shafts of light, there emerge acute sensations, sorrows, phantoms--those enormous facesleaning over him, those eyes that pierce through him, penetrating, arebeyond his comprehension!. . . He has not the strength to cry out; terrorholds him motionless, with eyes and mouth wide open and he rattles in histhroat. His large head, that seems to have swollen up, is wrinkled with thegrotesque and lamentable grimaces that he makes; the skin of his face andhands is brown and purple, and spotted with yellow. . . . 

"Dear God!" said the old man with conviction: "How ugly he is!"

He put the lamp down on the table. 

Louisa pouted like a scolded child. Jean Michel looked at her out of thecorner of his eye and laughed. 

"You don't want me to say that he is beautiful? You would not believe it. Come, it is not your fault. They are all like that. "

The child came out of the stupor and immobility into which he had beenthrown by the light of the lamp and the eyes of the old man. He began tocry. Perhaps he instinctively felt in his mother's eyes a caress which madeit possible for him to complain. She held out her arms for him and said:

"Give him to me. "

The old man began, as usual, to air his theories:

"You ought not to give way to children when they cry. You must just letthem cry. "

But he came and took the child and grumbled:

"I never saw one quite so ugly. "

Louisa took the child feverishly and pressed it to her bosom. She looked atit with a bashful and delighted smile. 

"Oh, my poor child!" she said shamefacedly. "How ugly you are--how ugly!and how I love you!"

Jean Michel went back to the fireside. He began to poke the fire inprotest, but a smile gave the lie to the moroseness and solemnity of hisexpression. 

"Good girl!" he said. "Don't worry about it. He has plenty of time toalter. And even so, what does it matter? Only one thing is asked of him:that he should grow into an honest man. "

The child was comforted by contact with his mother's warm body. He could beheard sucking her milk and gurgling and snorting. Jean Michel turned in hischair, and said once more, with some emphasis:

"There's nothing finer than an honest man. "

He was silent for a moment, pondering whether it would not be proper toelaborate this thought; but he found nothing more to say, and after asilence he said irritably:

"Why isn't your husband here?"

"I think he is at the theater, " said Louisa timidly. "There is arehearsal. "

"The theater is closed. I passed it just now. One of his lies. "

"No. Don't be always blaming him. I must have misunderstood. He must havebeen kept for one of his lessons. "

"He ought to have come back, " said the old man, not satisfied. He stoppedfor a moment, and then asked, in a rather lower voice and with some shame:

"Has he been . . . Again?"

"No, father--no, father, " said Louisa hurriedly. 

The old man looked at her; she avoided his eyes. 

"It's not true. You're lying. "

She wept in silence. 

"Dear God!" said the old man, kicking at the fire with his foot. The pokerfell with a clatter. The mother and the child trembled. 

"Father, please--please!" said Louisa. "You will make him cry. "

The child hesitated for a second or two whether to cry or to go on with hismeal; but not being able to do both at once, he went on with the meal. 

Jean Michel continued in a lower tone, though with outbursts of anger:

"What have I done to the good God to have this drunkard for my son? Whatis the use of my having lived as I have lived, and of having denied myselfeverything all my life! But you--you--can't you do anything to stop it?Heavens! That's what you ought to do. . . . You should keep him at home!. . . "

Louisa wept still more. 

"Don't scold me!. . . I am unhappy enough as it is! I have done everythingI could. If you knew how terrified I am when I am alone! Always I seem tohear his step on the stairs. Then I wait for the door to open, or I askmyself: 'O God! what will he look like?' . . . It makes me ill to think ofit!"

She was shaken by her sobs. The old man grew anxious. He went to her andlaid the disheveled bedclothes about her trembling shoulders and caressedher head with his hands. 

"Come, come, don't be afraid. I am here. "

She calmed herself for the child's sake, and tried to smile. 

"I was wrong to tell you that. "

The old man shook his head as he looked at her. 

"My poor child, it was not much of a present that I gave you. "

"It's my own fault, " she said. "He ought not to have married me. He issorry for what he did. "

"What, do you mean that he regrets?. . . "

"You know. You were angry yourself because I became his wife. "

"We won't talk about that. It is true I was vexed. A young man like that--Ican say so without hurting you--a young man whom I had carefully broughtup, a distinguished musician, a real artist--might have looked higher thanyou, who had nothing and were of a lower class, and not even of the sametrade. For more than a hundred years no Krafft has ever married a woman whowas not a musician! But, you know, I bear you no grudge, and am fond ofyou, and have been ever since I learned to know you. Besides, there's nogoing back on a choice once it's made; there's nothing left but to do one'sduty honestly. "

He went and sat down again, thought for a little, and then said, with thesolemnity in which he invested all his aphorisms:

"The first thing in life is to do one's duty. "

He waited for contradiction, and spat on the fire. Then, as neither mothernor child raised any objection, he was for going on, but relapsed intosilence. 

 * * * * *

They said no more. Both Jean Michel, sitting by the fireside, and Louisa, in her bed, dreamed sadly. The old man, in spite of what he had said, hadbitter thoughts about his son's marriage, and Louisa was thinking of italso, and blaming herself, although she had nothing wherewith to reproachherself. 

She had been a servant when, to everybody's surprise, and her ownespecially, she married Melchior Krafft, Jean Michel's son. The Krafftswere without fortune, but were considerable people in the little Rhinetown in which the old man had settled down more than fifty years before. Both father and son were musicians, and known to all the musicians ofthe country from Cologne to Mannheim. Melchior played the violin at theHof-Theater, and Jean Michel had formerly been director of the grand-ducalconcerts. The old man had been profoundly humiliated by his son's marriage, for he had built great hopes upon Melchior; he had wished to make him thedistinguished man which he had failed to become himself. This mad freakdestroyed all his ambitions. He had stormed at first, and showered cursesupon Melchior and Louisa. But, being a good-hearted creature, he forgavehis daughter-in-law when he learned to know her better; and he even cameby a paternal affection for her, which showed itself for the most part insnubs. 

No one ever understood what it was that drove Melchior to such amarriage--least of all Melchior. It was certainly not Louisa's beauty. Shehad no seductive quality: she was small, rather pale, and delicate, andshe was a striking contrast to Melchior and Jean Michel, who were both bigand broad, red-faced giants, heavy-handed, hearty eaters and drinkers, laughter-loving and noisy. She seemed to be crushed by them; no onenoticed her, and she seemed to wish to escape even what little notice sheattracted. If Melchior had been a kind-hearted man, it would have beencredible that he should prefer Louisa's simple goodness to every otheradvantage; but a vainer man never was. It seemed incredible that a youngman of his kidney, fairly good-looking, and quite conscious of it, veryfoolish, but not without talent, and in a position to look for somewell-dowered match, and capable even--who knows?--of turning the head ofone of his pupils among the people of the town, should suddenly have chosena girl of the people--poor, uneducated, without beauty, a girl who could inno way advance his career. 

But Melchior was one of those men who always do the opposite of what isexpected of them and of what they expect of themselves. It is not that theyare not warned--a man who is warned is worth two men, says the proverb. They profess never to be the dupe of anything, and that they steer theirship with unerring hand towards a definite point. But they reckon withoutthemselves, for they do not know themselves. In one of those moments offorgetfulness which are habitual with them they let go the tiller, and, asis natural when things are left to themselves, they take a naughty pleasurein rounding on their masters. The ship which is released from its course atonce strikes a rock, and Melchior, bent upon intrigue, married a cook. Andyet he was neither drunk nor in a stupor on the day when he bound himselfto her for life, and he was not under any passionate impulse; far from it. But perhaps there are in us forces other than mind and heart, other eventhan the senses--mysterious forces which take hold of us in the momentswhen the others are asleep; and perhaps it was such forces that Melchiorhad found in the depths of those pale eyes which had looked at him sotimidly one evening when he had accosted the girl on the bank of the river, and had sat down beside her in the reeds--without knowing why--and hadgiven her his hand. 

Hardly was he married than he was appalled by what he had done, and he didnot hide what he felt from poor Louisa, who humbly asked his pardon. Hewas not a bad fellow, and he willingly granted her that; but immediatelyremorse would seize him again when he was with his friends or in the housesof his rich pupils, who were disdainful in their treatment of him, and nolonger trembled at the touch of his hand when he corrected the position oftheir fingers on the keyboard. Then he would return gloomy of countenance, and Louisa, with a catch at her heart, would read in it with the firstglance the customary reproach; or he would stay out late at one inn oranother, there to seek self-respect or kindliness from others. On suchevenings he would return shouting with laughter, and this was more dolefulfor Louisa than the hidden reproach and gloomy rancor that prevailed onother days. She felt that she was to a certain extent responsible for thefits of madness in which the small remnant of her husband's sense woulddisappear, together with the household money. Melchior sank lower andlower. At an age when he should have been engaged in unceasing toil todevelop his mediocre talent, he just let things slide, and others took hisplace. 

But what did that matter to the unknown force which had thrown him in withthe little flaxen-haired servant? He had played his part, and littleJean-Christophe had just set foot on this earth whither his destiny hadthrust him. 

 * * * * *

Night was fully come. Louisa's voice roused old Jean Michel from the torporinto which he had sunk by the fireside as he thought of the sorrows of thepast and present. 

"It must be late, father, " said the young woman affectionately. "You oughtto go home; you have far to go. "

"I am waiting for Melchior, " replied the old man. 

"Please, no. I would rather you did not stay. "

"Why?"

The old man raised his head and looked fiercely at her. 

She did not reply. 

He resumed. 

"You are afraid. You do not want me to meet him?"

"Yes, yes; it would only make things worse. You would make each otherangry, and I don't want that. Please, please go!"

The old man sighed, rose, and said:

"Well . . . I'll go. "

He went to her and brushed her forehead with his stiff beard. He askedif she wanted anything, put out the lamp, and went stumbling against thechairs in the darkness of the room. But he had no sooner reached thestaircase than he thought of his son returning drunk, and he stopped ateach step, imagining a thousand dangers that might arise if Melchior wereallowed to return alone. . . . 

In the bed by his mother's side the child was stirring again. An unknownsorrow had arisen from the depths of his being. He stiffened himselfagainst her. He twisted his body, clenched his fists, and knittedhis brows. His suffering increased steadily, quietly, certain of itsstrength. He knew not what it was, nor whence it came. It appearedimmense, --infinite, and he began to cry lamentably. His mother caressed himwith her gentle hands. Already his suffering was less acute. But he went onweeping, for he felt it still near, still inside himself. A man who sufferscan lessen his anguish by knowing whence it comes. By thought he can locateit in a certain portion of his body which can be cured, or, if necessary, torn away. He fixes the bounds of it, and separates it from himself. Achild has no such illusive resource. His first encounter with suffering ismore tragic and more true. Like his own being, it seems infinite. He feelsthat it is seated in his bosom, housed in his heart, and is mistress of hisflesh. And it is so. It will not leave his body until it has eaten it away. 

His mother hugs him to her, murmuring: "It is done--it is done! Don'tcry, my little Jesus, my little goldfish. . . . " But his intermittent outcrycontinues. It is as though this wretched, unformed, and unconscious masshad a presentiment of a whole life of sorrow awaiting, him, and nothing canappease him. . . . 

The bells of St. Martin rang out in the night. Their voices are solemn andslow. In the damp air they come like footsteps on moss. The child becamesilent in the middle of a sob. The marvelous music, like a flood of milk, surged sweetly through him. The night was lit up; the air was moist andtender. His sorrow disappeared, his heart began to laugh, and he slid, intohis dreams with a sigh of abandonment. 

The three bells went on softly ringing in the morrow's festival. Louisaalso dreamed, as she listened to them, of her own past misery and of whatwould become in the future of the dear little child sleeping by her side. She had been for hours lying in her bed, weary and suffering. Her hands andher body were burning; the heavy eiderdown crushed her; she felt crushedand oppressed by the darkness; but she dared not move. She looked at thechild, and the night did not prevent her reading his features, that lookedso old. Sleep overcame her; fevered images passed through her brain. Shethought she heard Melchior open the door, and her heart leaped. Occasionally the murmuring of the stream rose more loudly through thesilence, like the roaring of some beast. The window once or twice gave asound under the beating of the rain. The bells rang out more slowly, andthen died down, and Louisa slept by the side of her child. 

All this time Jean Michel was waiting outside the house, dripping withrain, his beard wet with the mist. He was waiting for the return of hiswretched son: for his mind, never ceasing, had insisted on telling him allsorts of tragedies brought about by drunkenness; and although he did notbelieve them, he could not hate slept a wink if he had gone away withouthaving seen his son return. The sound of the bells made him: melancholy, for he remembered all his shattered hopes. He thought of what he was doingat such an hour in the street, and for very shame he wept. 

 * * * * *

The vast tide of the days moves slowly. Day and night come up and go downwith unfailing regularity, like the ebb and low of an infinite ocean. Weeksand months go by, and then begin again, and the succession of days is likeone day. 

The day is immense, inscrutable, marking the even beat of light anddarkness, and the beat of the life of the torpid creature dreaming in thedepths of his cradle--his imperious needs, sorrowful or glad--so regularthat the night and the day which bring them seem by them to be broughtabout. 

The pendulum of life moves heavily, and in its slow beat the whole creatureseems to be absorbed. The rest is no more than dreams, snatches of dreams, formless and swarming, and dust of atoms dancing aimlessly, a dizzy whirlpassing, and bringing laughter or horror. Outcry, moving shadows, grinningshapes, sorrows, terrors, laughter, dreams, dreams. . . . All is a dream, bothday and night. . . . And in such chaos the light of friendly eyes that smileupon him, the flood of joy that surges through his body from his mother'sbody, from her breasts filled with milk--the force that is in him, theimmense, unconscious force gathering in him, the turbulent ocean roaringin the narrow prison of the child's body. For eyes that could see into itthere would be revealed whole worlds half buried in the darkness, nebulætaking shape, a universe in the making. His being is limitless. He is allthat there is. . . . 

Months pass. . . . Islands of memory begin to rise above the river of hislife. At first they are little uncharted islands, rocks just peeping abovethe surface of the waters. Round about them and behind in the twilight ofthe dawn stretches the great untroubled sheet of water; then new islands, touched to gold by the sun. 

So from the abyss of the soul there emerge shapes definite, and scenes of astrange clarity. In the boundless day which dawns once more, ever the same, with its great monotonous beat, there begins to show forth the round ofdays, hand in hand, and some of their forms are smiling, others sad. Butever the links of the chain are broken, and memories are linked togetherabove weeks and months. . . . 

The River . . . The Bells . . . As long as he can remember--far back in theabysses of time, at every hour of his life--always their voices, familiarand resonant, have rung out. . . . 

Night--half asleep--a pale light made white the window. . . . The rivermurmurs. Through the silence its voice rises omnipotent; it reigns overall creatures. Sometimes it caresses their sleep, and seems almost itselfto die away in the roaring of its torrent. Sometimes it grows angry, andhowls like a furious beast about to bite. The clamor ceases. Now there is amurmuring of infinite tenderness, silvery sounds like clear little bells, like the laughter of children, or soft singing voices, or dancing music--agreat mother voice that never, never goes to sleep! It rocks the child, asit has rocked through the ages, from birth to death, the generations thatwere before him; it fills all his thoughts, and lives in all his dreams, wraps him round with the cloak of its fluid harmonies, which still will beabout him when he lies in the little cemetery that sleeps by the water'sedge, washed by the Rhine. . . . 

The bells. . . . It is dawn! They answer each other's call, sad, melancholy, friendly, gentle. At the sound of their slow voices there rise in him hostsof dreams--dreams of the past, desires, hopes, regrets for creatures whoare gone, unknown to the child, although he had his being in them, and theylive again in him. Ages of memory ring out in that music. So much mourning, so many festivals! And from the depths of the room it is as though, whenthey are heard, there passed lovely waves of sound through the soft air, free winging birds, and the moist soughing of the wind. Through the windowsmiles a patch of blue sky; a sunbeam slips through the curtains to thebed. The little world known to the eyes of the child, all that he can seefrom his bed every morning as he awakes, all that with so much effort he isbeginning to recognize and classify, so that he may be master of it--hiskingdom is lit up. There is the table where people eat, the cupboard wherehe hides to play, the tiled floor along which he crawls, and the wall-paperwhich in its antic shapes holds for him so many humorous or terrifyingstories, and the clock which chatters and stammers so many words which healone can understand. How many things there are in this room! He does notknow them all. Every day he sets out on a voyage of exploration in thisuniverse which is his. Everything is his. Nothing is immaterial; everythinghas its worth, man or fly, Everything lives--the cat, the fire, the table, the grains of dust which dance in a sunbeam. The room is a country, a dayis a lifetime. How is a creature to know himself in the midst of these vastspaces? The world is so large! A creature is lost in it. And the faces, theactions, the movement, the noise, which make round about him an unendingturmoil!. . . He is weary; his eyes close; he goes to sleep. That sweet deepsleep that overcomes him suddenly at any time, and wherever he may be--onhis mother's lap, or under the table, where he loves to hide!. . . It isgood. All is good. . . . 

These first days come buzzing up in his mind like a field of corn or a woodstirred by the wind, and cast in shadow by the great fleeting clouds. . . . 

 * * * * *

The shadows pass; the sun penetrates the forest. Jean-Christophe begins tofind his way through the labyrinth of the day. 

It is morning. His parents are asleep. He is in his little bed, lying onhis back. He looks at the rays of light dancing on the ceiling. There isinfinite amusement in it. Now he laughs out loud with one of those jollychildren's laughs which stir the hearts of those that hear them. His motherleans out of her bed towards him, and says: "What is it, then, little madthing?" Then he laughs again, and perhaps he makes an effort to laughbecause he has an audience. His mamma looks severe, and lays a finger onher lips to warn him lest he should wake his father: but her weary eyessmile in spite of herself. They whisper together. Then there is a furiousgrowl from his father. Both tremble. His mother hastily turns her back onhim, like a naughty little girl: she pretends to be asleep. Jean-Christopheburies himself in his bed, and holds his breath. . . . Dead silence. 

After some time the little face hidden under the clothes comes to thesurface again. On the roof the weathercock creaks. The rain-pipe gurgles;the Angelus sounds. When the wind comes from the east, the distant bellsof the villages on the other bank of the river give answer. The sparrowsforegathered in the ivy-clad wall make a deafening noise, from which threeor four voices, always the same, ring out more shrilly than the others, just as in the games of a band of children. A pigeon coos at the top of achimney. The child abandons himself to the lullaby of these sounds. He humsto himself softly, then a little more loudly, then quite loudly, then veryloudly, until once more his father cries out in exasperation: "That littledonkey never will be quiet! Wait a little, and I'll pull your ears!" ThenJean-Christophe buries himself in the bedclothes again, and does not knowwhether to laugh or cry. He is terrified and humiliated; and at the sametime the idea of the donkey with which his father has compared him makeshim burst out laughing. From the depths of his bed he imitates its braying. This time he is whipped. He sheds every tear that is in him. What has hedone? He wanted so much to laugh and to get up! And he is forbidden tobudge. How do people sleep forever? When will they get up?. . . 

One day he could not contain himself. He heard a cat and a dog andsomething queer in the street. He slipped out of bed, and, creepingawkwardly with his bare feet on the tiles, he tried to go down the stairsto see what it was; but the door was shut. To open it, he climbed on toa chair; the whole thing collapsed, and he hurt himself and howled. Andonce more at the top of the stairs he was whipped. He is always beingwhipped!. . . 

 * * * * *

He is in church with his grandfather. He is bored. He is not verycomfortable. He is forbidden to stir, and all the people are saying alltogether words that he does not understand. They all look solemn andgloomy. It is not their usual way of looking. He looks at them, halffrightened. Old Lena, their neighbor, who is sitting next to him, looksvery cross; there are moments when he does not recognize even hisgrandfather. He is afraid a little. Then he grows used to it, and tries tofind relief from boredom by every means at his disposal. He balances onone leg, twists his neck to look at the ceiling, makes faces, pulls hisgrandfather's coat, investigates the straws in his chair, tries to make ahole in them with his finger, listens to the singing of birds, and yawns sothat he is like to dislocate his jaw. 

Suddenly there is a deluge of sound; the organ is played. A thrill goesdown his spine. He turns and stands with his chin resting on the back ofhis chair, and he looks very wise. He does not understand this noise; hedoes not know the meaning of it; it is dazzling, bewildering, and he canhear nothing clearly. But it is good. It is as though he were no longersitting there on an uncomfortable chair in a tiresome old house. He issuspended in mid-air, like a bird; and when the flood of sound rushes fromone end of the church to the other, filling the arches, reverberatingfrom wall to wall, he is carried with it, flying and skimming hither andthither, with nothing to do but to abandon himself to it. He is free; he ishappy. The sun shines. . . . He falls asleep. 

His grandfather is displeased with him. He behaves ill at Mass. 

 * * * * *

He is at home, sitting on the ground, with his feet in his hands. He hasjust decided that the door-mat is a boat, and the tiled floor a river. Heall but drowned in stepping off the carpet. He is surprised and a littleput out that the others pay no attention to the matter as he does when hegoes into the room. He seizes his mother by the skirts. "You see it iswater! You must go across by the bridge. " (The bridge is a series of holesbetween the red tiles. ) His mother crosses without even listening to him. He is vexed, as a dramatic author is vexed when he sees his audiencetalking during his great work. 

Next moment he thinks no more of it. The tiled floor is no longer the sea. He is lying down on it, stretched full-length, with his chin on the tiles, humming music of his own composition, and gravely sucking his thumb anddribbling. He is lost in contemplation of a crack between the tiles. Thelines of the tiles grimace like faces. The imperceptible hole grows larger, and becomes a valley; there are mountains about it. A centipede moves: itis as large as an elephant. Thunder might crash, the child would not hearit. 

No one bothers about him, and he has no need of any one. He can even dowithout door-mat boats, and caverns in the tiled floor, with theirfantastic fauna. His body is enough. What a source of entertainment! Hespends hours in looking at his nails and shouting with laughter. They haveall different faces, and are like people that he knows. And the rest ofhis body!. . . He goes on with the inspection of all that he has. How manysurprising things! There are so many marvels. He is absorbed in looking atthem. 

But he was very roughly picked up when they caught him at it. 

 * * * * *

Sometimes he takes advantage of his mother's back being turned, to escapefrom the house. At first they used to run after him and bring him back. Then they got used to letting him go alone, only so he did not go toofar away. The house is at the end of the town; the country begins almostat once. As long as he is within sight of the windows he goes withoutstopping, very deliberately, and now and then hopping on one foot. But assoon as he has passed the corner of the road, and the brushwood hides himfrom view, he changes abruptly. He stops there, with his finger in hismouth, to find out what story he shall tell himself that day; for he isfull of stories. True, they are all very much like each other, and everyone of them could be told in a few lines. He chooses. Generally he takes upthe same story, sometimes from the point where it left off, sometimes fromthe beginning, with variations. But any trifle--a word heard by chance--isenough to set his mind off on another direction. 

Chance was fruitful of resources. It is impossible to imagine what can bemade of a simple piece of wood, a broken bough found alongside a hedge. (You break them off when you do not find them. ) It was a magic wand. If itwere long and thin, it became a lance, or perhaps a sword; to brandish italoft was enough to cause armies to spring from the earth. Jean-Christophewas their general, marching in front of them, setting them an example, andleading them to the assault of a hillock. If the branch were flexible, it changed into a whip. Jean-Christophe mounted on horseback and leapedprecipices. Sometimes his mount would slip, and the horseman would findhimself at the bottom of the ditch, sorrily looking at his dirty handsand barked knees. If the wand were lithe, then Jean-Christophe would makehimself the conductor of an orchestra: he would be both conductor andorchestra; he conducted and he sang; and then he would salute the bushes, with their little green heads stirring in the wind. 

He was also a magician. He walked with great strides through the fields, looking at the sky and waving his arms. He commanded the clouds. He wishedthem to go to the right, but they went to the left. Then he would abusethem, and repeat his command. He would watch them out of the corner of hiseye, and his heart would beat as he looked to see if there were not atleast a little one which would obey him. But they went on calmly moving tothe left. Then he would stamp his foot, and threaten them with his stick, and angrily order them to go to the left; and this time, in truth, theyobeyed him. He was happy and proud of his power. He would touch the flowersand bid them change into golden carriages, as he had been told they did inthe stories; and, although it never happened, he was quite convinced thatit would happen if only he had patience. He would look for a grasshopper toturn into a hare; he would gently lay his stick on its back, and speak arune. The insect would escape: he would bar its way. A few moments later hewould be lying on his belly near to it, looking at it. Then he would haveforgotten that he was a magician, and just amuse himself with turning thepoor beast on its back, while he laughed aloud at its contortions. 

It occurred to him also to tie a piece of string to his magic wand, andgravely cast it into the river, and wait for a fish to come and bite. Heknew perfectly well that fish do not usually bite at a piece of stringwithout bait or hook; but he thought that for once in a way, and for him, they might make an exception to their rule; and in his inexhaustibleconfidence, he carried it so far as to fish in the street with a whipthrough the grating of a sewer. He would draw up the whip from time to timeexcitedly, pretending that the cord of it was more heavy, and that he hadcaught a treasure, as in a story that his grandfather had told him. . . . 

And always in the middle of all these games there used to occur to himmoments of strange dreaming and complete forgetfulness. Everything abouthim would then be blotted out; he would not know what he was doing, andwas not even conscious of himself. These attacks would take him unawares. Sometimes as he walked or went upstairs a void would suddenly open beforehim. He would seem then to have lost all thought. But when he came backto himself, he was shocked and bewildered to find himself in the sameplace on the dark staircase. It was as though he had lived through a wholelifetime--in the space of a few steps. 

His grandfather used often to take him with him on his evening walk. Thelittle boy used to trot by his side and give him his hand. They used togo by the roads, across plowed fields, which smelled strong and good. Thegrasshoppers chirped. Enormous crows poised along the road used to watchthem approach from afar, and then fly away heavily as they came up withthem. 

His grandfather would cough. Jean-Christophe knew quite well what thatmeant. The old man was burning with the desire to tell a story; but hewanted it to appear that the child had asked him for one. Jean-Christophedid not fail him; they understood each other. The old man had a tremendousaffection for his grandson, and it was a great joy to find in him a willingaudience. He loved to tell of episodes in his own life, or stories of greatmen, ancient and modern. His voice would then become emphatic and filledwith emotion, and would tremble with a childish joy, which he used totry to stifle. He seemed delighted to hear his own voice. Unhappily, words used to fail him when he opened his mouth to speak. He was used tosuch disappointment, for it always came upon him with his outbursts ofeloquence. And as he used to forget it with each new attempt, he neversucceeded in resigning himself to it. 

He used to talk of Regulus, and Arminius, of the soldiers of Lützow, ofKoerner, and of Frédéric Stabs, who tried to kill the Emperor Napoleon. His face would glow as he told of incredible deeds of heroism. He used topronounce historic words in such a solemn voice that it was impossible tohear them, and he used to try artfully to keep his hearer on tenterhooks atthe thrilling moments. He would stop, pretend to choke, and noisily blowhis nose; and his heart would leap when the child asked, in a voice chokingwith impatience: "And then, grandfather?"

There came a day, when Jean-Christophe was a little older, when heperceived his grandfather's method; and then he wickedly set himself toassume an air of indifference to the rest of the story, and that hurt thepoor old man. But for the moment Jean-Christophe is altogether held by thepower of the story-teller. His blood leaped at the dramatic passages. Hedid not know what it was all about, neither where nor when these deeds weredone, or whether his grandfather knew Arminius, or whether Regulus werenot--God knows why!--some one whom he had seen at church last Sunday. Buthis heart and the old man's heart swelled with joy and pride in the tale ofheroic deeds, as though they themselves had done them; for the old man andthe child were both children. 

Jean-Christophe was less happy when his grandfather interpolated in thepathetic passages one of those abstruse discourses so dear to him. Therewere moral thoughts generally traceable to some idea, honest enough, buta little trite, such as "Gentleness is better than violence, " or "Honoris the dearest thing in life, " or "It is better to be good than to bewicked"--only they were much more involved. Jean-Christophe's grandfatherhad no fear of the criticism of his youthful audience, and abandonedhimself to his habitual emphatic manner; he was not afraid of repeating thesame phrases, or of not finishing them, or even, if he lost himself in hisdiscourse, of saying anything that came into his head, to stop up the gapsin his thoughts; and he used to punctuate his words, in order to give themgreater force, with inappropriate gestures. The boy used to listen withprofound respect, and he thought his grandfather very eloquent, but alittle tiresome. 

Both of them loved to return again and again to the fabulous legend of theCorsican conqueror who had taken Europe. Jean-Christophe's grandfather hadknown him. He had almost fought against him. But he was a man to admit thegreatness of his adversaries: he had said so twenty times. He would havegiven one of his arms for such a man to have been born on this side of theRhine. Fate had decreed otherwise; he admired him, and had fought againsthim--that is, he had been on the point of fighting against him. But whenNapoleon had been no farther than ten leagues away, and they had marchedout to meet him, a sudden panic had dispersed the little band in a forest, and every man had fled, crying, "We are betrayed!" In vain, as the old manused to tell, in vain did he endeavor to rally the fugitives; he threwhimself in front of them, threatening them and weeping: he had been sweptaway in the flood of them, and on the morrow had found himself at anextraordinary distance from the field of battle--For so he called the placeof the rout. But Jean-Christophe used impatiently to bring him back tothe exploits of the hero, and he was delighted by his marvelous progressthrough the world. He saw him followed by innumerable men, giving vent togreat cries of love, and at a wave of his hand hurling themselves in swarmsupon flying enemies--they were always in flight. It was a fairy-tale. Theold man added a little to it to fill out the story; he conquered Spain, andalmost conquered England, which he could not abide. 

Old Krafft used to intersperse his enthusiastic narratives with indignantapostrophes addressed to his hero. The patriot awoke in him, more perhapswhen he told of the Emperor's defeats than of the Battle of Jena. He wouldstop to shake his fist at the river, and spit contemptuously, and mouthnoble insults--he did not stoop to less than that. He would call him"rascal, " "wild beast, " "immoral. " And if such words were intended torestore to the boy's mind a sense of justice, it must be confessed thatthey failed in their object; for childish logic leaped to this conclusion:"If a great man like that had no morality, morality is not a great thing, and what matters most is to be a great man. " But the old man was far fromsuspecting the thoughts which were running along by his side. 

They would both be silent, pondering each after his own fashion, theseadmirable stories--except when the old man used to meet one of his noblepatrons taking a walk. Then he would stop, and bow very low, and breathelavishly the formulæ of obsequious politeness. The child used to blush forit without knowing why. But his grandfather at heart had a vast respect forestablished power and persons who had "arrived"; and possibly his greatlove for the heroes of whom he told was only because he saw in them personswho had arrived at a point higher than the others. 

When it was very hot, old Krafft used to sit under a tree, and was not longin dozing off. Then Jean-Christophe used to sit near him on a heap of loosestones or a milestone, or some high seat, uncomfortable and peculiar; andhe used to wag his little legs, and hum to himself, and dream. Or sometimeshe used to lie on his back and watch the clouds go by; they looked likeoxen, and giants, and hats, and old ladies, and immense landscapes. He usedto talk to them in a low voice, or be absorbed in a little cloud which agreat one was on the point of devouring. He was afraid of those which werevery black, almost blue, and of those which went very fast. It seemed tohim that they played an enormous part in life, and he was surprised thatneither his grandfather nor his mother paid any attention to them. Theywere terrible beings if they wished to do harm. Fortunately, they used togo by, kindly enough, a little grotesque, and they did not stop. The boyused in the end to turn giddy with watching them too long, and he used tofidget with his legs and arms, as though he were on the point of fallingfrom the sky. His eyelids then would wink, and sleep would overcome him. Silence. . . . The leaves murmur gently and tremble in the sun; a faint mistpasses through the air; the uncertain flies hover, booming like an organ;the grasshoppers, drunk with the summer, chirp eagerly and hurriedly; allis silent. . . . Under the vault of the trees the cry of the green woodpeckerhas magic sounds. Far away on the plain a peasant's voice harangues hisoxen; the shoes of a horse ring out on the white road. Jean-Christophe'seyes close. Near him an ant passes along a dead branch across a furrow. Heloses consciousness. . . . Ages have passed. He wakes. The ant has not yetcrossed the twig. 

Sometimes the old man would sleep too long, and his face would grow rigid, and his long nose would grow longer, and his mouth stand open. Jean-Christophe used then to look at him uneasily, and in fear of seeinghis head change gradually into some fantastic shape. He used to singloudly, so as to wake him up, or tumble down noisily from his heap ofstones. One day it occurred to him to throw a handful of pine-needles inhis grandfather's face, and tell him that they had fallen from the tree. The old man believed him, and that made Jean-Christophe laugh. But, unfortunately, he tried the trick again, and just when he had raised hishand he saw his grandfather's eyes watching him. It was a terrible affair. The old man was solemn, and allowed no liberty to be taken with the respectdue to himself. They were estranged for more than a week. 

The worse the road was, the more beautiful it was to Jean-Christophe. Everystone had a meaning for him; he knew them all. The shape of a rut seemed tohim to be a geographical accident almost of the same kind as the great massof the Taunus. In his head he had the map of all the ditches and hillocksof the region extending two kilometers round about the house, and when hemade any change in the fixed ordering of the furrows, he thought himself noless important than an engineer with a gang of navvies; and when with hisheel he crushed the dried top of a clod of earth, and filled up the valleyat the foot of it, it seemed to him that his day had not been wasted. 

Sometimes they would meet a peasant in his cart on the highroad, and, if the peasant knew Jean-Christophe's grandfather they would climb upby his side. That was a Paradise on earth. The horse went fast, andJean-Christophe laughed with delight, except when they passed otherpeople walking; then he would look serious and indifferent, like a personaccustomed to drive in a carriage, but his heart was filled with pride. Hisgrandfather and the man would talk without bothering about him. Hidden andcrushed by their legs, hardly sitting, sometimes not sitting at all, he wasperfectly happy. He talked aloud, without troubling about any answer towhat he said. He watched the horse's ears moving. What strange creaturesthose ears were! They moved in every direction--to right and left; theyhitched forward, and fell to one side, and turned backwards in such aridiculous way that he: burst out laughing. He would pinch his grandfatherto make him look at them; but his grandfather was not interested in them. He would repulse Jean-Christophe, and tell him to be quiet. Jean-Christophewould ponder. He thought that when people grow up they are not surprised byanything, and that when they are strong they know everything; and he wouldtry to be grown up himself, and to hide his curiosity, and appear to beindifferent. 

He was silent them The rolling of the carriage made him drowsy. The horse'slittle bells danced--ding, ding; dong, ding. Music awoke in the air, andhovered about the silvery bells, like a swarm of bees. It beat gaily withthe rhythm of the cart--an endless source of song, and one song cameon another's heels. To Jean-Christophe they were superb. There was oneespecially which he thought so beautiful that he tried to draw hisgrandfather's attention to it. He sang it aloud. They took no heed ofhim. He began it again in a higher key, then again shrilly, and then oldJean Michel said irritably: "Be quiet; you are deafening me with yourtrumpet-call!" That took away his breath. He blushed and was silent andmortified. He crushed with his contempt the two stockish imbeciles who didnot understand the sublimity of his song, which opened wide the heavens! Hethought them very ugly, with their week-old beards, and they smelled veryill. 

He found consolation, in watching the horse's shadow. That an astonishingsight. The beast ran along with them lying on its side. In the evening, when they returned, it covered a part of the field. They came upon a rick, and the shadow's head would rise up and then return to its place when theyhad passed. Its snout was flattened out like a burst balloon; its ears werelarge, and pointed like candles. Was it really a shadow or a creature?Jean-Christophe would not have liked to encounter it alone. He would nothave run after it as he did after his grandfather's shadow, so as to walkon its head and trample it under foot. The shadows of the trees when thesun was low were also objects of meditation. They made barriers along theroad, and looked like phantoms, melancholy and grotesque, saying, "Go nofarther!" and the creaking axles and the horse's shoes repeated, "Nofarther!"

Jean-Christophe's grandfather and the driver never ceased their endlesschatter. Sometimes they would raise their voices, especially when theytalked of local affairs or things going wrong. The child would cease todream, and look at them uneasily. It seemed to him that they were angrywith each other, and he was afraid that they would come to blows. However, on the contrary, they best understood each other in their common dislikes. For the most part, they were without haired or the least passion; theytalked of small matters loudly, just for the pleasure of talking, asis the joy of the people. But Jean-Christophe, not understanding theirconversation, only heard the loud tones of their voices and saw theiragitated faces, and thought fearfully: "How wicked he looks! Surely theyhate each other! How he rolls his eyes, and how wide he opens his mouth! Hespat on my nose in his fury. O Lord, he will kill my grandfather!. . . "

The carriage stopped. The peasant said: "Here you are. " The two deadlyenemies shook hands. Jean-Christophe's grandfather got down first; thepeasant handed him the little boy. The whip flicked the horse, the carriagerolled away, and there they were by the little sunken road near the Rhine. The sun dipped down below the fields. The path wound almost to the water'sedge. The plentiful soft grass yielded under their feet, crackling. Alder-trees leaned over the river, almost half in the water. A cloud ofgnats danced. A boat passed noiselessly, drawn on by the peaceful current, striding along. The water sucked the branches of the willows with a littlenoise like lips. The light was soft and misty, the air fresh, the riversilvery gray. They reached their home, and the crickets chirped, and on thethreshold smiled his mother's dear face. . . . 

Oh, delightful memories, kindly visions, which will hum their melody intheir tuneful flight through life!. . . Journeys in later life, great townsand moving seas, dream countries and loved faces, are not so exactly gravenin the soul as these childish walks, or the corner of the garden seen everyday through the window, through the steam and mist made by the child'smouth glued to it for want of other occupation. . . . 

Evening now, and the house is shut up. Home . . . The refuge from allterrifying things--darkness, night, fear, things unknown. No enemy can passthe threshold. . . . The fire flares. A golden duck turns slowly on the spit;a delicious smell of fat and of crisping flesh scents the room. The joy ofeating, incomparable delight, a religious enthusiasm, thrills of joy! Thebody is too languid with the soft warmth, and the fatigues of the day, and the familiar voices. The act of digestion plunges it in ecstasy, andfaces, shadows, the lampshade, the tongues of flame dancing with a showerof stars in the fireplace--all take on a magical appearance of delight. Jean-Christophe lays his cheek on his plate, the better to enjoy all thishappiness. . . . 

He is in his soft bed. How did he come there? He is overcome withweariness. The buzzing of the voices in the room and the visions of theday are intermingled in his mind. His father takes his violin; the shrillsweet sounds cry out complaining in the night. But the crowning joy iswhen his mother comes and takes Jean-Christophe's hands. He is drowsy, and, leaning over him, in a low voice she sings, as he asks, an, old songwith words that have no meaning. His father thinks such music stupid, butJean-Christophe never wearies of it. He holds his breath, and is betweenlaughing and crying. His heart is intoxicated. He does not know where heis, and he is overflowing with tenderness. He throws his little arms roundhis mother's neck, and hugs her with all his strength. She says, laughing:

"You want to strangle me?"

He hugs her close. How he loves her! How he loves everything! Everybody, everything! All is good, all is beautiful. . . . He sleeps. The cricket on thehearth cheeps. His grandfather's tales, the great heroes, float by in thehappy night. . . . To be a hero like them!. . . Yes, he will be that . . . He isthat. . . . Ah, how good it is to live!

 * * * * *

What an abundance of strength, joy, pride, is in that little creature! Whatsuperfluous energy! His body and mind never cease to move; they are carriedround and round breathlessly. Like a little salamander, he dances day andnight in the flames. His is an unwearying enthusiasm finding its food inall things. A delicious dream, a bubbling well, a treasure of inexhaustiblehope, a laugh, a song, unending drunkenness. Life does not hold him yet;always he escapes it. He swims in the infinite. How happy he is! He is madeto be happy! There is nothing in him that does not believe in happiness, and does not cling to it with all his little strength and passion!. . . 

Life will soon see to it that he is brought to reason. 

II

 L'alba vinceva l'ora, mattutina. Che fuggia 'nnanzi, si che di lontano Conobbi il tremolar della marina. . . . _Purgatorio_, i. 

The Kraffts came originally from Antwerp. Old Jean Michel had left thecountry as a result of a boyish freak, a violent quarrel, such as he hadoften had, for he was devilish pugnacious, and it had had an unfortunateending. He settled down, almost fifty years ago, in the little town of theprincipality, with its red-pointed roofs and shady gardens, lying on theslope of a gentle hill, mirrored in the pale green eyes of _Vater Rhein_. An excellent musician, he had readily gained appreciation in a country ofmusicians. He had taken root there by marrying, forty years ago, ClaraSartorius, daughter of the Prince's _Kapellmeister_, whose duties he tookover. Clara was a placid German with two passions--cooking and music. Shehad for her husband a veneration only equaled by that which she had for herfather, Jean Michel no less admired his wife. They had lived together inperfect amity for fifteen years, and they had four children. Then Claradied; and Jean Michel bemoaned her loss, and then, five months later, married Ottilia Schütz, a girl of twenty, with red cheeks, robust andsmiling. After eight years of marriage she also died, but in that timeshe gave him seven children--eleven children in all, of whom only one hadsurvived. Although he loved them much, all these bereavements had notshaken his good-humor. The greatest blow had been the death of Ottilia, three years ago, which had come to him at an age when it is difficult tostart life again and to make a new home. But after a moment's confusion oldJean Michel regained his equilibrium, which no misfortune seemed able todisturb. 

He was an affectionate man, but health was the strongest thing in him. Hehad a physical repugnance from sadness, and a need of gaiety, great gaiety, Flemish fashion--an enormous and childish laugh. Whatever might be hisgrief, he did not drink one drop the less, nor miss one bite at table, andhis band never had one day off. Under his direction the Court orchestrawon a small celebrity in the Rhine country, where Jean Michel had becomelegendary by reason of his athletic stature and his outbursts of anger. Hecould not master them, in spite of all his efforts, for the violent man wasat bottom timid and afraid of compromising himself. He loved decorum andfeared opinion. But his blood ran away with him. He used to see red, andhe used to be the victim of sudden fits of crazy impatience, not only atrehearsals, but at the concerts, where once in the Prince's presence hehad hurled his bâton and had stamped about like a man possessed, as heapostrophized one of the musicians in a furious and stuttering voice. ThePrince was amused, but the artists in question were rancorous againsthim. In vain did Jean Michel, ashamed of his outburst, try to pass it byimmediately in exaggerated obsequiousness. On the next occasion he wouldbreak out again, and as this extreme irritability increased with age, inthe end it made his position very difficult. He felt it himself, and oneday, when his outbursts had all but caused the whole orchestra to strike, he sent in his resignation. He hoped that in consideration of his servicesthey would make difficulties about accepting it, and would ask him to stay. There was nothing of the kind, and as he was too proud to go back on hisoffer, he left, brokenhearted, and crying out upon the ingratitude ofmankind. 

Since that time he had not known how to fill his days. He was more thanseventy, but he was still vigorous, and he went on working and going up anddown the town from morning to night, giving lessons, and entering intodiscussions, pronouncing perorations, and entering into everything. Hewas ingenious, and found all sorts of ways of keeping himself occupied. He began to repair musical instruments; he invented, experimented, andsometimes discovered improvements. He composed also, and set store by hiscompositions. He had once written a _Missa Solennis_, of which he usedoften to talk, and it was the glory of his family. It had cost him so muchtrouble that he had all but brought about a congestion of the mind in thewriting of it. He tried to persuade himself that it was a work of genius, but he knew perfectly well with what emptiness of thought it had beenwritten, and he dared not look again at the manuscript, because every timehe did so he recognized in the phrases that he had thought to be his own, rags taken from other authors, painfully pieced together haphazard. It wasa great sorrow to him. He had ideas sometimes which he thought admirable. He would run tremblingly to his table. Could he keep his inspiration thistime? But hardly had he taken pen in hand than he found himself alone insilence, and all his efforts to call to life again the vanished voicesended only in bringing to his ears familiar melodies of Mendelssohn orBrahms. 

"There are, " says George Sand, "unhappy geniuses who lack the power ofexpression, and carry down to their graves the unknown region of theirthoughts, as has said a member of that great family of illustrious mutesor stammerers--Geoffrey Saint-Hilaire. " Old Jean Michel belonged to thatfamily. He was no more successful in expressing himself in music than inwords, and he always deceived himself. He would so much have loved to talk, to write, to be a great musician, an eloquent orator! It was his secretsore. He told no one of it, did not admit it to himself, tried not to thinkof it; but he did think of it, in spite of himself, and so there was theseed of death in his soul. 

Poor old man! In nothing did he succeed in being absolutely himself. Therewere in him so many seeds of beauty and power, but they never put forthfruit; a profound and touching faith in the dignity of Art and the moralvalue of life, but it was nearly always translated in an emphatic andridiculous fashion; so much noble pride, and in life an almost servileadmiration of his superiors; so lofty a desire for independence, and, in fact, absolute docility; pretensions to strength of mind, and everyconceivable superstition; a passion for heroism, real courage, and so muchtimidity!--a nature to stop by the wayside. 

 * * * * *

Jean Michel had transferred all his ambitions to his son, and at firstMelchior had promised to realize them. From childhood he had shown greatmusical gifts. He learned with extraordinary facility, and quickly acquiredas a violinist a virtuosity which for a long time made him the favorite, almost the idol, of the Court concerts. He played the piano and otherinstruments pleasantly. He was a fine talker, well, though a littleheavily, built, and was of the type which passes in Germany for classicbeauty; he had a large brow that expressed nothing, large regular features, and a curled beard--a Jupiter of the banks of the Rhine. Old Jean Michelenjoyed his son's success; he was ecstatic over the virtuoso's _tours deforce_, he who had never been able properly to play any instrument. Intruth, Melchior would have had no difficulty in expressing what he thought. The trouble was that he did not think; and he did not even bother about it. He had the soul of a mediocre comedian who takes pains with the inflexionsof his voice without caring about what they express, and, with anxiousvanity, watches their effect on his audience. 

The odd thing was that, in spite of his constant anxiety about his stagepose, there was in him, as in Jean Michel, in spite of his timid respectfor social conventions, a curious, irregular, unexpected and chaoticquality, which made people say that the Kraffts were a bit crazy. It didnot harm him at first; it seemed as though these very eccentricities werethe proof of the genius attributed to him; for it is understood amongpeople of common sense that an artist has none. But it was not longbefore his extravagances were traced to their source--usually the bottle. Nietzsche says that Bacchus is the God of Music, and Melchior's instinctwas of the same opinion; but in his case his god was very ungrateful tohim; far from giving him the ideas he lacked, he took away from him the fewthat he had. After his absurd marriage--absurd in the eyes of the world, and therefore also in his own--he gave himself up to it more and more. Heneglected his playing--so secure in his own superiority that very soon helost it. Other _virtuosi_ came to succeed him in public favor. Thatwas bitter to him, but instead of rousing his energy, these rebuffs onlydiscouraged him. He avenged himself by crying down his rivals with hispot-fellows. In his absurd conceit he counted on succeeding his father asmusical director: another man was appointed. He thought himself persecuted, and took on the airs of a misunderstood genius. Thanks to the esteem inwhich old Krafft was held, he kept his place as a violin in the orchestra, but gradually he lost all his lessons in the town. And if this blow struckmost at his vanity, it touched his purse even more. For several years theresources of his household had grown less and less, following on variousreverses of fortune. After having known plenty, want came, and every dayincreased. Melchior refused to take notice of it; he did not spend onepenny the less on his toilet or his pleasures. 

He was not a bad man, but a half-good man, which is perhaps worse--weak, without spring, without moral strength, but for the rest, in his ownopinion, a good father, a good son, a good husband, a good man--and perhapshe was good, if to be so it is enough to possess an easy kindness, whichis quickly touched, and that animal affection by which a man loves his kinas a part of himself. It cannot even be said that he was very egoistic; hehad not personality enough for that. He was nothing. They are a terriblething in life, these people who are nothing. Like a dead weight thrown intothe air, they fall, and must fall; and in their fall they drag with themeverything that they have. 

It was when the situation of his family had reached its most difficultpoint, that little Jean-Christophe began to understand what was going onabout him. 

He was no longer the only child. Melchior gave his wife a child every year, without troubling to think what was to become of it later. Two had diedyoung; two others were three and four years old. Melchior never botheredabout them. Louisa, when she had to go out, left them with Jean-Christophe, now six years old. 

The charge cost Jean-Christophe something, for he had to sacrifice to hisduty his splendid afternoons in the fields. But he was proud of beingtreated as a man, and gravely fulfilled his task. He amused the children asbest he could by showing them his games, and he set himself to talk to themas he had heard his mother talking to the baby. Or he would carry them inhis arms, one after another, as he had seen her do; he bent under theirweight, and clenched his teeth, and with all his strength clutched hislittle brother to his breast, so as to prevent his falling. The childrenalways wanted to be carried--they were never tired of it; and whenJean-Christophe could do no more, they wept without ceasing. They made himvery unhappy, and he was often troubled about them. They were very dirty, and needed maternal attentions. Jean-Christophe did not know what to do. They took advantage of him. Sometimes he wanted to slap them, but hethought, "They are little; they do not know, " and, magnanimously, he letthem pinch him, and beat him, and tease him. Ernest used to howl fornothing; he used to stamp his feet and roll about in a passion; he was anervous child, and Louisa had bidden Jean-Christophe not to oppose hiswhims. As for Rodolphe, he was as malicious as a monkey; he always tookadvantage of Jean-Christophe having Ernest in his arms, to play all sortsof silly pranks behind his back; he used to break toys, spill water, dirtyhis frock, and knock the plates over as he rummaged in the cupboard. 

And when Louisa returned, instead of praising Jean-Christophe, she used tosay to him, without scolding him, but with an injured air, as she saw thehavoc; "My poor child, you are not very clever!"

Jean-Christophe would be mortified, and his heart would grow big withinhim. 

 * * * * *

Louisa, who let no opportunity escape of earning a little money, used togo out as cook for exceptional occasions, such, as marriages or baptismalfeasts. Melchior pretended to know nothing about it--it touched hisvanity--but he was not annoyed with her for doing it, so long as he did notknow. Jean-Christophe had as yet no idea of the difficulties of life; heknew no other limit to his will than the will of his parents, and that didnot stand much in his way, for they let him do pretty much as he pleased. His one idea was to grow up, so as to be able to do as he liked. He had noconception of obstacles standing in the way at every turn, and he had neverthe least idea but that his parents were completely their own masters. Itwas a shock to his whole being when, for the first time, he perceived thatamong men there are those who command, and those who are commanded, andthat his own people were not of the first class; it was the first crisis ofhis life. 

It happened one afternoon. His mother had dressed him in his cleanestclothes, old clothes given to her which Louisa's ingenuity and patience hadturned to account. He went to find her, as they had agreed, at the housein which she was working. He was abashed at the idea of entering alone. Afootman was swaggering in the porch; he stopped the boy, and asked himpatronizingly what he wanted. Jean-Christophe blushed, and murmured thathe had come to see "Frau Krafft"--as he had been told to say. 

"Frau Krafft? What do you want with Frau Krafft?" asked the footman, ironically emphasizing the word _Frau_, "Your mother? Go down there. You will find Louisa in the kitchen at the end of the passage. "

He went, growing redder and redder. He was ashamed to hear his mothercalled familiarly _Louisa_. He was humiliated; he would have liked to runaway down to his dear river, and the shelter of the brushwood where he usedto tell himself stories. 

In the kitchen he came upon a number of other servants, who greeted himwith noisy exclamations. At the back, near the stove, his mother smiled athim with tender embarrassment. He ran to her, and clung to her skirts. Shewas wearing a white apron, and holding a wooden spoon. She made him moreunhappy by trying to raise his chin so as to look in his face, and to makehim hold out his hand to everybody there and say good-day to them. He wouldnot; he turned to the wall and hid his face in his arms. Then gradually hegained courage, and peeped out of his hiding-place with merry bright eyes, which hid again every time any one looked at him. He stole looks at thepeople there. His mother looked busy and important, and he did not know herlike that; she went from one saucepan to another, tasting, giving advice, in a sure voice explaining recipes, and the cook of the house listenedrespectfully. The boy's heart swelled with pride as he saw how much hismother was appreciated, and the great part that she played in this splendidroom, adorned with magnificent objects of gold and silver. 

Suddenly conversation ceased. The door opened. A lady entered with arustling of the stuffs she was wearing. She cast a suspicious look abouther. She was no longer young, and yet she was wearing a light dress withwide sleeves. She caught up her dress in her hand, so as not to brushagainst anything. It did not prevent her going to the stove and lookingat the dishes, and even tasting them. When she raised her hand a little, her sleeve fell back, and her arm was bare to the elbow. Jean-Christophethought this ugly and improper. How dryly and abruptly she spoke to Louisa!And how humbly Louisa replied! Jean-Christophe hated it. He hid away in hiscorner, so as not to be observed, but it was no use. The lady asked who thelittle boy might be. Louisa fetched him and presented him; she held hishands to prevent his hiding his face. And, though he wanted to break awayand flee, Jean-Christophe felt instinctively that this time he must notresist. The lady looked at the boy's scared face, and at first she gave hima kindly, motherly smile. But then she resumed her patronizing air, andasked him about his behavior, and his piety, and put questions to him, towhich he did not reply. She looked to see how his clothes fitted him, andLouisa eagerly declared that they were magnificent. She pulled down hiswaistcoat to remove the creases. Jean-Christophe wanted to cry, it fittedso tightly. He did not understand why his mother was giving thanks. 

The lady took him by the hand and said that she would take him to her ownchildren. Jean-Christophe cast a look of despair at his mother; but shesmiled at the mistress so eagerly that he saw that there was nothing tohope for from her, and he followed his guide like a sheep that is led tothe slaughter. 

They came to a garden, where two cross-looking children, a boy and a girl, about the same age as Jean-Christophe, were apparently sulky with eachother. Jean-Christophe's advent created a diversion. They came up toexamine the new arrival. Jean-Christophe, left with the children by thelady, stood stock-still in a pathway, not daring to raise his eyes. Thetwo others stood motionless a short distance away, and looked him up anddown, nudged each other, and tittered. Finally, they made up their minds. They asked him who he was, whence he came, and what his father did. Jean-Christophe, turned to stone, made no reply; he was terrified almostto the point of tears, especially of the little girl, who had fair hair inplaits, a short skirt, and bare legs. 

They began to play. Just as Jean-Christophe was beginning to be a littlehappier, the little boy stopped dead in front of him, and touching hiscoat, said:

"Hullo! That's mine!"

Jean-Christophe did not understand. Furious at this assertion that his coatbelonged to some one else, he shook his head violently in denial. 

"I know it all right, " said the boy. "It's my old blue waistcoat. There's aspot on it. "

And he put his finger on the spot. Then, going on with his inspection, heexamined Jean-Christophe's feet, and asked what his mended-up shoes weremade of. Jean-Christophe grew crimson. The little girl pouted and whisperedto her brother--Jean-Christophe heard it--that it was a little poor boy. Jean-Christophe resented the word. He thought he would succeed In combatingthe insulting opinions, as he stammered in a choking voice that he was theson of Melchior Krafft. And that his mother was Louisa the cook. It seemedto him that this title was as good as any other, and he was right. But thetwo children, interested in the news, did not seem to esteem him any themore for it. On the contrary, they took on a patronizing tone. They askedhim what he was going to be--a cook or a coachman. Jean-Christopherevolted. He felt an iciness steal into his heart. 

Encouraged by his silence, the two rich children, who had conceived forthe little poor boy one of those cruel and unreasoning antipathies whichchildren have, tried various amusing ways of tormenting him, The littlegirl especially was implacable. She observed that Jean-Christophe couldhardly run, because his clothes were so tight, and she conceived thesubtle idea of making him jump. They made an obstacle of little seats, and insisted on Jean-Christophe clearing it. The wretched child dared notsay what it was that prevented his jumping. He gathered himself together, hurled himself through, the air, and measured his length on the ground. They roared with laughter at him. He had to try again. Tears in his eyes, he made a desperate attempt, and this time succeeded in jumping. That didnot satisfy his tormentors, who decided that the obstacle was not highenough, and they built it up until it became a regular break-neck affair. Jean-Christophe tried to rebel, and declared that he would not jump. Then the little girl called him a coward, and said that he was afraid. Jean-Christophe could not stand that, and, knowing that he must fall, hejumped, and fell. His feet caught in the obstacle; the whole thing toppledover with him. He grazed his hands and almost broke his head, and, as acrowning misfortune, his trousers tore at the knees and elsewhere. He wassick with shame; he heard the two children dancing with delight round him;he suffered horribly. He felt that they, despised and hated him. Why? Why?He would gladly have died! There is no more cruel suffering than thatof a child who discovers for the first time the wickedness of others; hebelieves then that he is persecuted by the--whole world, and there isnothing to support him; there is nothing then--nothing!. . . Jean-Christophetried to get up; the little boy pushed him down again; the little girlkicked him. He tried again, and they both jumped on him, and sat on hisback and pressed his face down into the ground. Then rage seized him--itwas too much. His hands were bruised, his fine coat was torn--a catastrophefor him!--shame, pain, revolt against the injustice of it, so manymisfortunes all at once, plunged him in blind fury. He rose to his handsand knees, shook himself like a dog, and rolled his tormentors over; andwhen they returned to the assault he butted at them, head down, bowled overthe little girl, and, with one blow of his fist, knocked the boy into themiddle of a flower-bed. 

They howled. The children ran into the house with piercing cries. Doorsslammed, and cries of anger were heard. The lady ran out as quickly asher long dress would let her. Jean-Christophe saw her coming, and made noattempt to escape. He was terrified at what he had done; it was a thingunheard of, a crime; but he regretted nothing. He waited. He was lost. Somuch the better! He was reduced to despair. 

The lady pounced on him. He felt her beat him. He heard her talking in afurious voice, a flood of words; but he could distinguish nothing. Hislittle enemies had come back to see his shame, and screamed shrilly. Therewere servants--a babel of voices. To complete his downfall, Louisa, whohad been summoned, appeared, and, instead of defending him, she began toscold him--she, too, without knowing anything--and bade him beg pardon. Herefused angrily. She shook him, and dragged him by the hand to the lady andthe children, and bade him go on his knees. But he stamped and roared, andbit his mother's hand. Finally, he escaped among the servants, who laughed. 

He went away, his heart beating furiously, his face burning with anger andthe slaps which he had received. He tried not to think, and he hurriedalong because he did not want to cry in the street. He wanted to be athome, so as to be able to find the comfort of tears. He choked; the bloodbeat in his head; he was at bursting-point. 

Finally, he arrived; he ran up the old black staircase to his usualnook in the bay of a window above the river; he hurled himself into itbreathlessly, and then there came a flood of tears. He did not know exactlywhy he was crying, but he had to cry; and when the first flood of them wasdone, he wept again because he wanted, with a sort of rage, to make himselfsuffer, as if he could in this way punish the others as well as himself. Then he thought that his father must be coming home, and that his motherwould tell him everything, and that his own miseries were by no means at anend. He resolved on flight, no matter whither, never to return. 

Just as he was going downstairs, he bumped into his father, who was comingup. 

"What are you doing, boy? Where are you going?" asked Melchior. 

He did not reply. 

"You are up to some folly. What have you done?"

Jean-Christophe held his peace. 

"What have you done?" repeated Melchior. "Will you answer?"

The boy began to cry and Melchior to shout, vying with each other untilthey heard Louisa hurriedly coming up the stairs. She arrived, still upset. She began with violent reproach and further chastisement, in which Melchiorjoined as soon as he understood--and probably before--with blows thatwould have felled an ox. Both shouted; the boy roared. They ended by angryargument. All the time that he was beating his son, Melchior maintainedthat he was right, and that this was the sort of thing that one came by, by going out to service with people who thought they could do everythingbecause they had money; and as she beat the child, Louisa shouted that herhusband was a brute, that she would never let him touch the boy, and thathe had really hurt him. Jean-Christophe was, in fact, bleeding a littlefrom the nose, but he hardly gave a thought to it, and he was not in theleast thankful to his mother for stopping it with a wet cloth, since shewent on scolding him. In the end they pushed him away in a dark closet, andshut him up without any supper. 

He heard them shouting at each other, and he did not know which of them hedetested most. He thought it must be his mother, for he had never expectedany such wickedness from her. All the misfortunes of the day overwhelmedhim: all that he had suffered--the injustice of the children, the injusticeof the lady, the injustice of his parents, and--this he felt like an openwound, without quite knowing why--the degradation of his parents, of whomhe was so proud, before these evil and contemptible people. Such cowardice, of which for the first time he had become vaguely conscious, seemed ignobleto him. Everything was upset for him--his admiration for his own people, the religious respect with which they inspired him, his confidence in life, the simple need that he had of loving others and of being loved, his moralfaith, blind but absolute. It was a complete cataclysm. He was crushedby brute force, without any means of defending himself or of ever againescaping. He choked. He thought himself on the point of death. All his bodystiffened in desperate revolt. He beat with fists, feet, head, against thewall, howled, was seized with convulsions, and fell to the floor, hurtinghimself against the furniture. 

His parents, running up, took him in their arms. They vied with each othernow as to who should be the more tender with him. His mother undressedhim, carried him to his bed, and sat by him and remained with him until hewas calmer. But he did not yield one inch. He forgave her nothing, andpretended to be asleep to get rid of her. His mother seemed to him badand cowardly. He had no suspicion of all the suffering that she had to gothrough in order to live and give a living to her family, and of what shehad borne in taking sides against him. 

After he had exhausted to the last drop the incredible store of tears thatis in the eyes of a child, he felt somewhat comforted. He was tired andworn out, but his nerves were too much on stretch for him to sleep. Thevisions that had been with him floated before him again in his semi-torpor. Especially he saw again the little girl with her bright eyes and herturned-up, disdainful little nose, her hair hanging down to her shoulders, her bare legs and her childish, affected way of talking. He trembled, as itseemed to him that he could hear her voice. He remembered how stupid he hadbeen with her, and he conceived a savage hatred for her. He did not pardonher for having brought him low, and was consumed with the desire tohumiliate her and to make her weep. He sought means of doing this, butfound none. There was no sign of her ever caring about him. But by way ofconsoling himself he supposed that everything was as he wished it to be. Hesupposed that he had become very powerful and famous, and decided that shewas in love with him. Then he began to tell himself one of those absurdstories which in the end he would regard as more real than reality. 

She was dying of love, but he spurned her. When he passed before her houseshe watched him pass, hiding behind the curtains, and he knew that shewatched him, but he pretended to take no notice, and talked gaily. Even heleft the country, and journeyed far to add to her anguish. He did greatthings. Here he introduced into his narrative fragments chosen from hisgrandfather's heroic tales, and all this time she was falling ill of grief. Her mother, that proud dame, came to beg of him: "My poor child is dying. I beg you to come!" He went. She was in her bed. Her face was pale andsunken. She held out her arms to him. She could not speak, but she took hishands and kissed them as she wept. Then he looked at her with marvelouskindness and tenderness. He bade her recover, and consented to let her lovehim. At this point of the story, when he amused himself by drawing out thecoming together by repeating their gestures and words several times, sleepovercame him, and he slept and was consoled. 

But when he opened his eyes it was day, and it no longer shone so lightlyor so carelessly as its predecessor. There was a great change in the world. Jean-Christophe now knew the meaning of injustice. 

 * * * * *

There were now times of extremely straitened circumstances at home. Theybecame more and more frequent. They lived meagerly then. No one was moresensible of it than Jean-Christophe. His father saw nothing. He was servedfirst, and there was always enough for him. He talked noisily, and roaredwith laughter at his own jokes, and he never noticed his wife's glancesas she gave a forced laugh, while she watched him helping himself. When he passed the dish it was more than half empty. Louisa helped thechildren--two potatoes each. When it came to Jean-Christophe's turn therewere sometimes only three left, and his mother was not helped. He knew thatbeforehand; he had counted them before they came to him. Then he summonedup courage, and said carelessly:

"Only one, mother. "

She was a little put out. 

"Two, like the others. "

"No, please; only one. "

"Aren't you hungry?"

"No, I'm not very hungry. "

But she, too, only took one, and they peeled them carefully, cut them upin little pieces, and tried to eat them as slowly as possible. His motherwatched him. When he had finished:

"Come, take it!"

"No, mother. "

"But you are ill?"

"I am not ill, but I have eaten enough. "

Then his father would reproach him with being obstinate, and take the lastpotato for himself. But Jean-Christophe learned that trick, and he used tokeep it on his plate for Ernest, his little brother, who was always hungry, and watched him out of the corner of his eyes from the beginning of dinner, and ended by asking:

"Aren't you going to eat it? Give it me, then, Jean-Christophe. "

Oh, how Jean-Christophe detested his father, how he hated him for notthinking of them, or for not even dreaming that he was eating their share!He was so hungry that he hated him, and would gladly have told him so; buthe thought in his pride that he had no right, since he could not earn hisown living. His father had earned the bread that he took. He himself wasgood for nothing; he was a burden on everybody; he had no right to talk. Later on he would talk--if there were any later on. Oh, he would die ofhunger first!. . . 

He suffered more than another child would have done from these cruel fasts. His robust stomach was in agony. Sometimes he trembled because of it; hishead ached. There was a hole in his chest--a hole which turned and widened, as if a gimlet were being twisted in it. But he did not complain. He felthis mother's eyes upon him, and assumed an expression of indifference. Louisa, with a clutching at her heart, understood vaguely that her littleboy was denying himself so that the others might have more. She rejectedthe idea, but always returned to it. She dared not investigate it or askJean-Christophe if it were true, for, if it were true, what could shedo? She had been used to privation since her childhood. What is the useof complaining when there is nothing to be done? She never suspected, indeed--she, with her frail health and small needs--that the boy mightsuffer more than herself. She did not say anything, but once or twice, when the others were gone, the children to the street, Melchior about hisbusiness, she asked her eldest son to stay to do her some small service. Jean-Christophe would hold her skein while she unwound it. Suddenly shewould throw everything away, and draw him passionately to her. She wouldtake him on her knees, although he was quite heavy, and would hug and hughim. He would fling his arms round her neck, and the two of them would weepdesperately, embracing each other. 

"My poor little boy!. . . "

"Mother, mother!. . . "

They said no more, but they understood each other. 

 * * * * *

It was some time before Jean-Christophe realized that his father drank. Melchior's intemperance did not--at least, in the beginning--exceedtolerable limits. It was not brutish. It showed itself rather by wildoutbursts of happiness. He used to make foolish remarks, and sing loudlyfor hours together as he drummed on the table, and sometimes he insisted ondancing with Louisa and the children. Jean-Christophe saw that his motherlooked sad. She would shrink back and bend her face over her work; sheavoided the drunkard's eyes, and used to try gently to quiet him whenhe said coarse things that made her blush. But Jean-Christophe did notunderstand, and he was in such need of gaiety that these noisy home-comingsof his father were almost a festival to him. The house was melancholy, andthese follies were a relaxation for him. He used to laugh heartily atMelchior's crazy antics and stupid jokes; he sang and danced with him; andhe was put out when his mother in an angry voice ordered him to cease. Howcould it be wrong, since his father did it? Although his ever keenobservation, which never forgot anything it had seen, told him that therewere in his father's behavior several things which did not accord with hischildish and imperious sense of justice, yet he continued to admire him. A child has so much need of an object of admiration! Doubtless it is oneof the eternal forms of self-love. When a man is, or knows himself to be, too weak to accomplish his desires and satisfy his pride, as a child hetransfers them to his parents, or, as a man who has failed, he transfersthem to his children. They are, or shall be, all that he dreamed ofbeing--his champions, his avengers--and in this proud abdication in theirfavor, love and egoism are mingled so forcefully and yet so gently as tobring him keen delight. Jean-Christophe forgot all his grudges against hisfather, and cast about to find reasons for admiring him. He admired hisfigure, his strong arms, his voice, his laugh, his gaiety, and he shonewith pride when he heard praise of his father's talents as a virtuoso, orwhen Melchior himself recited with some amplification the eulogies he hadreceived. He believed in his father's boasts, and looked upon him as agenius, as one of his grandfather's heroes. 

One evening about seven o'clock he was alone in the house. His littlebrothers had gone out with Jean Michel. Louisa was washing the linen inthe river. The door opened, and Melchior plunged in. He was hatless anddisheveled. He cut a sort of caper to cross the threshold, and then plumpeddown in a chair by the table. Jean-Christophe began to laugh, thinking itwas a part of one of the usual buffooneries, and he approached him. Butas soon as he looked more closely at him the desire to laugh left him. Melchior sat there with his arms hanging, and looking straight in frontof him, seeing nothing, with his eyes blinking. His face was crimson, hismouth was open, and from it there gurgled every now and then a silly laugh. Jean-Christophe stood stock-still. He thought at first that his father wasjoking, but when he saw that he did not budge he was panic-stricken. 

"Papa, papa!" he cried. 

Melchior went on gobbling like a fowl. Jean-Christophe took him by the armin despair, and shook him with all his strength. 

"Papa, dear papa, answer me, please, please!"

Melchior's body shook like a boneless thing, and all but fell. His headflopped towards Jean-Christophe; he looked at him and babbled incoherentlyand irritably. When Jean-Christophe's eyes met those clouded eyes he wasseized with panic terror. He ran away to the other end of the room, andthrew himself on his knees by the bed, and buried his face in the clothes. He remained so for some time. Melchior swung heavily on the chair, sniggering. Jean-Christophe stopped his ears, so as not to hear him, and trembled. What was happening within him was inexpressible. It was aterrible upheaval--terror, sorrow, as though for some one dead, some onedear and honored. 

No one came; they were left alone. Night fell, and Jean-Christophe's feargrew as the minutes passed. He could not help listening, and his bloodfroze as he heard the voice that he did not recognize. The silence madeit all the more terrifying; the limping clock beat time for the senselessbabbling. He could bear it no longer; he wished to fly. But he had, to passhis father to get out, and Jean-Christophe shuddered, at the idea of seeingthose eyes again; it seemed to him that he must die if he did. He tried tocreep on hands and knees to the door of the room. He could not breathe; hewould not look; he stopped at the least movement from Melchior, whose feethe could see under the table. One of the drunken man's legs trembled. Jean-Christophe reached the door. With one trembling hand he pushed thehandle, but in his terror he let go. It shut to again. Melchior turned tolook. The chair on which he was balanced toppled over; he fell down with acrash. Jean-Christophe in his terror had no strength left for flight. Heremained glued to the wall, looking at his father stretched there at hisfeet, and he cried for help. 

His fall sobered Melchior a little. He cursed and swore, and thumped onthe chair that had played him such a trick. He tried vainly to get up, andthen did manage to sit up with his back resting against the table, and herecognized his surroundings. He saw Jean-Christophe crying; he called him. Jean-Christophe wanted to run away; he could not stir. Melchior called himagain, and as the child did not come, he swore angrily. Jean-Christophewent near him, trembling in every limb. Melchior drew the boy near him, andmade him sit on his knees. He began by pulling his ears, and in a thick, stuttering voice delivered a homily on the respect due from a son tohis father. Then he went off suddenly on a new train of thought, andmade him jump in his arms while he rattled off silly jokes. He wriggledwith laughter. From that he passed immediately to melancholy ideas. Hecommiserated the boy and himself; he hugged him so that he was like tochoke, covered him with kisses and tears, and finally rocked him in hisarms, intoning the _De Profundis_. Jean-Christophe made no effort to breakloose; he was frozen with horror. Stifled against his father's bosom, feeling his breath hiccoughing and smelling of wine upon his face, wet withhis kisses and repulsive tears, he was in an agony of fear and disgust. Hewould have screamed, but no sound would come from his lips. He remained inthis horrible condition for an age, as it seemed to him, until the dooropened, and Louisa came in with a basket of linen on her arm. She gave acry, let the basket fall, rushed at Jean-Christophe, and with a violencewhich seemed incredible in her she wrenched Melchior's arm, crying:

"Drunken, drunken wretch!"

Her eyes flashed with anger. 

Jean-Christophe thought his father was going to kill her. But Melchiorwas so startled by the threatening appearance of his wife that he made noreply, and began to weep. He rolled on the floor; he beat his head againstthe furniture, and said that she was right, that he was a drunkard, thathe brought misery upon his family, and was ruining his poor children, andwished he were dead. Louisa had contemptuously turned her back on him. Shecarried Jean-Christophe into the next room, and caressed him and tried tocomfort him. The boy went on trembling, and did not answer his mother'squestions; then he burst out sobbing. Louisa bathed his face with water. She kissed him, and used tender words, and wept with him. In the end theywere both comforted. She knelt, and made him kneel by her side. They prayedto God to cure father of his disgusting habit, and make him the kind, goodman that he used to be. Louisa put the child to bed. He wanted her to stayby his bedside and hold his hand. Louisa spent part of the night sittingon Jean-Christophe's bed. He was feverish. The drunken man snored on thefloor. 

Some time after that, one day at school, when Jean-Christophe was spendinghis time watching the flies on the ceiling, and thumping his neighbors, to make them fall off the form, the schoolmaster, who had taken a disliketo him, because he was always fidgeting and laughing, and would neverlearn anything, made an unhappy allusion. Jean-Christophe had fallendown himself, and the schoolmaster said he seemed to be like to followbrilliantly in the footsteps of a certain well-known person. All the boysburst out laughing, and some of them took upon themselves to point theallusion with comment both lucid and vigorous. Jean-Christophe got up, livid with shame, seized his ink-pot, and hurled it with all his strengthat the nearest boy whom he saw laughing. The schoolmaster fell on him andbeat him. He was thrashed, made to kneel, and set to do an enormousimposition. 

He went home, pale and storming, though he said never a word. He declaredfrigidly that he would not go to school again. They paid no attention towhat he said. Next morning, when his mother reminded him that it was timeto go, he replied quietly that he had said that he was not going any more. In rain Louisa begged and screamed and threatened; it was no use. He stayedsitting in his corner, obstinate. Melchior thrashed him. He howled, butevery time they bade him go after the thrashing was over he repliedangrily, "No!" They asked him at least to say why. He clenched his teeth, and would not. Melchior took hold of him, carried him to school, and gavehim into the master's charge. They set him on his form, and he beganmethodically to break everything within reach--his inkstand, his pen. Hetore up his copy-book and lesson-book, all quite openly, with his eye onthe schoolmaster, provocative. They shut him up in a dark room. A fewmoments later the schoolmaster found him with his handkerchief tied roundhis neck, tugging with all his strength at the two ends of it. He wastrying to strangle himself. 

They had to send him back. 

 * * * * *

Jean-Christophe was impervious to sickness. He had inherited fromhis father and grandfather their robust constitutions. They were notmollycoddles in that family; well or ill, they never worried, and nothingcould bring about any change in the habits of the two Kraffts, father andson. They went out winter and summer, in all weathers, and stayed for hourstogether out in rain or sun, sometimes bareheaded and with their coatsopen, from carelessness or bravado, and walked for miles without beingtired, and they looked with pity and disdain upon poor Louisa, who neversaid anything, but had to stop. She would go pale, and her legs wouldswell, and her heart would thump. Jean-Christophe was not far from sharingthe scorn of his mother; he did not understand people being ill. When hefell, or knocked himself, or cut himself, or burned himself, he did notcry; but he was angry with the thing that had injured him. His father'sbrutalities and the roughness of his little playmates, the urchins of thestreet, with whom he used to fight, hardened him. He was not afraid ofblows, and more than once he returned home with bleeding nose and bruisedforehead. One day he had to be wrenched away, almost suffocated, from oneof these fierce tussles in which he had bowled over his adversary, who wassavagely banging his head on the ground. That seemed natural enough to him, for he was prepared to do unto others as they did unto himself. 

And yet he was afraid of all sorts of things, and although no one knewit--for he was very proud--nothing brought him go much suffering duringa part of his childhood as these same terrors. For two or three yearsespecially they gnawed at him like a disease. 

He was afraid of the mysterious something that lurks in darkness--evilpowers that seemed to lie in wait for his life, the roaring of monsterswhich fearfully haunt the mind of every child and appear in everything thathe sees, the relic perhaps of a form long dead, hallucinations of the firstdays after emerging from chaos, from the fearful slumber in his mother'swomb, from the awakening of the larva from the depths of matter. 

He was afraid of the garret door. It opened on to the stairs, and wasalmost always ajar. When he had to pass it he felt his heart heating; hewould spring forward and jump by it without looking. It seemed to him thatthere was some one or something behind it. When it was closed he hearddistinctly something moving behind it. That was not surprising, for therewere large rats; but he imagined a monster, with rattling bones, and fleshhanging in rags, a horse's head, horrible and terrifying eyes, shapeless. He did not want to think of it, but did so in spite of himself. Withtrembling hand he would make sure that the door was locked; but that didnot keep him from turning round ten times as he went downstairs. 

He was afraid of the night outside. Sometimes he used to stay late withhis grandfather, or was sent out in the evening on some errand. Old Krafftlived a little outside the town in the last house on the Cologne road. Between the house and the first lighted windows of the town there was adistance of two or three hundred yards, which seemed three times as longto Jean-Christophe. There were places where the road twisted and it wasimpossible to see anything. The country was deserted in the evening, theearth grew black, and the sky was awfully pale. When he came out fromthe hedges that lined the road, and climbed up the slope, he could stillsee a yellowish gleam on the horizon, but it gave no light, and was moreoppressive than the night; it made the darkness only darker; it was adeathly light. The clouds came down almost to earth. The hedges grewenormous and moved. The gaunt trees were like grotesque old men. The sidesof the wood were stark white. The darkness moved. There were dwarfs sittingin the ditches, lights in the grass, fearful flying things in the air, shrill cries of insects coming from nowhere. Jean-Christophe was always inanguish, expecting some fearsome or strange putting forth of Nature. Hewould run, with his heart leaping in his bosom. 

When he saw the light in his grandfather's room he would gain confidence. But worst of all was when old Krafft was not at home. That was mostterrifying. The old house, lost in the country, frightened the boy even indaylight. He forgot his fears when his grandfather was there, but sometimesthe old man would leave him alone, and go out without warning him. Jean-Christophe did not mind that. The room was quiet. Everything in itwas familiar and kindly. There was a great white wooden bedstead, bythe bedside was a great Bible on a shelf, artificial flowers were onthe mantelpiece, with photographs of the old man's two wives and elevenchildren--and at the bottom of each photograph he had written the date ofbirth and death--on the walls were framed texts and vile chromolithographsof Mozart and Beethoven. A little piano stood in one corner, a greatvioloncello in another; rows of books higgledy-piggledy, pipes, and inthe window pots of geraniums. It was like being surrounded with friends. The old man could be heard moving about in the next room, and planing orhammering, and talking to himself, calling himself an idiot, or singing ina loud voice, improvising a _potpourri_ of scraps of chants and sentimental_Lieder_, warlike marches, and drinking songs. Here was shelter and refuge. Jean-Christophe would sit in the great armchair by the window, with a bookon his knees, bending over the pictures and losing himself in them. The daywould die down, his eyes would grow weary, and then he would look no more, and fall into vague dreaming. The wheels of a cart would rumble by alongthe road, a cow would moo in the fields; the bells of the town, weary andsleepy, would ring the evening Angelus. Vague desires, happy presentiments, would awake in the heart of the dreaming child. 

Suddenly Jean-Christophe would awake, filled with dull uneasiness. He wouldraise his eyes--night! He would listen--silence! His grandfather had justgone out. He shuddered. He leaned out of the window to try to see him. Theroad was deserted; things began to take on a threatening aspect. Oh God!If _that_ should be coming! What? He could not tell. The fearful thing. The doors were not properly shut. The wooden stairs creaked as under afootstep. The boy leaped up, dragged the armchair, the two chairs and thetable, to the most remote corner of the room; he made a barrier of them;the armchair against the wall, a chair to the right, a chair to the left, and the table in front of him. In the middle he planted a pair of steps, and, perched on top with his book and other books, like provisions againsta siege, he breathed again, having decided in his childish imagination thatthe enemy could not pass the barrier--that was not to be allowed. 

But the enemy would creep forth, even from his book. Among the old bookswhich the old man had picked up were some with pictures which made aprofound impression on the child: they attracted and yet terrified him. There were fantastic visions--temptations of St. Anthony--in whichskeletons of birds hung in bottles, and thousands of eggs writhe like wormsin disemboweled frogs, and heads walk on feet, and asses play trumpets, andhousehold utensils and corpses of animals walk gravely, wrapped in greatcloths, bowing like old ladies. Jean-Christophe was horrified by them, butalways returned to them, drawn on by disgust. He would look at them for along time, and every now and then look furtively about him to see what wasstirring in the folds of the curtains. A picture of a flayed man in ananatomy book was still more horrible to him. He trembled as he turned thepage when he came to the place where it was in the book. This shapelessmedley was grimly etched for him. The creative power inherent in everychild's mind filled out the meagerness of the setting of them. He saw nodifference between the daubs and the reality. At night they had an evenmore powerful influence over his dreams than the living things that he sawduring the day. 

He was afraid to sleep. For several years nightmares poisoned his rest. Hewandered in cellars, and through the manhole saw the grinning flayed manentering. He was alone in a room, and he heard a stealthy footstep in thecorridor; he hurled himself against the door to close it, and was just intime to hold the handle; but it was turned from the outside; he could notturn the key, his strength left him, and he cried for help. He was with hisfamily, and suddenly their faces changed; they did crazy things. He wasreading quietly, and he felt that an invisible being was all _round_ him. He tried to fly, but felt himself bound. He tried to cry out, but he wasgagged. A loathsome grip was about his neck. He awoke, suffocating, andwith his teeth chattering; and he went on trembling long after he wasawake; he could not be rid of his agony. 

The roam in which he slept was a hole without door or windows; an oldcurtain hung up by a curtain-rod over the entrance was all that separatedit from the room of his father and mother. The thick air stifled him. Hisbrother, who slept in the same bed, used to kick him. His head burned, andhe was a prey to a sort of hallucination in which all the little troublesof the day reappeared infinitely magnified. In this state of nervoustension, bordering on delirium, the least shock was an agony to him. Thecreaking of a plank terrified him. His father's breathing took on fantasticproportions. It seemed to be no longer a human breathing, and the monstroussound was horrible to him; it seemed to him that there must be a beastsleeping there. The night crushed him; it would never end; it must alwaysbe so; he was lying there for months and months. He gasped for breath; hehalf raised himself on his bed, sat up, dried his sweating face with hisshirt-sleeve. Sometimes he nudged his brother Rodolphe to wake him up; butRodolphe moaned, drew away from him the rest of the bedclothes, and went onsleeping. 

So he stayed in feverish agony until a pale beam of light appeared onthe floor below the curtain. This timorous paleness of the distant dawnsuddenly brought him peace. He felt the light gliding into the room, whenit was still impossible to distinguish it from darkness. Then his feverwould die down, his blood would grow calm, like a flooded river returningto its bed; an even warmth would flow through all his body, and his eyes, burning from sleeplessness, would close in spite of himself. 

In the evening it was terrible to him to see the approach of the hour ofsleep. He vowed that he would not give way to it, to watch the whole nightthrough, fearing his nightmares, But in the end weariness always overcamehim, and it was always when he was least on his guard that the monstersreturned. 

Fearful night! So sweet to most children, so terrible to some!. . . He wasafraid to sleep. He was afraid of not sleeping. Waking or sleeping, hewas surrounded by monstrous shapes, the phantoms of his own brain, thelarvæ floating in the half-day and twilight of childhood, as in the darkchiaroscuro of sickness. 

But these fancied terrors were soon to be blotted out in the greatFear--that which is in the hearts of all men; that Fear which Wisdom doesin vain preen itself on forgetting or denying--Death. 

 * * * * *

One day when he was rummaging in a cupboard, he came upon several thingsthat he did not know--a child's frock and a striped bonnet. He took them intriumph to his mother, who, instead of smiling at him, looked vexed, andbade him, take them back to the place where he had found them. When hehesitated to obey, and asked her why, she snatched them from him withoutreply, and put them on a shelf where he could not reach them. Roused tocuriosity, he plied her with questions. At last she told him that there hadbeen a little brother who had died before Jean-Christophe came into theworld. He was taken aback--he had never heard tell of him. He was silentfor a moment, and then tried to find out more. His mother seemed to be lostin thought; but she told him that the little brother was calledJean-Christophe like himself, but was more sensible. He put more questionsto her, but she would not reply readily. She told him only that his brotherwas in Heaven, and was praying for them all. Jean-Christophe could get nomore out of her; she bade him be quiet, and to let her go on with her work. She seemed to be absorbed in her sewing; she looked anxious, and did notraise her eyes. But after some time she looked at him where he was in thecorner, whither he had retired to sulk, began to smile, and told him to goand play outside. 

These scraps of conversation profoundly agitated Jean-Christophe. There hadbeen a child, a little boy, belonging to his mother, like himself, bearingthe same name, almost exactly the same, and he was dead! Dead! He did notexactly know what that was, but it was something terrible. And they nevertalked of this other Jean-Christophe; he was quite forgotten. It would bethe same with him if he were to die? This thought was with him still in theevening at table with his family, when he saw them all laughing and talkingof trifles. So, then, it was possible that they would be gay after he wasdead! Oh! he never would have believed that his mother could be selfishenough to laugh after the death of her little boy! He hated them all. Hewanted to weep for himself, for his own death, in advance. At the same timehe wanted to ask a whole heap of questions, but he dared not; he rememberedthe voice in which his mother had bid him be quiet. At last he couldcontain himself no longer, and one night when he had gone to bed, andLouisa came to kiss him, he asked:

"Mother, did he sleep in my bed?"

The poor woman trembled, and, trying to take on an indifferent tone ofvoice, she asked:

"Who?"

"The little boy who is dead, " said Jean-Christophe in a whisper. 

His mother clutched him with her hands. 

"Be quiet--quiet, " she said. 

Her voice trembled. Jean-Christophe, whose head was leaning against herbosom, heard her heart beating. There was a moment of silence, then shesaid:

"You must never talk of that, my dear. . . . Go to sleep. . . . No, it was nothis bed. "

She kissed him. He thought he felt her cheek wet against his. He wished hecould have been sure of it. He was a little comforted. There was grief inher then! Then he doubted it again the next moment, when he heard her inthe next room talking in a quiet, ordinary voice. Which was true--that orwhat had just been? He turned about for long in his bed without finding anyanswer. He wanted his mother to suffer; not that he also did not suffer inthe knowledge that she was sad, but it would have done him so much good, inspite of everything! He would have felt himself less alone. He slept, andnext day thought no more of it. 

Some weeks afterwards one of the urchins with whom he played in the streetdid not come at the usual time. One of them said that he was ill, and theygot used to not seeing him in their games. It was explained, it was quitesimple. One evening Jean-Christophe had gone to bed; it was early, and fromthe recess in which his bed was, he saw the light in the room. There was aknock at the door. A neighbor had come to have a chat. He listenedabsently, telling himself stories as usual. The words of their talk did notreach him. Suddenly he heard the neighbor say: "He is dead. " His bloodstopped, for he had understood who was dead. He listened and held hisbreath. His parents cried out. Melchior's booming voice said:

"Jean-Christophe, do you hear? Poor Fritz is dead. "

Jean-Christophe made an effort, and replied quietly:

"Yes, papa. "

His bosom was drawn tight as in a vise. 

Melchior went on:

"'Yes, papa. ' Is that all you say? You are not grieved by it. "

Louisa, who understood the child, said:

"'Ssh! Let him sleep!"

And they talked in whispers. But Jean-Christophe, pricking his ears, gathered all the details of illness--typhoid fever, cold baths, delirium, the parents' grief. He could not breathe, a lump in his throat choked him. He shuddered. All these horrible things took shape in his mind. Above all, he gleaned that the disease was contagious--that is, that he also might diein the same way--and terror froze him, for he remembered that he had shakenhands with Fritz the last time he had seen him, and that very day had gonepast the house. But he made no sound, so as to avoid having to talk, andwhen his father, after the neighbor had gone, asked him: "Jean-Christophe, are you asleep?" he did not reply. He heard Melchior saying to Louisa:

"The boy has no heart. "

Louisa did not reply, but a moment later she came and gently raised thecurtain and looked at the little bed. Jean-Christophe only just had time toclose his eyes and imitate the regular breathing which his brothers madewhen they were asleep. Louisa went away on tip-toe. And yet how he wantedto keep her! How he wanted to tell her that he was afraid, and to ask herto save him, or at least to comfort him! But he was afraid of theirlaughing at him, and treating him as a coward; and besides, he knew onlytoo well that nothing that they might say would be any good. And for hourshe lay there in agony, thinking that he felt the disease creeping over him, and pains in his head, a stricture of the heart, and thinking in terror:"It is the end. I am ill. I am going to die. I am going to die!". . . Once hesat up in his bed and called to his mother in a low voice; but they wereasleep, and he dared not wake them. 

From that time on his childhood was poisoned by the idea of death. Hisnerves delivered him up to all sorts of little baseless sicknesses, todepression, to sudden transports, and fits of choking. His imagination ranriot with these troubles, and thought it saw in all of them the murderousbeast which was to rob him of his life. How many times he suffered agonies, with his mother sitting only a few yards away from him, and she guessingnothing! For in his cowardice he was brave enough to conceal all his terrorin a strange jumble of feeling--pride in not turning to others, shame ofbeing afraid, and the scrupulousness of a tenderness which forbade him totrouble his mother. But he never ceased to think: "This time I am ill. I amseriously ill. It is diphtheria. . . . " He had chanced on the word"diphtheria. ". . . "Dear God! not this time!. . . "

He had religious ideas: he loved to believe what his mother had told, him, that after death the soul ascended to the Lord, and if it were piousentered into the garden of paradise. But the idea of this journey ratherfrightened than attracted him. He was not at all envious of the childrenwhom God, as a recompense, according to his mother, took in their sleep andcalled to Him without having made them suffer. He trembled, as he went tosleep, for fear that God should indulge this whimsy at his expense. It mustbe terrible to be taken suddenly from the warmth of one's bed and draggedthrough the void into the presence of God. He imagined God as an enormoussun, with a voice of thunder. How it must hurt! It must barn the eyes, ears--all one's soul! Then, God could punish--you never know. . . . Andbesides, that did not prevent all the other horrors which he did not knowvery well, though he could guess them from what he had heard--your body ina box, all alone at the bottom of a hole, lost in the crowd of thoserevolting cemeteries to which he was taken to pray. . . . God! God! How sad!how sad!. . . 

And yet it was not exactly joyous to live, and be hungry, and see yourfather drunk, and to be beaten, to suffer in so many ways from thewickedness of other children, from the insulting pity of grown-up persons, and to be understood by no one, not even by your mother. Everybodyhumiliates you, no one loves you. You are alone--alone, and matter solittle! Yes; but it was just this that made him want to live. He felt inhimself a surging power of wrath. A strange thing, that power! It could donothing yet; it was as though it were afar off and gagged, swaddled, paralyzed; he had no idea what it wanted, what, later on, it would be. Butit was in him; he was sure of it; he felt it stirring and crying out. To-morrow--to-morrow, what a voyage he would take! He had a savage desireto live, to punish the wicked, to do great things. "Oh! but how I will livewhen I am . . . " he pondered a little--"when I am eighteen!" Sometimes he putit at twenty-one; that was the extreme limit. He thought that was enoughfor the domination of the world. He thought of the heroes dearest tohim--of Napoleon, and of that other more remote hero, whom he preferred, Alexander the Great. Surely he would be like them if only he lived foranother twelve--ten years. He never thought of pitying those who died atthirty. They were old; they had lived their lives; it was their fault ifthey hat failed. But to die now . . . Despair! Too terrible to pass while yeta little child, and forever to be in the minds of men a little boy whomeverybody thinks he has the right to scold! He wept with rage at thethought, as though he were already dead. 

This agony of death tortured his childish years--corrected only by disgustwith all life and the sadness of his own. 

 * * * * *

It was in the midst of these gloomy shadows, in the stifling night thatevery moment seemed to intensify about him, that there began to shine, likea star lost in the dark abysm of space, the light which was to illuminatehis life: divine music. . . . 

His grandfather gave the children an old piano, which one of his clients, anxious to be rid of it, had asked him to take. His patient ingenuity hadalmost put it in order. The present had not been very well received. Louisathought her room already too small, without filling it up any more; andMelchior said that Jean Michel had not ruined himself over it: justfirewood. Only Jean-Christophe was glad of it without exactly knowing why. It seemed to him a magic box, full of marvelous stories, just like the onesin the fairy-book--a volume of the "Thousand and One Nights"--which hisgrandfather read to him sometimes to their mutual delight. He had heard hisfather try the piano on the day of its arrival, and draw from it a littlerain of arpeggios like the drops that a puff of wind shakes from the wetbranches of a tree after a shower. He clapped his hands, and cried"Encore!" but Melchior scornfully closed the piano, saying that it wasworthless. Jean-Christophe did not insist, but after that he was alwayshovering about the instrument. As soon as no one was near he would raisethe lid, and softly press down a key, just as if he were moving with hisfinger the living shell of some great insect; he wanted to push out thecreature that was locked up in it. Sometimes in his haste he would striketoo hard, and then his mother would cry out, "Will you not be quiet? Don'tgo touching everything!" or else he would pinch himself cruelly in closingthe piano, and make piteous faces as he sucked his bruised fingers. . . . 

Now his greatest joy is when his mother is gone out for a day's service, orto pay some visit in the town. He listens as she goes down the stairs, andinto the street, and away. He is alone. He opens the piano, and brings up achair, and perches on it. His shoulders just about reach the keyboard; itis enough for what he wants. Why does he wait until he is alone? No onewould prevent his playing so long as he did not make too much noise. But heis ashamed before the others, and dare not. And then they talk and moveabout: that spoils his pleasure. It is so much more beautiful when he isalone! Jean-Christophe holds his breath so that the silence may be evengreater, and also because he is a little excited, as though he were goingto let off a gun. His heart beats as he lays his finger on the key;sometimes he lifts his finger after he has the key half pressed down, andlays it on another. Does he know what will come out of it, more than whatwill come out of the other? Suddenly a sound issues from it; there are deepsounds and high sounds, some tinkling, some roaring. The child listens tothem one by one as they die away and finally cease to be; they hover in theair like bells heard far off, coming near in the wind, and then going awayagain; then when you listen you hear in the distance other voices, different, joining in and droning like flying insects; they seem to call toyou, to draw you away farther--farther and farther into the mysteriousregions, where they dive down and are lost. . . . They are gone!. . . No; stillthey murmur. . . . A little beating of wings. . . . How strange it all is! Theyare like spirits. How is it that they are so obedient? how is it that theyare held captive in this old box? But best of all is when you lay twofingers on two keys at once. Then you never know exactly what will happen. Sometimes the two spirits are hostile; they are angry with each other, andfight; and hate each other, and buzz testily. Then voices are raised; theycry out, angrily, now sorrowfully. Jean-Christophe adores that; it is asthough there were monsters chained up, biting at their fetters, beatingagainst the bars of their prison; they are like to break them, and burstout like the monsters in the fairy-book--the genii imprisoned in the Arabbottles under the seal of Solomon. Others flatter you; they try to cajoleyou, but you feel that they only want to bite, that they are hot andfevered. Jean-Christophe does not know what they want, but they lure himand disturb him; they make him almost blush. And sometimes there are notesthat love each other; sounds embrace, as people do with their arms whenthey kiss: they are gracious and sweet. These are the good spirits; theirfaces are smiling, and there are no lines in them; they love littleJean-Christophe, and little Jean-Christophe loves them. Tears come to hiseyes as he hears them, and he is never weary of calling them up. They arehis friends, his dear, tender friends. . . . 

So the child journeys through the forest of sounds, and round him he isconscious of thousands of forces lying in wait for him, and calling to himto caress or devour him. . . . 

One day Melchior came upon him thus. He made him jump with fear at thesound of his great voice. Jean-Christophe, thinking he was doing wrong, quickly put his hands up to his ears to ward off the blows he feared. ButMelchior did not scold him, strange to say; he was in a good temper, andlaughed. 

"You like that, boy?" he asked, patting his head kindly. "Would you like meto teach you to play it?"

Would he like!. . . Delighted, he murmured: "Yes. " The two of them sat downat the piano, Jean-Christophe perched this time on a pile of big books, andvery attentively he took his first lesson. He learned first of all that thebuzzing spirits have strange names, like Chinese names, of one syllable, oreven of one letter. He was astonished; he imagined them to be differentfrom that: beautiful, caressing names, like the princesses in the fairystories. He did not like the familiarity with which his father talked ofthem. Again, when Melchior evoked them they were not the same; they seemedto become indifferent as they rolled out from under his fingers. ButJean-Christophe was glad to learn about the relationships between them, their hierarchy, the scales, which were like a King commanding an army, orlike a band of negroes marching in single file. He was surprised to seethat each soldier, or each negro, could become a monarch in his turn, orthe head of a similar band, and that it was possible to summon wholebattalions from one end to the other of the keyboard. It amused him to holdthe thread which made them march. But it was a small thing compared withwhat he had seen at first; his enchanted forest was lost. However, he sethimself to learn, for it was not tiresome, and he was surprised at hisfather's patience. Melchior did not weary of it either; he made him beginthe same thing over again ten times. Jean-Christophe did not understand whyhe should take so much trouble; his father loved him, then? That was good!The boy worked away; his heart was filled with gratitude. 

He would have been less docile had he known what thoughts were springinginto being in his father's head. 

 * * * * *

From that day on Melchior took him to the house of a neighbor, where threetimes a week there was chamber music. Melchior played first violin, JeanMichel the violoncello. The other two were a bank-clerk and the oldwatchmaker of the _Schillerstrasse_. Every now and then the chemist joinedthem with his flute. They began at five, and went on till nine. Betweeneach piece they drank beer. Neighbors used to come in and out, and listenwithout a word, leaning against the wall, and nodding their heads, andbeating time with their feet, and filling the room with clouds oftobacco-smoke. Page followed page, piece followed piece, but the patienceof the musicians was never exhausted. They did not speak; they were allattention; their brows were knit, and from time to time they grunted withpleasure, but for the rest they were perfectly incapable not only ofexpressing, but even of feeling, the beauty of what they played. Theyplayed neither very accurately nor in good time, but they never went offthe rails, and followed faithfully the marked changes of tone. They hadthat musical facility which is easily satisfied, that mediocre perfectionwhich, is so plentiful in the race which is said to be the most musical inthe world. They had also that great appetite which does not stickle for thequality of its food, so only there be quantity--that healthy appetite towhich all music is good, and the more substantial the better--it sees nodifference between Brahms and Beethoven, or between the works of the samemaster, between an empty concerto and a moving sonata, because they arefashioned of the same stuff. 

Jean-Christophe sat apart in a corner, which was his own, behind the piano. No one could disturb him there, for to reach it he had to go on all fours. It was half dark there, and the boy had just room to lie on the floor if hehuddled up. The smoke of the tobacco filled his eyes and throat: dust, too;there were large flakes of it like sheepskin, but he did not mind that, andlistened gravely, squatting there Turkish fashion, and widening the holesin the cloth of the piano with his dirty little fingers. He did not likeeverything that they played; but nothing that they played bored him, and henever tried to formulate his opinions, for he thought himself too small toknow anything. Only some music sent him to sleep, some woke him up; it wasnever disagreeable to him. Without his knowing it, it was nearly alwaysgood music that excited him. Sure of not being seen, he made faces, hewrinkled his nose, ground his teeth, or stuck out his tongue; his eyesflashed with anger or drooped languidly; he moved his arms and legs with adefiant and valiant air; he wanted to march, to lunge out, to pulverize theworld. He fidgeted so much that in the end a head would peer over thepiano, and say: "Hullo, boy, are you mad? Leave the piano. . . . Take yourhand away, or I'll pull your ears!" And that made him crestfallen andangry. Why did they want to spoil his pleasure? He was not doing any harm. Must he always be tormented! His father chimed in. They chid him for makinga noise, and said that he did not like music. And in the end he believedit. These honest citizens grinding out concertos would have been astonishedif they had been told that the only person in the company who really feltthe music was the little boy. 

If they wanted him to keep quiet, why did they play airs which make youmarch? In those pages were rearing horses, swords, war-cries, the pride oftriumph; and they wanted him, like them, to do no more than wag his headand beat time with his feet! They had only to play placid dreams or some ofthose chattering pages which talk so much and say nothing. There are plentyof them, for example, like that piece of Goldmark's, of which the oldwatchmaker had just said with a delighted smile: "It is pretty. There is noharshness in it. All the corners are rounded off. . . . " The boy was veryquiet then. He became drowsy. He did not know what they were playing hardlyheard it; but he was happy; his limbs were numbed, and he was dreaming. 

His dreams were not a consecutive story; they had neither head nor tail. Itwas rarely that he saw a definite picture; his mother making a cake, andwith a knife removing the paste that clung to her fingers; a water-rat thathe had seen the night before swimming in the river; a whip that he wantedto make with a willow wand. . . . Heaven knows why these things should havecropped up in his memory at such a time! But most often he saw nothing atall, and yet he felt things innumerable and infinite. It was as thoughthere were a number of very important things not to be spoken of, or notworth speaking of, because they were so well known, and because they hadalways been so. Some of them were sad, terribly sad; but there was nothingpainful in them, as there is in the things that belong to real life; theywere not ugly and debasing, like the blows that Jean-Christophe had fromhis father, or like the things that were in his head when, sick at heartwith shame, he thought of some humiliation; they filled the mind with amelancholy calm. And some were bright and shining, shedding torrents ofjoy. And Jean-Christophe thought: "Yes, it is _thus_--thus that I will doby-and-by. " He did not know exactly what _thus_ was, nor why he said it, but he felt that he had to say it, and that it was clear as day. He heardthe sound of a sea, and he was quite near to it, kept from it only by awall of dunes. Jean-Christophe had no idea what sea it was, or what itwanted with him, but he was conscious that it would rise above the barrierof dunes. And then!. . . Then all would be well, and he would be quite happy. Nothing to do but to hear it, then, quite near, to sink to sleep to thesound of its great voice, soothing away all his little griefs andhumiliations. They were sad still, but no longer shameful nor injurious;everything seemed natural and almost sweet. 

Very often it was mediocre music that produced this intoxication in him. The writers of it were poor devils, with no thought in their heads but thegaining of money, or the hiding away of the emptiness of their lives bytagging notes together according to accepted formulæ--or to be original, indefiance of formulæ. But in the notes of music, even when handled by anidiot, there is such a power of life that they can let loose storms in asimple soul. Perhaps even the dreams suggested by the idiots are moremysterious and more free than those breathed by an imperious thought whichdrags you along by force; for aimless movement and empty chatter do notdisturb the mind in its own pondering. . . . 

So, forgotten and forgetting, the child stayed in his corner behind thepiano, until suddenly he felt ants climbing up his legs. And he rememberedthen that he was a little boy wife dirty nails, and that he was rubbing hisnose against a white-washed wall, and holding his feet in his hands. 

On the day when Melchior, stealing on tiptoe, had surprised the boy at thekeyboard that was too high for him, he had stayed to watch him for amoment, and suddenly there had flashed upon him: "A little prodigy!. . . Whyhad he not thought of it?. . . What luck for the family!. . . " No doubt he hadthought that the boy would be a little peasant like his mother. "It wouldcost nothing to try. What a great thing it would be! He would take him allover Germany, perhaps abroad. It would be a jolly life, and noble to boot. "Melchior never failed to look for the nobility hidden in all he did, for itwas not often that he failed to find it, after some reflection. 

Strong in this assurance, immediately after supper, as soon as he had takenhis last mouthful, he dumped the child once more in front of the piano, andmade him go through the day's lesson until his eyes closed in weariness. Then three times the next day. Then the day after that. Then every day. Jean-Christophe soon tired of it; then he was sick to death of it; finallyhe could stand it no more, and tried to revolt against it. There was nopoint in what he was made to do: nothing but learning to run as fast aspossible over the keys, by loosening the thumb, or exercising the fourthfinger, which would cling awkwardly to the two next to it. It got on hisnerves; there was nothing beautiful in it. There was an end of the magicsounds, and fascinating monsters, and the universe of dreams felt in onemoment. . . . Nothing but scales and exercises--dry, monotonous, dull--dullerthan the conversation at meal-time, which was always the same--always aboutthe dishes, and always the same dishes. At first the child listenedabsently to what his father said. When he was severely reprimanded he wenton with a bad grace. He paid no attention to abuse; he met it with badtemper. The last straw was when one evening he heard Melchior unfold hisplans in the next room. So it was in order to put him on show like a trickanimal that he was so badgered and forced every day to move bits of ivory!He was not even given time to go and see his beloved river. What was itmade them so set against him? He was angry, hurt in his pride, robbed ofhis liberty. He decided that he would play no more, or as badly aspossible, and would discourage his father. It would be hard, but at allcosts he must keep his independence. 

The very next lesson he began to put his plan into execution. He sethimself conscientiously to hit the notes awry, or to bungle every touch. Melchior cried out, then roared, and blows began to rain. He had a heavyruler. At every false note he struck the boy's fingers, and at the sametime shouted in his ears, so that he was like to deafen him. Jean-Christophe's face twitched tinder the pain of it; he bit his lips tokeep himself from crying, and stoically went on hitting the notes allwrong, bobbing his head down whenever he felt a blow coming. But his systemwas not good, and it was not long before he began to see that it was so. Melchior was as obstinate as his son, and he swore that even if they wereto stay there two days and two nights he would not let him off a singlenote until it had been properly played. Then Jean-Christophe tried toodeliberately to play wrongly, and Melchior began to suspect the trick, ashe saw that the boy's hand fell heavily to one side at every note withobvious intent. The blows became more frequent; Jean-Christophe was nolonger conscious of his fingers. He wept pitifully and silently, sniffing, and swallowing down his sobs and tears. He understood that he had nothingto gain by going on like that, and that he would have to resort todesperate measures. He stopped, and, trembling at the thought of the stormwhich was about to let loose, he said valiantly:

"Papa, I won't play any more. "

Melchior choked. 

"What! What!. . . " he cried. 

He took and almost broke the boy's arm with shaking it. Jean-Christophe, trembling more and more, and raising his elbow to ward off the blows, saidagain:

"I won't play any more. First, because I don't like being beaten. Andthen. . . . "

He could not finish. A terrific blow knocked the wind out of him, andMelchior roared:

"Ah! you don't like being beaten? You don't like it?. . . "

Blows rained. Jean-Christophe bawled through his sobs:

"And then . . . I don't like music!. . . I don't like music!. . . "

He slipped down from his chair. Melchior roughly put him back, and knockedhis knuckles against the keyboard. He cried:

"You shall play!"

And Jean-Christophe shouted:

"No! No! I won't play!"

Melchior had to surrender. He thrashed the boy, thrust him from the room, and said that he should have nothing to eat all day, or the whole month, until he had played all his exercises without a mistake. He kicked him outand slammed the door after him, Jean-Christophe found himself on the stairs, the dark and dirty stairs, worm-eaten. A draught came through a broken pane in the skylight, and thewalls were dripping. Jean-Christophe sat on one of the greasy steps; hisheart was beating wildly with anger and emotion. In a low voice he cursedhis father:

"Beast! That's what you are! A beast . . . A gross creature . . . A brute! Yes, a brute!. . . And I hate you, I hate you!. . . Oh, I wish you were dead! I wishyou were dead!"

His bosom swelled. He looked desperately at the sticky staircase and thespider's web swinging in the wind above the broken pane. He felt alone, lost in his misery. He looked at the gap in the banisters. . . . What if hewere to throw himself down?. . . Or out of the window?. . . Yes, what if hewere to kill himself to punish them? How remorseful they would be! He heardthe noise of his fall from the stairs. The door upstairs opened suddenly. Agonized voices cried: "He has fallen!--He has fallen!" Footsteps clattereddownstairs. His father and mother threw themselves weeping upon his body. His mother sobbed: "It is your fault! You have killed him!" His fatherwaved his arms, threw himself on his knees, beat his head against thebanisters, and cried: "What a wretch am I! What a wretch am I!" The sightof all this softened his misery. He was on the point of taking pity ontheir grief; but then he thought that it was well for them, Had he enjoyedhis revenge. . . . 

When his story was ended, he found himself once more at the top of thestairs in the dark; he looked down once more, and his desire to throwhimself down was gone. He even, shuddered a little, and moved away from theedge, thinking that he might fall. Then he felt that he was a prisoner, like a poor bird in a cage--a prisoner forever, with nothing to do but tobreak his head and hurt himself. He wept, wept, and he robbed his eyes withhis dirty little hands, so that in a moment he was filthy. As he wept henever left off looking at the things about him, and he found somedistraction in that. He stopped moaning for a moment to look at the spiderwhich, had just begun to move. Then he began with less conviction. Helistened to the sound of his own weeping, and went on, mechanically withhis sobbing, without much knowing why he did so. Soon he got up; he wasattracted by the window. He sat on the window-sill, retiring into thebackground, and watched the spider furtively. It interested while itrevolted him. 

Below the Rhine flowed, washing the walls of the house. In the staircasewindow it was like being suspended over the river in a moving sky. Jean-Christophe never limped down the stairs without taking a long look atit, but he had never yet seen it as it was to-day. Grief sharpens thesenses; it is as though everything were more sharply graven on the visionafter tears have washed away the dim traces of memory. The river was likea living thing to the child--a creature inexplicable, but how much morepowerful than all the creatures that he knew! Jean-Christophe leanedforward to see it better; he pressed his mouth and flattened his noseagainst the pane. Where was _it_ going? What did _it_ want? _It_ lookedfree, and sure of its road. . . . Nothing could stop _it_. At all hours of theday or night, rain or sun, whether there were joy or sorrow in the house, _it_ went on going by, and it was as though nothing mattered to _it_, asthough _it_ never knew sorrow, and rejoiced in its strength. What joy tobe like _it_, to run through the fields, and by willow-branches, and overlittle shining pebbles and crisping sand, and to care for nothing, to becramped by nothing, to be free!. . . 

The boy looked and listened greedily; it was as though he were bornealong by the river, moving by with it. . . . When he closed his eyes hesaw color--blue, green, yellow, red, and great chasing shadows andsunbeams. . . . What he sees takes shape. Now it is a large plain, reeds, cornwaving under a breeze scented with new grass and mint. Flowers on everyside--cornflowers, poppies, violets. How lovely it is! How sweet the air!How good it is to lie down in the thick, soft grass!. . . Jean-Christophefeels glad and a little bewildered, as he does when on feast-days hisfather pours into his glass a little Rhine wine. . . . The river goes by. . . . The country is changed. . . . Now there are trees leaning over the water;their delicate leaves, like little hands, dip, move, and turn about inthe water. A village among the trees is mirrored in the river. There arecypress-trees, and the crosses of the cemetery showing above the white wallwashed by the stream. Then there are rocks, a mountain gorge, vines on theslopes, a little pine-wood, and ruined castles. . . . And once more the plain, corn, birds, and the sun. . . . 

The great green mass of the river goes by smoothly, like a singlethought; there are no waves, almost no ripples--smooth, oily patches. Jean-Christophe does not see it; he has closed his eyes to hear it better. The ceaseless roaring fills him, makes him giddy; he is exalted by thiseternal, masterful dream which goes no man knows whither. Over the turmoilof its depths rush waters, in swift rhythm, eagerly, ardently. And from therhythm ascends music, like a vine climbing a trellis--arpeggios from silverkeys, sorrowful violins, velvety and smooth-sounding flutes. . . . The countryhas disappeared. The river has disappeared. There floats by only a strange, soft, and twilight atmosphere. Jean-Christophe's heart flutters withemotion. What does he see now? Oh! Charming faces!. . . A little girl withbrown tresses calls to him, slowly, softly, and mockingly. . . . A paleboy's face looks at him with melancholy blue eyes. . . . Others smile; othereyes look at him--curious and provoking eyes, and their glances makehim blush--eyes affectionate and mournful, like the eyes of a dog--eyesimperious, eyes suffering. . . . And the pale face of a woman, with blackhair, and lips close pressed, and eyes so large that they obscure her otherfeatures, and they gaze upon Jean-Christophe with an ardor that hurtshim. . . . And, dearest of all, that face which smiles upon him with cleargray eyes and lips a little open, showing gleaming white teeth. . . . Ah! howkind and tender is that smile! All his heart is tenderness from it! Howgood it is to love! Again! Smile upon me again! Do not go!. . . Alas! it isgone!. . . But it leaves in his heart sweetness ineffable. Evil, sorrow, are no more; nothing is left. . . . Nothing, only an airy dream, like serenemusic, floating down a sunbeam, like the gossamers on fine summer days. . . . What has happened? What are these visions that fill the child with sadnessand sweet sorrow? Never had he seen them before, and yet he knew them andrecognized them. Whence come they? From what obscure abysm of creation? Arethey what has been . . . _or what will be?_. . . 

Now all is done, every haunting form is gone. Once more through a mistyveil, as though he were soaring high above it, the river in flood appears, covering the fields, and rolling by, majestic, slow, almost still. And far, far away, like a steely light upon the horizon, a watery plain, a line oftrembling waves--the sea. The river runs down to it. The sea seems to runup to the river. She fires him. He desires her. He must lose himself inher. . . . The music hovers; lovely dance rhythms swing out madly; all theworld is rocked in their triumphant whirligig. . . . The soul, set free, cleaves space, like swallows' flight, like swallows drunk with the air, skimming across the sky with shrill cries. . . . Joy! Joy! There is nothing, nothing!. . . Oh, infinite happiness!. . . 

Hours passed; it was evening; the staircase was in darkness. Drops of rainmade rings upon the river's gown, and the current bore them dancing away. Sometimes the branch of a tree or pieces of black bark passed noiselesslyand disappeared. The murderous spider had withdrawn to her darkest corner. And little Jean-Christophe was still leaning forward on the window-sill. His face was pale and dirty; happiness shone in him. He was asleep. 

III

 E la faccia del sol nascere ombrata. _Purgatorio_, xxx. 

He had to surrender. In spite of an obstinate and heroic resistance, blowstriumphed over his ill-will. Every morning for three hours, and for threehours every evening, Jean-Christophe was set before the instrument oftorture. All on edge with attention and weariness, with large tears rollingdown his cheeks and nose, he moved his little red hands over the black andwhite keys--his hands were often stiff with cold--under the threateningruler, which descended at every false note, and the harangues of hismaster, which were more odious to him than the blows. He thought that hehated music. And yet he applied himself to it with a zest which fear ofMelchior did not altogether explain. Certain words of his grandfather hadmade an impression on him. The old man, seeing his grandson weeping, hadtold him, with that gravity which he always maintained for the boy, that itwas worth while suffering a little for the most beautiful and noble artgiven to men for their consolation and glory. And Jean-Christophe, who wasgrateful to his grandfather for talking to him like a man, had beensecretly touched by these simple words, which sorted well with his childishstoicism and growing pride. But, more than by argument, he was bound andenslaved by the memory of certain musical emotions, bound and enslaved tothe detested art, against which he tried in vain to rebel. 

There was in the town, as usual in Germany, a theater, where opera, opéra-comique, operetta, drama, comedy, and vaudeville are presented--everysort of play of every style and fashion. There were performances threetimes a week from six to nine in the evening. Old Jean Michel never missedone, and was equally interested in everything. Once he took his grandsonwith him. Several days beforehand he told him at length what the piece wasabout. Jean-Christophe did not understand it, but he did gather that therewould be terrible things in it, and while he was consumed with the desireto see them he was much afraid, though he dared not confess it. He knewthat there was to be a storm, and he was fearful of being struck bylightning. He knew that there was to be a battle, and he was not at allsure that he would not be killed. On the night before, in bed, he wentthrough real agony, and on the day of the performance he almost wished thathis grandfather might be prevented from coming for him. But when the hourwas near, and his grandfather did not come, he began to worry, and everyother minute looked out of the window. At last the old man appeared, andthey set out together. His heart leaped in his bosom; his tongue was dry, and he could not speak. 

They arrived at the mysterious building which was so often talked about athome. At the door Jean Michel met some acquaintances, and the boy, who washolding his hand tight because he was afraid of being lost, could notunderstand how they could talk and laugh quietly at such a moment. 

Jean Michel took his usual place in the first row behind the orchestra. Heleaned on the balustrade, and began a long conversation with thecontra-bass. He was at home there; there he was listened to because of hisauthority as a musician, and he made the most of it; it might almost besaid that he abused it. Jean-Christophe could hear nothing. He wasoverwhelmed by his expectation of the play, by the appearance of thetheater, which seemed magnificent to him, by the splendor of the audience, who frightened him terribly. He dared not turn his head, for he thoughtthat all eyes were fixed on him. He hugged his little cap between hisknees, and he stared at the magic curtain with round eyes. 

At last three blows were struck. His grandfather blew his nose, and drewthe _libretto_ from his pocket. He always followed it scrupulously, so muchso that sometimes he neglected what was happening on the stage. Theorchestra began to play. With the opening chords Jean-Christophe felt moreat ease. He was at home in this world of sound, and from that moment, however extravagant the play might be, it seemed natural to him. 

The curtain was raised, to reveal pasteboard trees and creatures who werenot much more real. The boy looked at it all, gaping with admiration, buthe was not surprised. The piece set in a fantastic East, of which he couldhave had no idea. The poem was a web of ineptitudes, in which no humanquality was perceptible. Jean-Christophe hardly grasped it at all; he madeextraordinary mistakes, took one character for another, and pulled at hisgrandfather's sleeve to ask him absurd questions, which showed that he hadunderstood nothing. He was not bored: passionately interested, on thecontrary. Bound the idiotic _libretto_ he built a romance of his owninvention, which had no sort of relation to the one that was represented onthe stage. Every moment some incident upset his romance, and he had torepair it, but that did not worry him. He had made his choice of the peoplewho moved upon the stage, making all sorts of different sounds, andbreathlessly he followed the fate of those upon whom he had fastened hissympathy. He was especially concerned with a fair lady, of uncertain age, who had long, brilliantly fair hair, eyes of an unnatural size, and barefeet. The monstrous improbabilities of the setting did not shock him. Hiskeen, childish eyes did not perceive the grotesque ugliness of the actors, large and fleshy, and the deformed chorus of all sizes in two lines, northe pointlessness of their gestures, nor their faces bloated by theirshrieks, nor the full wigs, nor the high heels of the tenor, nor themake-up of his lady-love, whose face was streaked with variegatedpenciling. He was in the condition of a lover, whose passion blinds him tothe actual aspect of the beloved object. The marvelous power of illusion, natural to children, stopped all unpleasant sensations on the way, andtransformed them. 

The music especially worked wonders. It bathed the whole scene in a mistyatmosphere, in which everything became beautiful, noble, and desirable. Itbred in the soul a desperate need of love, and at the same time showedphantoms of love on all sides, to fill the void that itself had created. Little Jean-Christophe was overwhelmed by his emotion. There were words, gestures, musical phrases which disturbed him; he dared not then raise hiseyes; he knew not whether it were well or ill; he blushed and grew pale byturns; sometimes there came drops of sweat upon his brow, and he wasfearful lest all the people there should see his distress. When thecatastrophe came about which inevitably breaks upon lovers in the fourthact of an opera so as to provide the tenor and the _prima donna_ with anopportunity for showing off their shrillest screams, the child thought hemust choke; his throat hurt him as though he had caught cold; he clutchedat his neck with his hands, and could not swallow his saliva; tears welledup in him; his hands and feet were frozen. Fortunately, his grandfather wasnot much less moved. He enjoyed the theater with a childish simplicity. During the dramatic passages he coughed carelessly to hide his distress, but Jean-Christophe saw it, and it delighted him. It was horribly hot;Jean-Christophe was dropping with sleep, and he was very uncomfortable. Buthe thought only: "Is there much longer? It cannot be finished!" Thensuddenly it was finished, without his knowing why. The curtain fell; theaudience rose; the enchantment was broken. 

They went home through the night, the two children--the old man and thelittle boy. What a fine night! What a serene moonlight! They said nothing;they were turning over their memories. At last the old man said:

"Did you like it, boy?"

Jean-Christophe could not reply; he was still fearful from emotion, and hewould not speak, so as not to break the spell; he had to make an effort towhisper, with a sigh:

"Oh yes. "

The old man smiled. After a time he went on:

"It's a fine thing--a musician's trade! To create things like that, suchmarvelous spectacles--is there anything more glorious? It is to be God onearth!"

The boy's mind leaped to that. What! a man had made all that! That had notoccurred to him. It had seemed that it must have made itself, must be thework of Nature. A man, a musician, such as he would be some day! Oh, to bethat for one day, only one day! And then afterwards . . . Afterwards, whatever you like! Die, if necessary! He asked:

"What man made that, grandfather?"

The old man told him of François Marie Hassler, a young German artist wholived at Berlin. He had known him once. Jean-Christophe listened, all ears. Suddenly he said:

"And you, grandfather?"

The old man trembled. 

"What?" he asked. 

"Did you do things like that--you too?"

"Certainly, " said the old man a little crossly. 

He was silent, and after they had walked a little he sighed heavily. Itwas one of the sorrows of his life. He had always longed to write for thetheater, and inspiration had always betrayed him. He had in his desk one ortwo acts written, but he had so little illusion as to their worth that hehad never dared to submit them to an outside judgment. 

They said no more until they reached home. Neither slept. The old man wastroubled. He took his Bible for consolation. In bed Jean-Christophe turnedover and over the events of the evening; he recollected the smallestdetails, and the girl with the bare feet reappeared before him. As he dozedoff a musical phrase rang in his ears as distinctly as if the orchestrawere there. All his body leaped; he sat up on his pillow, his head buzzingwith music, and he thought: "Some day I also shall write. Oh, can I ever doit?"

From that moment he had only one desire, to go to the theater again, and heset himself to work more keenly, because they made a visit to the theaterhis reward. He thought of nothing but that; half the week he thought of thelast performance, and the other half he thought of the next. He was fearfulof being ill on a theater day, and this fear made him often, find inhimself the symptoms of three or four illnesses. When the day came he didnot eat; he fidgeted like a soul in agony; he looked at the clock fiftytimes, and thought that the evening would never come; finally, unable tocontain himself, he would go out an hour before the office opened, for fearof not being able to procure a seat, and, as he was the first in the emptytheater, he used to grow uneasy. His grandfather had told him that onceor twice the audience had not been large enough, and so the playershad preferred not to perform, and to give back the money. He watchedthe arrivals and counted them, thinking: "Twenty-three, twenty-four, twenty-five. . . . Oh, it is not enough . . . There will never be enough!" 'Andwhen he saw some important person enter the circle or the stalls, his heartwas lighter, and he said to himself: "They will never dare to send himaway. Surely they will play for him. " But he was not convinced; he wouldnot be reassured until the musicians took their places. And even then hewould be afraid that the curtain would rise, and they would announce, asthey had done one evening, a change of programme. With lynx eyes he watchedthe stand of the contra-bass to see if the title written on his music wasthat of the piece announced. And when he had seen it there, two minuteslater he would look again to make quite sure that he had not been wrong. The conductor was not there. He must be ill. There was a stirring behindthe curtain, and a sound of voices and hurried footsteps. Was there anaccident, some untoward misfortune? Silence again. The conductor was athis post. Everything seemed ready at last. . . . They did not begin! Whatwas happening? He boiled over with impatience. Then the bell rang. Hisheart thumped away. The orchestra began the overture, and for a few hoursJean-Christophe would swim in happiness, troubled only by the idea that itmust soon come to an end. 

 * * * * *

Some time after that a musical event brought even more excitement intoJean-Christophe's thoughts. François Marie Hassler, the author of thefirst opera which had so bowled him over, was to visit the town. He was toconduct a concert consisting of his compositions. The town was excited. Theyoung musician was the subject of violent discussion in Germany, and for afortnight he was the only topic of conversation. It was a different matterwhen he arrived. The friends of Melchior and old Jean Michel continuallycame for news, and they went away with the most extravagant notions of themusician's habits and eccentricities. The child followed these narrativeswith eager attention. The idea that the great man was there in the town, breathing the same air as himself, treading the same stones, threw him intoa state of dumb exaltation. He lived only in the hope of seeing him. 

Hassler was staying at the Palace as the guest of the Grand Duke. He hardlywent out, except to the theater for rehearsals, to which Jean-Christophewas not admitted, and as he was very lazy, he went to and fro inthe Prince's carriage. Therefore, Jean-Christophe did not have manyopportunities of seeing him, and he only succeeded once in catching sightof him as he drove in the carriage. He saw his fur coat, and wasted hoursin waiting in the street, thrusting and jostling his way to right and left, and before and behind, to win and keep his place in front of the loungers. He consoled himself with spending half his days watching the windows of thePalace which had been pointed out as those of the master. Most often heonly saw the shutters, for Hassler got up late, and the windows were closedalmost all morning. This habit had made well-informed persons say thatHassler could not bear the light of day, and lived in eternal night. 

At length Jean-Christophe was able to approach his hero. It was the day ofthe concert. All the town was there. The Grand Duke and his Court occupiedthe great royal box, surmounted with a crown supported by two chubbycherubim. The theater was in gala array. The stage was decorated withbranches of oak and flowering laurel. All the musicians of any account madeit a point of honor to take their places in the orchestra. Melchior was athis post, and Jean Michel was conducting the chorus. 

When Hassler appeared there was loud applause from every part of the house, and the ladies rose to see him better. Jean-Christophe devoured him withhis eyes. Hassler had a young, sensitive face, though it was already ratherpuffy and tired-looking; his temples were bald, and his hair was thin onthe crown of his head; for the rest, fair, curly hair. His blue eyes lookedvague. He had a little fair mustache and an expressive mouth, which wasrarely still, but twitched with a thousand imperceptible movements. He wastall, and held himself badly--not from awkwardness, but from weariness orboredom. He conducted capriciously and lithely, with his whole awkward bodyswaying, like his music, with gestures, now caressing, now sharp and jerky. It was easy to see that he was very nervous, and his music was the exactreflection of himself. The quivering and jerky life of it broke through theusual apathy of the orchestra. Jean-Christophe breathed heavily; in spiteof his fear of drawing attention to himself, he could not stand still inhis place; he fidgeted, got up, and the music gave him such violent andunexpected shocks that he had to move his head, arms, and legs, to thegreat discomfort of his neighbors, who warded off his kicks as best theycould. The whole audience was enthusiastic, fascinated by the success, rather than by the compositions. At the end there was a storm of applauseand cries, in which the trumpets in the orchestra joined, German fashion, with their triumphant blare in salute of the conqueror, Jean-Christophetrembled with pride, as though these honors were for himself. He enjoyedseeing Hassler's face light up with childish pleasure. The ladies threwflowers, the men waved their hats, and the audience rushed for theplatform. Every one wanted to shake the master's hand. Jean-Christophesaw one enthusiast raise the master's hand to his lips, another steal ahandkerchief that Hassler had left on the corner of his desk. He wantedto reach the platform also, although he did not know why, for if at thatmoment he had found himself near Hassler, he would have fled at once interror and emotion. But he butted with all his force, like a ram, among theskirts and legs that divided him from Hassler. He was too small; he couldnot break through. 

Fortunately, when the concert was over, his grandfather came and took himto join in a party to serenade Hassler. It was night, and torches werelighted. All the musicians of the orchestra were there. They talked only ofthe marvelous compositions they had heard. They arrived outside the Palace, and took up their places without a sound under the master's windows. Theytook on an air of secrecy, although everybody, including Hassler, knew whatwas to come. In the silence of the night they began to play certain famousfragments of Hassler's compositions. He appeared at the window with thePrince, and they roared in their honor. Both bowed. A servant came from thePrince to invite the musicians to enter the Palace. They passed throughgreat rooms, with frescoes representing naked men with helmets; they wereof a reddish color, and were making gestures of defiance. The sky wascovered with great clouds like sponges. There were also men and women ofmarble clad in waist-cloths made of iron. The guests walked on carpets sothick that their tread was inaudible, and they came at length to a roomwhich was as light as day, and there were tables laden with drinks and goodthings. 

The Grand Duke was there, but Jean-Christophe did not see him; he had eyesonly for Hassler. Hassler came towards them; he thanked them. He picked hiswords carefully, stopped awkwardly in the middle of a sentence, andextricated himself with a quip which made everybody laugh. They began toeat. Hassler took four or five musicians aside. He singled outJean-Christophe's grandfather, and addressed very flattering words to him:he recollected that Jean Michel had been one of the first to perform hisworks, and he said that he had often heard tell of his excellence from afriend of his who had been a pupil of the old man's. Jean-Christophe'sgrandfather expressed his gratitude profusely; he replied with suchextraordinary eulogy that, in spite of his adoration of Hassler, the boywas ashamed. But to Hassler they seemed to be pleasant and in the rationalorder. Finally, the old man, who had lost himself in his rigmarole, tookJean-Christophe by the hand, and presented him to Hassler. Hassler smiledat Jean-Christophe, and carelessly patted his head, and when he learnedthat the boy liked his music, and had not slept for several nights inanticipation of seeing him, he took him in his arms and plied him withquestions. Jean-Christophe, struck, dumb and blushing with pleasure, darednot look at him. Hassler took him by the chin and lifted his face up. Jean-Christophe ventured to look. Hassler's eyes were kind and smiling; hebegan to smile too. Then he felt so happy, so wonderfully happy in thegreat man's arms, that he burst into tears. Hassler was touched by thissimple affection, and was more kind than ever. He kissed the boy and talkedto him tenderly. At the same time he said funny things and tickled him tomake him laugh; and Jean-Christophe could not help laughing through histears. Soon he became at ease, and answered Hassler readily, and of his ownaccord he began to whisper in his ear all his small ambitions, as though heand Hassler were old friends; he told him how he wanted to be a musicianlike Hassler, and, like Hassler, to make beautiful things, and to be agreat man. He, was always ashamed, talked confidently; he did not know whathe was saying; he was in a sort of ecstasy, Hassler smiled at his prattlingand said:

"When you are a man, and have become a good musician, you shall come andsee me in Berlin. I shall make something of you. "

Jean-Christophe was too delighted to reply. 

Hassler teased him. 

"You don't want to?"

Jean-Christophe nodded his head violently five or six times, meaning "Yes. "

"It is a bargain, then?"

Jean-Christophe nodded again. 

"Kiss me, then. "

Jean-Christophe threw his arms round Hassler's neck and hugged him with allhis strength. 

"Oh, you are wetting me! Let go! Your nose wants wiping!"

Hassler laughed, and wiped the boy's nose himself, a littleself-consciously, though he was quite jolly. He put him down, then took himby the hand and led him to a table, where he filled his pockets with cake, and left him, saying:

"Good-bye! Remember your promise. "

Jean-Christophe swam in happiness. The rest of the world had ceased toexist for him. He could remember nothing of what had happened earlier inthe evening; he followed lovingly Hassler's every expression and gesture. One thing that he said struck him. Hassler was holding a glass in his hand;he was talking, and his face suddenly hardened, and he said:

"The joy of such a day must not make us forget our enemies. We must neverforget our enemies. It is not their fault that we are not crushed out ofexistence. It will not be our fault if that does not happen to them. Thatis why the toast I propose is that there are people whose health . . . Wewill not drink!"

Everybody applauded and laughed at this original toast. Hassler had laughedwith the others and his good-humored expression had returned. ButJean-Christophe was put off by it. Although he did not permit himself tocriticise any action of his hero, it hurt him that he had thought uglythings, when on such a night there ought to be nothing but brilliantthoughts and fancies. But he did not examine what he felt, and theimpression that it made was soon driven out by his great joy and the dropof champagne which he drank out of his grandfather's glass. 

On the way back the old man never stopped talking; he was delighted withthe praise that Hassler had given him; he cried out that Hassler was agenius such as had not been known for a century. Jean-Christophe saidnothing, locking up in his heart his intoxication of love. _He_ had kissedhim. _He_ had held him in his arms! How good _he_ was! How great!

"Ah, " he thought in bed, as he kissed his pillow passionately, "I would diefor him--die for him!"

The brilliant meteor which had flashed across the sky of the little townthat night had a decisive influence on Jean-Christophe's mind. All hischildhood Hassler was the model on which his eyes were fixed, and to followhis example the little man of six decided that he also would write music. To tell the truth, he had been doing so for long enough without knowing it, and he had not waited to be conscious of composing before he composed. 

Everything is music for the born musician. Everything that throbs, ormoves, or stirs, or palpitates--sunlit summer days, nights when the windhowls, flickering light, the twinkling of the stars, storms, the song ofbirds, the buzzing of insects, the murmuring of trees, voices, loved orloathed, familiar fireside sounds, a creaking door, blood moving in theveins in the silence of the night--everything that is is music; all that isneeded is that it should be heard. All the music of creation found its echoin Jean-Christophe. Everything that he saw, everything that he felt, wastranslated into music without his being conscious of it. He was like abuzzing hive of bees. But no one noticed it, himself least of all. 

Like all children, he hummed perpetually at every hour of the day. Whateverhe was doing--whether he were walking in the street, hopping on one foot, or lying on the floor at his grandfather's, with his head in his hands, absorbed in the pictures of a book, or sitting in his little chair in thedarkest corner of the kitchen, dreaming aimlessly in the twilight--alwaysthe monotonous murmuring of his little trumpet was to be heard, played withlips closed and cheeks blown out. His mother seldom paid any heed to it, but, once in a while, she would protest. 

When he was tired of this state of half-sleep he would have to move andmake a noise. Then he made music, singing it at the top of his voice. Hehad made tunes for every occasion. He had a tune for splashing in hiswash-basin in the morning, like a little duck. He had a tune for sitting onthe piano-stool in front of the detested instrument, and another forgetting off it, and this was a more brilliant affair than the other. He hadone for his mother putting the soup on the table; he used to go before herthen blowing a blare of trumpets. He played triumphal marches by which togo solemnly from the dining-room to the bedroom. Sometimes he wouldorganize little processions with his two small brothers; all then wouldfile out gravely, one after another, and each had a tune to march to. But, as was right and proper, Jean-Christophe kept the best for himself. Everyone of his tunes was strictly appropriated to its special occasion, andJean-Christophe never by any chance confused them. Anybody else would havemade mistakes, but he knew the shades of difference between them exactly. 

One day at his grandfather's house he was going round the room clicking hisheels, head up and chest out; he went round and round and round, so that itwas a wonder he did not turn sick, and played one of his compositions. Theold man, who was shaving, stopped in the middle of it, and, with his facecovered with lather, came to look at him, and said:

"What are you singing, boy?"

Jean-Christophe said he did not know. 

"Sing it again!" said Jean Michel. 

Jean-Christophe tried; he could not remember the tune. Proud of havingattracted his grandfather's attention, he tried to make him admire hisvoice, and sang after his own fashion an air from some opera, but that wasnot what the old man wanted. Jean Michel said nothing, and seemed not tonotice him any more. But he left the door of his room ajar while the boywas playing alone in the next room. 

A few days later Jean-Christophe, with the chairs arranged about him, wasplaying a comedy in music, which he had made up of scraps that heremembered from the theater, and he was making steps and bows, as he hadseen them done in a minuet, and addressing himself to the portrait ofBeethoven which hung above the table. As he turned with a pirouette he sawhis grandfather watching him through the half-open door. He thought the oldman was laughing at him; he was abashed, and stopped dead; he ran to thewindow, and pressed his face against the panes, pretending that he had beenwatching something of the greatest interest. But the old man said nothing;he came to him and kissed him, and Jean-Christophe saw that he was pleased. His vanity made the most of these signs; he was clever enough to see thathe had been appreciated; but he did not know exactly which his grandfatherhad admired most--his talent as a dramatic author, or as a musician, or asa singer, or as a dancer. He inclined, to the latter, for he prided himselfon this. 

A week later, when he had forgotten the whole affair, his grandfather saidmysteriously that he had something to show him. He opened his desk, tookout a music-book, and put it on the rack of the piano, and told the boy toplay. Jean-Christophe was very much interested, and deciphered it fairlywell. The notes were written by hand in the old man's large handwriting, and he had taken especial pains with it. The headings were adorned withscrolls and flourishes. After some moments the old man, who was sittingbeside Jean-Christophe turning the pages for him, asked him what the musicwas. Jean-Christophe had been too much absorbed in his playing to noticewhat he had played, and said that he did not know it. 

"Listen!. . . You don't know it?"

Yes; he thought he knew it, but he did not know where he had heard it. Theold man laughed. 

"Think. "

Jean-Christophe shook his head. 

"I don't know. "

A light was fast dawning in his mind; it seemed to him that the air. . . . But, no! He dared not. . . . He would not recognize it. 

"I don't know, grandfather. "

He blushed. 

"What, you little fool, don't you see that it is your own?"

He was sure of it, but to hear it said made his heart thump. 

"Oh! grandfather!. . . "

Beaming, the old man showed him the book. 

"See: _Aria_. It is what you were singing on Tuesday when you were lying onthe floor. _March_. That is what I asked you to sing again last week, andyou could not remember it. _Minuet_. That is what you were dancing by thearmchair. Look!"

On the cover was written in wonderful Gothic letters:

"_The Pleasures of Childhood: Aria, Minuetto, Valse, and Marcia, Op. 1, byJean-Christophe Krafft_. "

Jean-Christophe was dazzled by it. To see his name, and that fine title, and that large book--his work!. . . He went on murmuring:

"Oh! grandfather! grandfather!. . . "

The old man drew him to him. Jean-Christophe threw himself on his knees, and hid his head in Jean Michel's bosom. He was covered with blushes fromhis happiness. The old man was even happier, and went on, in a voice whichhe tried to make indifferent, for he felt that he was on the point ofbreaking down:

"Of course, I added the accompaniment and the harmony to fit the song. Andthen"--he coughed--"and then, I added a _trio_ to the minuet, because . . . Because it is usual . . . And then. . . . I think it is not at all bad. "

He played it. Jean-Christophe was very proud of collaborating with hisgrandfather. 

"But, grandfather, you must put your name to it too. "

"It is not worth while. It is not worth while others besides yourselfknowing it. Only"--here his voice trembled--"only, later on, when I am nomore, it will remind you of your old grandfather . . . Eh? You won't forgethim?"

The poor old man did not say that he had been unable to resist the quiteinnocent pleasure of introducing one of his own unfortunate airs into hisgrandson's work, which he felt was destined to survive him; but his desireto share in this imaginary glory was very humble and very touching, sinceit was enough for him anonymously to transmit to posterity a scrap of hisown thought, so as not altogether to perish. Jean-Christophe was touched byit, and covered his face with kisses, and the old man, growing more andmore tender, kissed his hair. 

"You will remember me? Later on, when you are a good musician, a greatartist, who will bring honor to his family, to his art, and to his country, when you are famous, you will remember that it was your old grandfather whofirst perceived it, and foretold what you would be?"

There were tears in his eyes as he listened to his own words. He wasreluctant to let such signs of weakness be seen. He had an attack ofcoughing, became moody, and sent the boy away hugging the preciousmanuscript. 

Jean-Christophe went home bewildered by his happiness. The stones dancedabout him. The reception he had from his family sobered him a little. Whenhe blurted out the splendor of his musical exploit they cried out upon him. His mother laughed at him. Melchior declared that the old man was mad, andthat he would do better to take care of himself than to set about turningthe boy's head. As for Jean-Christophe, he would oblige by putting suchfollies from his mind, and sitting down _illico_ at the piano and playingexercises for four hours. He must first learn to play properly; and as forcomposing, there was plenty of time for that later on when he had nothingbetter to do. 

Melchior was not, as these words of wisdom might indicate, trying to keepthe boy from the dangerous exaltation of a too early pride. On thecontrary, he proved immediately that this was not so. But never havinghimself had any idea to express in music, and never having had the leastneed to express an idea, he had come, as a _virtuoso_, to considercomposing a secondary matter, which was only given value by the art of theexecutant. He was not insensible of the tremendous enthusiasm roused bygreat composers like Hassler. For such ovations he had the respect which healways paid to success--mingled, perhaps, with a little secretjealousy--for it seemed to him that such applause was stolen from him. Buthe knew by experience that the successes of the great _virtuosi_ are noless remarkable, and are more personal in character, and therefore morefruitful of agreeable and flattering consequences. He affected to payprofound homage to the genius of the master musicians; but he took a greatdelight in telling absurd anecdotes of them, presenting their intelligenceand morals in a lamentable light. He placed the _virtuoso_ at the top ofthe artistic ladder, for, he said, it is well known that the tongue is thenoblest member of the body, and what would thought be without words? Whatwould music be without the executant? But whatever may have been the reasonfor the scolding that he gave Jean-Christophe, it was not without its usesin restoring some common sense to the boy, who was almost beside himselfwith his grandfather's praises. It was not quite enough. Jean-Christophe, of course, decided that his grandfather was much cleverer than his father, and though he sat down at the piano without sulking, he did so not so muchfor the sake of obedience as to be able to dream in peace, as he always didwhile his fingers ran, mechanically over the keyboard. While he played hisinterminable exercises he heard a proud voice inside himself saying overand over again: "I am a composer--a great composer. "

From that day on, since he was a composer, he set himself to composing. Before he had even learned to write, he continued to cipher crotchets andquavers on scraps of paper, which he tore from the household account-books. But in the effort to find out what he was thinking, and to set it down inblack and white, he arrived at thinking nothing, except when he wanted tothink something. But he did not for that give up making musical phrases, and as he was a born musician he made them somehow, even if they meantnothing at all. Then he would take them in triumph to his grandfather, whowept with joy over them--he wept easily now that he was growing old--andvowed that they were wonderful. 

All this was like to spoil him altogether. Fortunately, his own good sensesaved him, helped by the influence of a man who made no pretension ofhaving any influence over anybody, and set nothing before the eyes of theworld but a commonsense point of view. This man was Louisa's brother. 

Like her, he was small, thin, puny, and rather round-shouldered. No oneknew exactly how old he was; he could not be more than forty, but he lookedmore than fifty. He had a little wrinkled face, with a pink complexion, andkind pale blue eyes, like faded forget-me-nots. When he took off his cap, which he used fussily to wear everywhere from his fear of draughts, heexposed a little pink bald head, conical in shape, which was the greatdelight of Jean-Christophe and his brothers. They never left off teasinghim about it, asking him what he had done with his hair, and, encouraged byMelchior's pleasantries, threatening to smack it. He was the first to laughat them, and put up with their treatment of him patiently. He was apeddler; he used to go from village to village with a pack on his back, containing everything--groceries, stationery, confectionery, handkerchiefs, scarves, shoes, pickles, almanacs, songs, and drugs. Several attempts hadbeen made to make him settle down, and to buy him a little business--astore or a drapery shop. But he could not do it. One night he would get up, push the key under the door, and set off again with his pack. Weeks andmonths went by before he was seen again. Then he would reappear. Someevening they would hear him fumbling at the door; it would half open, andthe little bald head, politely uncovered, would appear with its kind eyesand timid smile. He would say, "Good-evening, everybody, " carefully wipehis shoes before entering, salute everybody, beginning with the eldest, andgo and sit in the most remote corner of the room. There he would light hispipe, and sit huddled up, waiting quietly until the usual storm ofquestions was over. The two Kraffts, Jean-Christophe's father andgrandfather, had a jeering contempt for him. The little freak seemedridiculous to them, and their pride was touched by the low degree of thepeddler. They made him feel it, but he seemed to take no notice of it, andshowed them a profound respect which disarmed them, especially the old man, who was very sensitive to what people thought of him. They used to crushhim with heavy pleasantries, which often brought the blush to Louisa'scheeks. Accustomed to bow without dispute to the intellectual superiorityof the Kraffts, she had no doubt that her husband and father-in-law wereright; but she loved her brother, and her brother had for her a dumbadoration. They were the only members of their family, and they were bothhumble, crushed, and thrust aside by life; they were united in sadness andtenderness by a bond of mutual pity and common suffering, borne in secret. With the Kraffts--robust, noisy, brutal, solidly built for living, andliving joyously--these two weak, kindly creatures, out of their setting, soto speak, outside life, understood and pitied each other without eversaying anything about it. 

Jean-Christophe, with the cruel carelessness of childhood, shared thecontempt of his father and grandfather for the little peddler. He made funof him, and treated him as a comic figure; he worried him with stupidteasing, which his uncle bore with his unshakable phlegm. ButJean-Christophe loved him, without quite knowing why. He loved him first ofall as a plaything with which he did what he liked. He loved him alsobecause he always gave him something nice--a dainty, a picture, an amusingtoy. The little man's return was a joy for the children, for he always hadsome surprise for them. Poor as he was, he always contrived to bring themeach a present, and he never forgot the birthday of any one of the family. He always turned up on these august days, and brought out of his pocketsome jolly present, lovingly chosen. They were so used to it that theyhardly thought of thanking him; it seemed natural, and he appeared to besufficiently repaid by the pleasure he had given. But Jean-Christophe, whodid not sleep very well, and during the night used to turn over in his mindthe events of the day, used sometimes to think that his uncle was verykind, and he used to be filled with floods of gratitude to the poor man. Henever showed it when the day came, because he thought that the others wouldlaugh at him. Besides, he was too little to see in kindness all the rarevalue that it has. In the language of children, kind and stupid are almostsynonymous, and Uncle Gottfried seemed to be the living proof of it. 

One evening when Melchior was dining out, Gottfried was left alone in theliving-room, while Louisa put the children to bed. He went out, and sat bythe river a few yards away from the house. Jean-Christophe, having nothingbetter to do, followed him, and, as usual, tormented him with his puppytricks until he was out of breath, and dropped down on the grass at hisfeet. Lying on his belly, he buried his nose in the turf. When he hadrecovered his breath, he cast about for some new crazy thing to say. Whenhe found it he shouted it out, and rolled about with laughing, with hisface still buried in the earth. He received no answer. Surprised by thesilence, he raised his head, and began to repeat his joke. He sawGottfried's face lit up by the last beams of the setting sun cast throughgolden mists. He swallowed down his words. Gottfried smiled with his eyeshalf closed and his mouth half open, and in his sorrowful face was anexpression of sadness and unutterable melancholy. Jean-Christophe, with hisface in his hands, watched him. The night came; little by littleGottfried's face disappeared. Silence reigned. Jean-Christophe in his turnwas filled with the mysterious impressions which had been reflected onGottfried's face. He fell into a vague stupor. The earth was in darkness, the sky was bright; the stars peeped out. The little waves of the riverchattered against the bank. The boy grew sleepy. Without seeing them, hebit off little blades of grass. A grasshopper chirped near him. It seemedto him that he was going to sleep. 

Suddenly, in the dark, Gottfried began to sing. He sang in a weak, huskyvoice, as though to himself; he could not have been heard twenty yardsaway. But there was sincerity and emotion in his voice; it was as though hewere thinking aloud, and that through the song, as through clear water, thevery inmost heart of him was to be seen. Never had Jean-Christophe heardsuch singing, and never had he heard such a song. Slow, simple, childish, it moved gravely, sadly, a little monotonously, never hurrying--with longpauses--then setting out again on its way, careless where it arrived, andlosing itself in the night. It seemed to come from far away, and it went noman knows whither. Its serenity was full of sorrow, and beneath its seemingpeace there dwelt an agony of the ages. Jean-Christophe held his breath; hedared not move; he was cold with emotion. When it was done he crawledtowards Gottfried, and in a choking voice said:

"Uncle!"

Gottfried did not reply. 

"Uncle!" repeated the boy, placing his hands and chin on Gottfried's knees. 

Gottfried said kindly:

"Well, boy. . . "

"What is it, uncle? Tell me! What were you singing?"

"I don't know. "

"Tell me what it is!"

"I don't know. Just a song. "

"A song that you made. "

"No, not I! What an idea!. . . It is an old song. "

"Who made it?"

"No one knows. . . . "

"When?"

"No one knows. . . . "

"When you were little?"

"Before I was born, before my father was born, and before his father, andbefore his father's father. . . . It has always been. "

"How strange! No one has ever told me about it. "

He thought for a moment. 

"Uncle, do you know any other?"

"Yes. "

"Sing another, please. "

"Why should I sing another? One is enough. One sings when one wants tosing, when one has to sing. One must not sing for the fun of it. "

"But what about when one makes music?"

"That is not music. "

The boy was lost in thought. He did not quite understand. But he asked forno explanation. It was true, it was not music, not like all the rest. Hewent on:

"Uncle, have you ever made them?"

"Made what?"

"Songs!"

"Songs? Oh! How should I make them? They can't be made. "

With his usual logic the boy insisted:

"But, uncle, it must have been made once. . . . "

Gottfried shook his head obstinately. 

"It has always been. "

The boy returned to the attack:

"But, uncle, isn't it possible to make other songs, new songs?"

"Why make them? There are enough for everything. There are songs for whenyou are sad, and for when you are gay; for when you are weary, and for whenyou are thinking of home; for when you despise yourself, because you havebeen a vile sinner, a worm upon the earth; for when you want to weep, because people have not been kind to you; and for when your heart is gladbecause the world is beautiful, and you see God's heaven, which, like Him, is always kind, and seems to laugh at you. . . . There are songs foreverything, everything. Why should I make them?"

"To be a great man!" said the boy, full of his grandfather's teaching andhis simple dreams. 

Gottfried laughed softly. Jean-Christophe, a little hurt, asked him:

"Why are you laughing?"

Gottfried said:

"Oh! I?. . . I am nobody. "

He kissed the boy's head, and said:

"You want to be a great man?"

"Yes, " said Jean-Christophe proudly. He thought Gottfried would admire him. But Gottfried replied:

"What for?"

Jean-Christophe was taken aback. He thought for a moment, and said:

"To make beautiful songs!"

Gottfried laughed again, and said:

"You want to make beautiful songs, so as to be a great man; and you want tobe a great man, so as to make beautiful songs. You are like a dog chasingits own tail. "

Jean-Christophe was dashed. At any other time he would not have borne hisuncle laughing at him, he at whom he was used to laughing. And, at the sametime, he would never have thought Gottfried clever enough to stump him withan argument. He cast about for some answer or some impertinence to throw athim, but could find none. Gottfried went on:

"When you are as great as from here to Coblentz, you will never make asingle song. "

Jean-Christophe revolted on that. 

"And if I will!. . . "

"The more you want to, the less you can. To make songs, you have to be likethose creatures. Listen. . . . "

The moon had risen, round and gleaming, behind the fields. A silvery misthovered above the ground and the shimmering waters. The frogs croaked, andin the meadows the melodious fluting of the toads arose. The shrill tremoloof the grasshoppers seemed to answer the twinkling of the stars. The windrustled softly in the branches of the alders. From the hills above theriver there came down the sweet light song of a nightingale. 

"What need is there to sing?" sighed Gottfried, after a long silence. (Itwas not clear whether he were talking to himself or to Jean-Christophe. )"Don't they sing sweeter than anything that you could make?"

Jean-Christophe had often heard these sounds of the night, and he lovedthem. But never had he heard them as he heard them now. It was true: whatneed was there to sing?. . . His heart was full of tenderness and sorrow. Hewas fain to embrace the meadows, the river, the sky, the clear stars. Hewas filled with love for his uncle Gottfried, who seemed to him now thebest, the cleverest, the most beautiful of men. He thought how he hadmisjudged him, and he thought that his uncle was sad because he, Jean-Christophe, had misjudged him. He was remorseful. He wanted to cryout: "Uncle, do not be sad! I will not be naughty again. Forgive me, I loveyou!" But he dared not. And suddenly he threw himself into Gottfried'sarms, but the words would not come, only he repeated, "I love you!" andkissed him passionately. Gottfried was surprised and touched, and went onsaying, "What? What?" and kissed him. Then he got up, took him by the hand, and said: "We must go in. " Jean-Christophe was sad because his uncle hadnot understood him. But as they came to the house, Gottfried said: "If youlike we'll go again to hear God's music, and I will sing you some moresongs. " And when Jean-Christophe kissed him gratefully as they saidgood-night, he saw that his uncle had understood. 

Thereafter they often went for walks together in the evening, and theywalked without a word along by the river, or through the fields. Gottfriedslowly smoked his pipe, and Jean-Christophe, a little frightened by thedarkness, would give him his hand. They would sit down on the grass, andafter a few moments of silence Gottfried would talk to him about the starsand the clouds; he taught him to distinguish the breathing of the earth, air, and water, the songs, cries, and sounds of the little worlds offlying, creeping, hopping, and swimming things swarming in the darkness, and the signs of rain and fine weather, and the countless instruments ofthe symphony of the night. Sometimes Gottfried would sing tunes, sad orgay, but always of the same kind, and always in the end Jean-Christophewould be brought to the same sorrow. But he would never sing more than onesong in an evening, and Jean-Christophe noticed that he did not sing gladlywhen he was asked to do so; it had to come of itself, just when he wantedto. Sometimes they had to wait for a long time without speaking, and justwhen Jean-Christophe was beginning to think, "He is not going to sing thisevening, " Gottfried would make up his mind. 

One evening, when nothing would induce Gottfried to sing, Jean-Christophethought of submitting to him one of his own small compositions, in themaking of which he found so much trouble and pride. He wanted to show whatan artist he was. Gottfried listened very quietly, and then said:

"That is very ugly, my poor dear Jean-Christophe!"

Jean-Christophe was so hurt that he could find nothing to say. Gottfriedwent on pityingly:

"Why did you do it? It is so ugly! No one forced you to do it. "

Hot with anger, Jean-Christophe protested:

"My grandfather thinks my music fine. "

"Ah!" said Gottfried, not turning a hair. "No doubt he is right. He is alearned man. He knows all about music. I know nothing about it. . . . "

And after a moment:

"But I think that is very ugly. "

He looked quietly at Jean-Christophe, and saw his angry face, and smiled, and said:

"Have you composed any others? Perhaps I shall like the others better thanthat. "

Jean-Christophe thought that his other compositions might wipe out theimpression of the first, and he sang them all. Gottfried said nothing; hewaited until they were finished. Then he shook his head, and with profoundconviction said:

"They are even more ugly. "

Jean-Christophe shut his lips, and his chin trembled; he wanted to cry. Gottfried went on as though he himself were upset. 

"How ugly they are!"

Jean-Christophe, with tears in his voice, cried out: "But why do you saythey are ugly?"

Gottfried looked at him with his frank eyes. 

"Why?. . . I don't know. . . . Wait. . . . They are ugly . . . First, because theyare stupid. . . . Yes, that's it. . . . They are stupid, they don't meananything. . . . You see? When you wrote, you had nothing to say. Why did youwrite them?"

"I don't know, " said Jean-Christophe, in a piteous voice. "I wanted towrite something pretty. "

"There you are! You wrote for the sake of writing. You wrote because youwanted to be a great musician, and to be admired. You have been proud; youhave been a liar; you have been punished. . . . You see! A man is alwayspunished when he is proud and a liar in music. Music must be modest andsincere--or else, what is it? Impious, a blasphemy of the Lord, who hasgiven us song to tell the honest truth. "

He saw the boy's distress, and tried to kiss him. But Jean-Christopheturned angrily away, and for several days he sulked. He hated Gottfried. But it was in vain that he said over and over to himself: "He is an ass! Heknows nothing--nothing! My grandfather, who is much cleverer, likes mymusic. " In his heart he knew that his uncle was right, and Gottfried'swords were graven on his inmost soul; he was ashamed to have been a liar. 

And, in spite of his resentment, he always thought of it when he waswriting music, and often he tore up what he had written, being ashamedalready of what Gottfried would have thought of it. When he got over it, and wrote a melody which he knew to be not quite sincere, he hid itcarefully from his uncle; he was fearful of his judgment, and was quitehappy when Gottfried just said of one of his pieces: "That is not so veryugly. . . . I like it. . . . "

Sometimes, by way of revenge, he used to trick him by giving him as his ownmelodies from the great musicians, and he was delighted when it happenedthat Gottfried disliked them heartily. But that did not trouble Gottfried. He would laugh loudly when he saw Jean-Christophe clap his hands and danceabout him delightedly, and he always returned to his usual argument: "It iswell enough written, but it says nothing. " He always refused to be presentat one of the little concerts given in Melchior's house. However beautifulthe music might be, he would begin to yawn and look sleepy with boredom. Very soon he would be unable to bear it any longer, and would steal awayquietly. He used to say:

"You see, my boy, everything that you write in the house is not music. Music in a house is like sunshine in a room. Music is to be found outsidewhere you breathe God's dear fresh air. "

He was always talking of God, for he was very pious, unlike the twoKraffts, father and son, who were free-thinkers, and took care to eat meaton Fridays. 

 * * * * *

Suddenly, for no apparent reason, Melchior changed his opinion. Not onlydid he approve of his father having put together Jean-Christophe'sinspirations, but, to the boy's great surprise, he spent several eveningsin making two or three copies of his manuscript. To every question put tohim on the subject, he replied impressively, "We shall see; . . . " or hewould rub his hands and laugh, smack the boy's head by way of a joke, orturn him up and blithely spank him. Jean-Christophe loathed thesefamiliarities, but he saw that his father was pleased, and did not knowwhy. 

Then there were mysterious confabulations between Melchior and his father. And one evening Jean-Christophe, to his astonishment, learned that he, Jean-Christophe, had dedicated to H. S. H. The Grand Duke Leopold the_Pleasures of Childhood_. Melchior had sounded the disposition of thePrince, who had shown himself graciously inclined to accept the homage. Thereupon Melchior declared that without losing a moment they must, _primo_, draw up the official request to the Prince; _secondo_, publish thework; _tertio_, organize a concert to give it a hearing. 

There were further long conferences between Melchior and Jean Michel. Theyargued heatedly for two or three evenings. It was forbidden to interruptthem. Melchior wrote, erased; erased, wrote. The old man talked loudly, asthough he were reciting verses. Sometimes they squabbled or thumped on thetable because they could not find a word. 

Then Jean-Christophe was called, made to sit at the table with a pen in hishand, his father on his right, his grandfather on his left, and the old manbegan to dictate words which he did not understand, because he found itdifficult to write every word in his enormous letters, because Melchior wasshouting in his ear, and because the old man declaimed with such emphasisthat Jean-Christophe, put out by the sound of the words, could not botherto listen to their meaning. The old man was no less in a state of emotion. He could not sit still, and he walked up and down the room, involuntarilyillustrating the text of what he read with gestures, but he came everyminute to look over what the boy had written, and Jean-Christophe, frightened by the two large faces looking over his shoulder, put out histongue, and held his pen clumsily. A mist floated before his eyes; he madetoo many strokes, or smudged what he had written; and Melchior roared, andJean Michel stormed; and he had to begin again, and then again, and when hethought that they had at last come to an end, a great blot fell on theimmaculate page. Then they pulled his ears, and he burst into tears; butthey forbade him to weep, because he was spoiling the paper, and they beganto dictate, beginning all over again, and he thought it would go on likethat to the end of his life. 

At last it was finished, and Jean Michel leaned against the mantelpiece, and read over their handiwork in a voice trembling with pleasure, whileMelchior sat straddled across a chair, and looked at the ceiling and waggedhis chair and, as a connoisseur, rolled round his tongue the style of thefollowing epistle:

 "_Most Noble and Sublime Highness! Most Gracious Lord!_

"From my fourth year Music has been the first occupation of my childishdays. So soon as I allied myself to the noble Muse, who roused my soul topure harmony, I loved her, and, as it seemed to me, she returned my love. Now I am in my sixth year, and for some time my Muse in hours ofinspiration has whispered in my ears: 'Be bold! Be bold! Write down theharmonies of thy soul!' 'Six years old, ' thought I, 'and how should I bebold? What would the learned in the art say of me?' I hesitated. Itrembled. But my Muse insisted. I obeyed. I wrote. 

"And now shall I, "_O Most Sublime Highness!_

"--shall I have the temerity and audacity to place upon the steps of ThyThrone the first-fruits of my youthful labors?. . . Shall I make so bold asto hope that Thou wilt let fall upon them the august approbation of Thypaternal regard?. . . 

"Oh, yes! For Science and the Arts have ever found in Thee their sageMæcenas, their generous champion, and talent puts forth its flowers underthe ægis of Thy holy protection. 

"In this profound and certain faith I dare, then, approach Thee with theseyouthful efforts. Receive them as a pure offering of my childishveneration, and of Thy goodness deign, "_O Most Sublime Highness!_

"to glance at them, and at their young author, who bows at Thy feet deeplyand in humility!

"_From the most submissive, faithful, and obedient servant of His MostNoble and Most Sublime Highness_, "JEAN-CHRISTOPHE KRAFFT. "

Jean-Christophe heard nothing. He was very happy to have finished, and, fearing that he would be made to begin again, he ran away to the fields. Hehad no idea of what he had written, and he cared not at all. But when theold man had finished his reading he began again to taste the full flavor ofit, and when the second reading came to an end Melchior and he declaredthat it was a little masterpiece. That was also the opinion of the GrandDuke, to whom the letter was presented, with a copy of the musical work. Hewas kind enough to send word that he found both quite charming. He grantedpermission for the concert, and ordered that the hall of his Academy ofMusic should be put at Melchior's disposal, and deigned to promise that hewould have the young artist presented to himself on the day of theperformance. 

Melchior set about organizing the concert as quickly as possible. Heengaged the support of the _Hof Musik Verein_, and as the success of hisfirst ventures had blown out his sense of proportion, he undertook at thesame time to publish a magnificent edition of the _Pleasures of Childhood_. He wanted to have printed on the cover of it a portrait of Jean-Christopheat the piano, with himself, Melchior, standing by his side, violin in hand. He had to abandon that, not on account of the cost--Melchior did not stopat any expense--but because there was not time enough. He fell back on anallegorical design representing a cradle, a trumpet, a drum, a woodenhorse, grouped round a lyre which put forth rays like the sun. Thetitle-page bore, together with a long dedication, in which the name of thePrince stood out in enormous letters, a notice to the effect that "HerrJean-Christophe Krafft was six years old. " He was, in fact, seven and ahalf. The printing of the design was very expensive. To meet the bill forit, Jean Michel had to sell an old eighteenth-century chest, carved withfaces, which he had never consented to sell, in spite of the repeatedoffers of Wormser, the furniture-dealer. But Melchior had no doubt but thesubscriptions would cover the cost, and beyond that the expenses ofprinting the composition. 

One other question occupied his mind: how to dress Jean-Christophe on theday of the concert. There was a family council to decide the matter. Melchior would have liked the boy to appear in a short frock and bare legs, like a child of four. But Jean-Christophe was very large for his age, andeverybody knew him. They could not hope to deceive any one. Melchior had agreat idea. He decided that the boy should wear a dress-coat and white tie. In vain did Louisa protest that they would make her poor boy ridiculous. Melchior anticipated exactly the success and merriment that would beproduced by such an unexpected appearance. It was decided on, and thetailor came and measured Jean-Christophe for his little coat. He had alsoto have fine linen and patent-leather pumps, and all that swallowed uptheir last penny. Jean-Christophe was very uncomfortable in his newclothes. To make him used to them they made him try on his variousgarments. For a whole month he hardly left the piano-stool. They taught himto bow. He had never a moment of liberty. He raged against it, but darednot rebel, for he thought that he was going to accomplish somethingstartling. He was both proud and afraid of it. They pampered him; they wereafraid he would catch cold; they swathed his neck in scarves; they warmedhis boots in case they were wet; and at table he had the best ofeverything. 

At last the great day arrived. The barber came to preside over his toiletand curl Jean-Christophe's rebellious hair. He did not leave it until hehad made it look like a sheep-skin. All the family walked roundJean-Christophe and declared that he was superb. Melchior, after lookinghim up and down, and turning him about and about, was seized with an idea, and went off to fetch a large flower, which he put in his buttonhole. Butwhen Louisa saw him she raised her hands, and cried out distressfully thathe looked like a monkey. That hurt him cruelly. He did not know whether tobe ashamed or proud of his garb. Instinctively he felt humiliated, and hewas more so at the concert. Humiliation was to be for him the outstandingemotion of that memorable day. 

 * * * * *

The concert was about to begin. The hall was half empty; the Grand Duke hadnot arrived. One of those kindly and well-informed friends who alwaysappear on these occasions came and told them that there was a Council beingheld at the Palace, and that the Grand Duke would not come. He had it ongood authority. Melchior was in despair. He fidgeted, paced up and down, and looked repeatedly out of the window. Old Jean Michel was also intorment, but he was concerned, for his grandson. He bombarded him withinstructions. Jean-Christophe was infected by the nervousness of hisfamily. He was not in the least anxious about his compositions, but he wastroubled by the thought of the bows that he had to make to the audience, and thinking of them brought him to agony. 

However, he had to begin; the audience was growing impatient. The orchestraof the _Hof Musik Verein_ began the _Coriolan Overture_. The boy knewneither Coriolan nor Beethoven, for though he had often heard Beethoven'smusic, he had not known it. He never bothered about the names of the workshe heard. He gave them names of his own invention, while he created littlestories or pictures for them. He classified them usually in threecategories: fire, water, and earth, with a thousand degrees between each. Mozart belonged almost always to water. He was a meadow by the side of ariver, a transparent mist floating over the water, a spring shower, or arainbow. Beethoven was fire--now a furnace with gigantic flames and vastcolumns of smoke; now a burning forest, a heavy and terrible cloud, flashing lightning; now a wide sky full of quivering stars, one of whichbreaks free, swoops, and; dies on a fine September night setting the heartbeating. Now; the imperious ardor of that heroic soul burned him like fire. Everything else disappeared. What was it all to him?--Melchior in despair, Jean Michel agitated, all the busy world, the audience, the Grand Duke, little Jean-Christophe. What had. ' he to do with all these? What laybetween them and him? Was that he--he, himself?. . . He was given up to thefurious will that carried him headlong. He followed it breathlessly, withtears in his eyes, and his legs numb, thrilling from the palms of his handsto the soles of his feet. His blood drummed! "Charge!" and he trembled inevery limb. And as he listened so intensely, Hiding behind a curtain, hisheart suddenly leaped violently. The orchestra had stopped short in themiddle of a bar, and after a moment's silence, it broke into a crashing ofbrass and cymbals with a military march, officially strident. Thetransition from one sort of music to another was so brutal, so unexpected, that Jean-Christophe ground his teeth and stamped his foot with rage, andshook his fist at the wall. But Melchior rejoiced. The Grand Duke had comein, and the orchestra was saluting him with the National Anthem. And in atrembling voice Jean Michel gave his last instructions to his grandson. 

The overture began again, and this time was finished. It was nowJean-Christophe's turn. Melchior had arranged the programme to show off atthe same time the skill of both father and son. They were to play togethera sonata of Mozart for violin and piano. For the sake of effect he haddecided that Jean-Christophe should enter alone. He was led to the entranceof the stage and showed the piano at the front, and for the last time itwas explained what he had to do, and then he was pushed on from the wings. 

He was not much afraid, for he was used to the theater; but when he foundhimself alone on the platform, with hundreds of eyes staring at him, hebecame suddenly so frightened that instinctively he moved backwards andturned towards the wings to go back again. He saw his father theregesticulating and with his eyes blazing. He had to go on. Besides, theaudience had seen him. As he advanced there arose a twittering ofcuriosity, followed soon by laughter, which grew louder and louder. Melchior had not been wrong, and the boy's garb had all the effectanticipated. The audience rocked with laughter at the sight of the childwith his long hair and gipsy complexion timidly trotting across theplatform in the evening dress of a man of the world. They got up to see himbetter. Soon the hilarity was general. There was nothing unkindly in it, but it would have made the most hardened musician lose his head. Jean-Christophe, terrified by the noise, and the eyes watching, and theglasses turned upon him, had only one idea: to reach the piano as quicklyas possible, for it seemed to him a refuge, an island in the midst of thesea. With head down, looking neither to right nor left, he ran quicklyacross the platform, and when he reached the middle of it, instead ofbowing to the audience, as had been arranged, he turned his back on it, andplunged straight for the piano. The chair was too high for him to sit downwithout his father's help, and in his distress, instead of waiting, heclimbed up on to it on his knees. That increased the merriment of theaudience, but now Jean-Christophe was safe. Sitting at his instrument, hewas afraid of no one. 

Melchior came at last. He gained by the good-humor of the audience, whowelcomed him with warm applause. The sonata began. The boy played it withimperturbable certainty, with his lips pressed tight in concentration, hiseyes fixed on the keys, his little legs hanging down from the chair. Hebecame more at ease as the notes rolled out; he was among friends that heknew. A murmur of approbation reached him, and waves of pride andsatisfaction surged through him as he thought that all these people weresilent to listen to him and to admire him. But hardly had he finished whenfear overcame him again, and the applause which greeted him gave him moreshame than pleasure. His shame increased when Melchior took him by thehand, and advanced with him to the edge of the platform, and made him bowto the public. He obeyed, and bowed very low, with a funny awkwardness; buthe was humiliated, and blushed for what he had done, as though it were athing ridiculous and ugly. 

He had to sit at the piano again, and he played the _Pleasures ofChildhood_. Then the audience was enraptured. After each piece they shoutedenthusiastically. They wanted him to begin again, and he was proud of hissuccess and at the same time almost hurt by such applause, which was also acommand. At the end the whole audience rose to acclaim him; the Grand Dukeled the applause. But as Jean-Christophe was now alone on the platform hedared not budge from his seat. The applause redoubled. He bent his headlower and lower, blushing and hang-dog in expression, and he lookedsteadily away from the audience. Melchior came. He took him in his arms, and told him to blow kisses. He pointed out to him the Grand Duke's box. Jean-Christophe turned a deaf ear. Melchior took his arm, and threatenedhim in a low voice. Then he did as he was told passively, but he did notlook at anybody, he did not raise his eyes, but went on turning his headaway, and he was unhappy. He was suffering; how, he did not know. Hisvanity was suffering. He did not like the people who were there at all. Itwas no use their applauding; he could not forgive them for having laughedand for being amused by his humiliation; he could not forgive them forhaving seen him in such a ridiculous position--held in mid-air to blowkisses. He disliked them even for applauding, and when Melchior did at lastput him down, he ran away to the wings. A lady threw a bunch of violets upat him as he went. It brushed his face. He was panic-stricken and ran asfast as he could, turning over a chair that was in his way. The faster heran the more they laughed, and the more they laughed the faster he ran. 

At last he reached the exit, which was filled with people looking at him. He forced his way through, butting, and ran and hid himself at the back ofthe anteroom. His grandfather was in high feather, and covered him withblessings. The musicians of the orchestra shouted with laughter, andcongratulated the boy, who refused to look at them or to shake hands withthem. Melchior listened intently, gaging the applause, which had not yetceased, and wanted to take Jean-Christophe on to the stage again. But theboy refused angrily, clung to his grandfather's coat-tails, and kicked ateverybody who came near him. At last he burst into tears, and they had tolet him be. 

Just at this moment an officer came to say that the Grand Duke wished theartists to go to his box. How could the child be presented in such a state?Melchior swore angrily, and his wrath only had the effect of makingJean-Christophe's tears flow faster. To stop them, his grandfather promisedhim a pound of chocolates if he would not cry any more, andJean-Christophe, who was greedy, stopped dead, swallowed down his tears, and let them carry him off; but they had to swear at first most solemnlythat they would not take him on to the platform again. 

In the anteroom of the Grand Ducal box he was presented to a gentleman in adress-coat, with a face like a pug-dog, bristling mustaches, and a short, pointed beard--a little red-faced man, inclined to stoutness, who addressedhim with bantering familiarity, and called him "Mozart _redivivus_!" Thiswas the Grand Duke. Then, he was presented in turn to the Grand Duchess andher daughter, and their suite. But as he did not dare raise his eyes, theonly thing he could remember of this brilliant company was a series ofgowns and uniforms from, the waist down to the feet. He sat on the lap ofthe young Princess, and dared not move or breathe. She asked him questions, which Melchior answered in an obsequious voice with formal replies, respectful and servile; but she did not listen to Melchior, and went onteasing the child. He grew redder and redder, and, thinking that everybodymust have noticed it, he thought he must explain it away and said with along sigh:

"My face is red. I am hot. "

That made the girl shout with laughter. But Jean-Christophe did not mind itin her, as he had in his audience just before, for her laughter waspleasant, and she kissed him, and he did not dislike that. 

Then he saw his grandfather in the passage at the door of the box, beamingand bashful. The old man was fain to show himself, and also to say a fewwords, but he dared not, because no one had spoken to him. He was enjoyinghis grandson's glory at a distance. Jean-Christophe became tender, and feltan irresistible impulse to procure justice also for the old man, so thatthey should know his worth. His tongue was loosed, and he reached up to theear of his new friend and whispered to her:

"I will tell you a secret. "

She laughed, and said:

"What?"

"You know, " he went on--"you know the pretty _trio_ in my _minuetto_, the_minuetto_ I played?. . . You know it?. . . " (He hummed it gently. ) ". . . Well, grandfather wrote it, not I. All the other airs are mine. But that is thebest. Grandfather wrote it. Grandfather did not want me to say anything. You won't tell anybody?. . . " (He pointed out the old man. ) "That is mygrandfather. I love him; he is very kind to me. "

At that the young Princess laughed again, said that he was a darling, covered him with kisses, and, to the consternation of Jean-Christophe andhis grandfather, told everybody. Everybody laughed then, and the Grand Dukecongratulated the old man, who was covered with confusion, tried in vain toexplain himself, and stammered like a guilty criminal. But Jean-Christophesaid not another word to the girl, and in spite of her wheedling heremained dumb and stiff. He despised her for having broken her promise. Hisidea of princes suffered considerably from this disloyalty. He was so angryabout it that he did not hear anything that was said, or that the Princehad appointed him laughingly his pianist in ordinary, his _Hof Musicus_. 

He went out with his relatives, and found himself surrounded inthe corridors of the theater, and even in the street, with peoplecongratulating him or kissing him. That displeased him greatly, for he didnot like being kissed, and did not like people meddling with him withoutasking his permission. 

At last they reached home, and then hardly was the door closed thanMelchior began to call him a "little idiot" because he had said that the_trio_ was not his own. As the boy was under the impression that he haddone a fine thing, which deserved praise, and not blame, he rebelled, andwas impertinent. Melchior lost his temper, and said that he would box hisears, although he had played his music well enough, because with his idiocyhe had spoiled the whole effect of the concert. Jean-Christophe had aprofound sense of justice. He went and sulked in a corner; he visited hiscontempt upon his father, the Princess, and the whole world. He was hurtalso because the neighbors came and congratulated his parents and laughedwith them, as if it were they who had played, and as if it were theiraffair. 

At this moment a servant of the Court came with a beautiful gold watch fromthe Grand Duke and a box of lovely sweets from the young Princess. Bothpresents gave great pleasure to Jean-Christophe, and he did not know whichgave him the more; but he was in such a bad temper that he would notadmit it to himself, and he went on sulking, scowling at the sweets, andwondering whether he could properly accept a gift from a person who hadbetrayed his confidence. As he was on the point of giving in his fatherwanted to set him down at once at the table, and make him write at hisdictation a letter of thanks. This was too much. Either from the nervousstrain of the day, or from instinctive shame at beginning the letter, as Melchior wanted him to, with the words, "The little servant andmusician--_Knecht und Musicus_--of Your Highness . . . " he burst into tears, and was inconsolable. The servant waited and scoffed. Melchior had towrite the letter. That did not make him exactly kindly disposed towardsJean-Christophe. As, a crowning misfortune, the boy let his watch fall andbroke it, A storm of reproaches broke upon him. Melchior shouted that hewould have to go without dessert. Jean-Christophe said angrily that thatwas what he wanted. To punish him, Louisa, said that she would begin byconfiscating his sweets. Jean-Christophe was up in arms at that, and saidthat the box was his, and no one else's, and that no one should take itaway from him! He was smacked, and in a fit of anger snatched the boxfrom his mother's hands, hurled it on the floor, and stamped on it He waswhipped, taken to his room, undressed, and put to bed. 

In the evening he heard his parents dining with friends--a magnificentrepast, prepared a week before in honor of the concert. He was like to diewith wrath at such injustice. They laughed loudly, and touched glasses. They had told the guests that the boy was tired, and no one bothered abouthim. Only after dinner, when the party was breaking up, he heard a slow, shuffling step come into his room, and old Jean Michel bent over his bedand kissed him, and said: "Dear little Jean-Christophe!. . . " Then, as if hewere ashamed, he went away without another word. He had slipped into hishand some sweetmeats which he had hidden in his pocket. 

That softened Jean-Christophe; but he was so tired with all the day'semotions that he had not the strength to think about what his grandfatherhad done. He had not even the strength to reach out to the good things theold man had given him. He was worn out, and went to sleep almost at once. 

His sleep was light. He had acute nervous attacks, like electric shocks, which shook his whole body. In his dreams he was haunted by wild music. Heawoke in the night. The Beethoven overture that he had heard at the concertwas roaring in his ears. It filled the room with its mighty beat. He sat, up in his bed, rubbed his eyes and ears, and asked himself if he wereasleep. No; he was not asleep. He recognized the sound, he recognizedthose roars of anger, those savage cries; he heard the throbbing of thatpassionate heart leaping in his bosom, that tumult of the blood; he felton his face the frantic heating of the wind; lashing and destroying, thenstopping suddenly, cut off by an Herculean will. That Titanic soul enteredhis body, blew out his limbs and his soul, and seemed to give them colossalproportions. He strode over all the world. He was like a mountain, andstorms raged within him--storms of wrath, storms of sorrow!. . . Ah, whatsorrow!. . . But they were nothing! He felt so strong!. . . To suffer--still tosuffer!. . . Ah, how good it is to be strong! How good it is to suffer when aman is strong!. . . 

He laughed. His laughter rang out in the silence of the night. His fatherwoke up and cried:

"Who is there?"

His mother whispered:

"Ssh! the boy is dreaming!"

All then were silent; round them all was silence. The music died away, andnothing sounded but the regular breathing of the human creatures asleep inthe room, comrades in misery, thrown together by Fate in the same frailbarque, bound onwards by a wild whirling force through the night. 

(Jean-Christophe's letter to the Grand Duke Leopold is inspired byBeethoven's letter to the Prince Elector of Bonn, written when he waseleven. )

MORNING

I

THE DEATH OF JEAN MICHEL

Years have passed. Jean-Christophe is nearly eleven. His musical educationis proceeding. He is learning harmony with Florian Holzer, the organist ofSt. Martin's, a friend of his grandfather's, a very learned man, whoteaches him that the chords and series of chords that he most loves, andthe harmonica which softly greet his heart and ear, those that he cannothear without a little thrill running down his spine, are bad and forbidden. When he asks why, no reply is forthcoming but that it is so; the rulesforbid them. As he is naturally in revolt against discipline, he loves themonly the more. His delight is to find examples of them in the great andadmired musicians, and to take them to his grandfather or his master. Hisgrandfather replies that in the great musicians they are admirable, andthat Beethoven and Bach can take any liberty. His master, lessconciliatory, is angry, and says acidly that the masters did better things. 

Jean-Christophe has a free pass for the concerts and the theater. He haslearned to play every instrument a little. He is already quite skilful withthe violin, and his father procured him a seat in the orchestra. Heacquitted himself so well there that after a few months' probation he wasofficially appointed second violin in the _Hof Musik Verein_. He has begunto earn his living. Not too soon either, for affairs at home have gone frombad to worse. Melchior's intemperance has swamped him, and his grandfatheris growing old. 

Jean-Christophe has taken in the melancholy situation. He is already asgrave and anxious as a man. He fulfils his task valiantly, though it doesnot interest him, and he is apt to fall asleep in the orchestra in theevenings, because it is late and he is tired. The theater no longer rousesin him the emotion it used to do when he was little. When he waslittle--four years ago--his greatest ambition had been to occupy the placethat he now holds. But now he dislikes most of the music he is made toplay. He dare not yet pronounce judgment upon it, but he does find itfoolish; and if by chance they do play lovely things, he is displeased bythe carelessness with which they are rendered, and his best-beloved worksare made to appear like his neighbors and colleagues in the orchestra, who, as soon as the curtain has fallen, when they have done with blowing andscraping, mop their brows and smile and chatter quietly, as though they hadjust finished an hour's gymnastics. And he has been close to his formerflame, the fair barefooted singer. He meets her quite often during the_entr'acte_ in the saloon. She knows that he was once in love with her, andshe kisses him often. That gives him no pleasure. He is disgusted by herpaint and scent and her fat arms and her greediness. He hates her now. 

The Grand Duke did not forget his pianist in ordinary. Not that the smallpension, which was granted to him with this title was regularly paid--ithad to be asked for--but from time to time Jean-Christophe used to receiveorders to go to the Palace when there were distinguished guests, or simplywhen Their Highnesses took it into their heads that they wanted to hearhim. It was almost always in the evening, at the time when Jean-Christophewanted to be alone. He had to leave everything and hurry off. Sometimes hewas made to wait in the anteroom, because dinner was not finished. Theservants, accustomed to see him, used to address him familiarly. Then hewould be led into a great room full of mirrors and lights, in whichwell-fed men and women used to stare at him with horrid curiosity. He hadto cross the waxed floor to kiss Their Highnesses' hands, and the more hegrew the more awkward he became, for he felt that he was in a ridiculousposition, and his pride used to suffer. 

When it was all done he used to sit at the piano and have to play for theseidiots. He thought them idiots. There were moments when their indifferenceso oppressed him as he played that he was often on the point of stopping inthe middle of a piece. There was no air about him; he was near suffocation, seemed losing his senses. When he finished he was overwhelmed withcongratulations and laden with compliments; he was introduced all round. Hethought they looked at him like some strange animal in the Prince'smenagerie, and that the words of praise were addressed rather to his masterthan to himself. He thought himself brought low, and he developed a morbidsensibility from which he suffered the more as he dared not show it. He sawoffense in the most simple actions. If any one laughed in a corner of theroom, he imagined himself to be the cause of it, and he knew not whether itwere his manners, or his clothes, or his person, or his hands, or his feet, that caused the laughter. He was humiliated by everything. He washumiliated if people did not talk to him, humiliated if they did, humiliated if they gave him sweets like a child, humiliated especially whenthe Grand Duke, as sometimes happened, in princely fashion dismissed him bypressing a piece of money into his hand. He was wretched at being poor andat being treated as a poor boy. One evening, as he was going home, themoney that he had received weighed so heavily upon him that he threw itthrough a cellar window, and then immediately he would have done anythingto get it back, for at home there was a month's old account with thebutcher to pay. 

His relatives never suspected these injuries to his pride. They weredelighted at his favor with the Prince. Poor Louisa could conceive ofnothing finer for her son than these evenings at the Palace in splendidsociety. As for Melchior, he used to brag of it continually to hisboon-fellows. But Jean-Christophe's grandfather was happier than any. Hepretended to be independent and democratic, and to despise greatness, buthe had a simple admiration for money, power, honors, social distinction, and he took unbounded pride in seeing his grandson, moving among those whohad these things. He delighted in them as though such glory was areflection upon himself, and in spite of all his efforts to appear calm andindifferent, his face used to glow. On the evenings when Jean-Christophewent to the Palace, old Jean Michel used always to contrive to stay aboutthe house on some pretext or another. He used to await his grandson'sreturn with childish impatience, and when Jean-Christophe came in he wouldbegin at once with a careless air to ply him with seeming idle questions, such as:

"Well, did things go well to-night?"

Or he would make little hints like:

"Here's our Jean-Christophe; he can tell us some news. "

Or he would produce some ingenious compliment by way of flattery:

"Here's our young nobleman!"

But Jean-Christophe, out of sorts and out of temper, would reply with acurt "Good-evening!" and go and sulk in a corner. But the old man wouldpersist, and ply him with more direct questions, to which the boy repliedonly "Yes, " or "No. " Then the others would join in and ask for details. Jean-Christophe would look more and more thunderous. They had to drag thewords from his lips until Jean Michel would lose his temper and hurlinsults at him. Then Jean-Christophe would reply with scant respect, andthe end would be a rumpus. The old man would go out and slam the door. SoJean-Christophe spoiled the joy of these poor people, who had no inkling ofthe cause of his bad temper. It was not their fault if they had the soulsof servants, and never dreamed that it is possible to be otherwise. 

Jean-Christophe was turned into himself, and though he never judged hisfamily, yet he felt a gulf between himself and them. No doubt heexaggerated what lay between them, and in spite of their different ways ofthought it is quite probable that they could have understood each other ifhe had been able to talk intimately to them. But it is known that nothingis more difficult than absolute intimacy between children and parents, evenwhen there is much love between them, for on the one side respectdiscourages confidence, and on the other the idea, often erroneous, of thesuperiority of age and experience prevents them taking seriously enough thechild's feelings, which are often just as interesting as those of grown-uppersons, and almost always more sincere. 

But the people that Jean-Christophe saw at home and the conversation thathe heard there widened the distance between himself and his family. 

Melchior's friends used to frequent the house--mostly musicians of theorchestra, single men and hard drinkers. They were not bad fellows, butvulgar. They made the house shake with their footsteps and their laughter. They loved music, but they spoke of it with a stupidity that was revolting. The coarse indiscretion of their enthusiasm wounded the boy's modesty offeeling. When they praised a work that he loved it was as though they wereinsulting him personally. He would stiffen himself and grow pale, frozen, and pretend not to take any interest in music. He would have hated it hadthat been possible. Melchior used to say:

"The fellow has no heart. He feels nothing. I don't know where he gets itfrom. "

Sometimes they used to sing German four-part songs--four-footed aswell--and these were all exactly like themselves--slow-moving, solemn andbroad, fashioned of dull melodies. Then Jean-Christophe used to fly to themost distant room and hurl insults at the wall. 

His grandfather also had friends: the organist, the furniture-dealer, thewatch-maker, the contra-bass--garrulous old men, who used always to passround the same jokes and plunge into interminable discussions on art, politics, or the family trees of the countryside, much less interested inthe subjects of which they talked than happy to talk and to find anaudience. 

As for Louisa, she used only to see some of her neighbors who brought herthe gossip of the place, and at rare intervals a "kind lady, " who, underpretext of taking an interest in her, used to come and engage her servicesfor a dinner-party, and pretend to watch over the religious education ofthe children. 

But of all who came to the house, none was more repugnant toJean-Christophe than his Uncle Theodore, a stepson of his grandfather's, ason by a former marriage of his grandmother Clara, Jean Michel's firstwife. He was a partner in a great commercial house which did business inAfrica and the Far East. He was the exact type of one of those Germans ofthe new style, whose affectation it is scoffingly to repudiate the oldidealism of the race, and, intoxicated by conquest, to maintain a cult ofstrength and success which shows that they are not accustomed to seeingthem on their side. But as it is difficult at once to change the age-oldnature of a people, the despised idealism sprang up again in him at everyturn in language, manners, and moral habits and the quotations from Goetheto fit the smallest incidents of domestic life, for he was a singularcompound of conscience and self-interest. There was in him a curious effortto reconcile the honest principles of the old German _bourgeoisie_ with thecynicism of these new commercial _condottieri_--a compound which forevergave out a repulsive flavor of hypocrisy, forever striving to make ofGerman strength, avarice, and self-interest the symbols of all right, justice, and truth. 

Jean-Christophe's loyalty was deeply injured by all this. He could not tellwhether his uncle were right or no, but he hated him, and marked him downfor an enemy. His grandfather had no great love for him either, and was inrevolt against his theories; but he was easily crushed in argument byTheodore's fluency, which was never hard put to it to turn into ridiculethe old man's simple generosity. In the end Jean Michel came to be ashamedof his own good-heartedness, and by way of showing that he was not so muchbehind the times as they thought, he used to try to talk like Theodore; butthe words came hollow from his lips, and he was ill at ease with them. Whatever he may have thought of him, Theodore did impress him. He feltrespect for such practical skill, which he admired the more for knowinghimself to be absolutely incapable of it. He used to dream of putting oneof his grandsons to similar work. That was Melchior's idea also. Heintended to make Rodolphe follow in his uncle's footsteps. And so the wholefamily set itself to flatter this rich relation of whom they expected help. He, seeing that he was necessary to them, took advantage of it to cut afine masterful figure, He meddled in everything, gave advice uponeverything, and made no attempt to conceal his contempt for art andartists. Rather, he blazoned it abroad for the mere pleasure of humiliatinghis musicianly relations, and he used to indulge in stupid jokes at theirexpense, and the cowards used to laugh. 

Jean-Christophe, especially, was singled out as a butt for his uncle'sjests. He was not patient under them. He would say nothing, but he used togrind his teeth angrily, and his uncle used to laugh at his speechlessrage. But one day, when Theodore went too far in his teasing, Jean-Christophe, losing control of himself, spat in his face. It was afearful affair. The insult was so monstrous that his uncle was at firstparalyzed by it; then words came back to him, and he broke out into a floodof abuse. Jean-Christophe sat petrified by the enormity of the thing thathe had done, and did not even feel the blows that rained down upon him; butwhen they tried to force him down on his knees before his uncle, he brokeaway, jostled his mother aside, and ran out of the house. He did not stopuntil he could breathe no more, and then he was right out in the country. He heard voices calling him, and he debated within himself whether he hadnot better throw himself into the river, since he could not do so with hisenemy. He spent the night in the fields. At dawn he went and knocked at hisgrandfather's door. The old man had been so upset by Jean-Christophe'sdisappearance--he had not slept for it--that he had not the heart to scoldhim. He took him home, and then nothing was said to him, because it wasapparent that he was still in an excited condition, and they had to smoothhim down, for he had to play at the Palace that evening. But for severalweeks Melchior continued to overwhelm him with his complaints, addressed tonobody in particular, about the trouble that a man takes to give an exampleof an irreproachable life and good manners to unworthy creatures whodishonor him. And when his Uncle Theodore met him in the street, he turnedhis head and held his nose by way of showing his extreme disgust. 

Finding so little sympathy at home, Jean-Christophe spent as little timethere as possible. He chafed against the continual restraint which theystrove to set upon him. There were too many things, too many people, thathe had to respect, and he was never allowed to ask why, and Jean-Christophedid not possess the bump of respect. The more they tried to discipline himand to turn him into an honest little German _bourgeois_, the more he feltthe need of breaking free from it all. It would have been his pleasureafter the dull, tedious, formal performances which he had to attend in theorchestra or at the Palace to roll in the grass like a fowl, and to slidedown the grassy slope on the seat of his new trousers, or to have astone-fight with the urchins of the neighborhood. It was not because he wasafraid of scoldings and thwackings that he did not do these things moreoften, but because he had no playmates. He could not get on with otherchildren. Even the little guttersnipes did not like playing with him, because he took every game too seriously, and struck too lustily. He hadgrown used to being driven in on himself, and to living apart from childrenof his own age. He was ashamed of not being clever at games, and dared nottake part in their sport. And he used to pretend to take no interest in it, although he was consumed by the desire to be asked to play with them. Butthey never said anything to him, and then he would go away hurt, butassuming indifference. 

He found consolation in wandering with Uncle Gottfried when he was in theneighborhood. He became more and more friendly with him, and sympathizedwith his independent temper. He understood so well now Gottfried's delightin tramping the roads without a tie in the world! Often they used to go outtogether in the evening into the country, straight on, aimlessly, and asGottfried always forgot the time, they used to come back very late, andthen were scolded. Gottfried knew that it was wrong, but Jean-Christopheused to implore, and he could not himself resist the pleasure of it. Aboutmidnight he would stand in front of the house and whistle, an agreedsignal. Jean-Christophe would be in his bed fully dressed. He would slipout with his shoes in his hand, and, holding his breath, creep with all theartful skill of a savage to the kitchen window, which opened on to theroad. He would climb on to the table; Gottfried would take him on hisshoulders, and then off they would go, happy as truants. 

Sometimes they would go and seek out Jeremy the fisherman, a friend ofGottfried's, and then they would slip out in his boat under the moon. Thewater dropping from the oars gave out little arpeggios, then chromaticscales. A milky vapor hung tremulous over the surface of the waters. Thestars quivered. The cocks called to each other from either bank, andsometimes in the depths of the sky they heard the trilling of larksascending from earth, deceived by the light of the moon. They were silent. Gottfried hummed a tune. Jeremy told strange tales of the lives of thebeasts--tales that gained in mystery from the curt and enigmatic manner oftheir telling. The moon hid herself behind the woods. They skirted theblack mass of the hills. The darkness of the water and the sky mingled. There was never a ripple on the water. Sounds died down. The boat glidedthrough the night. Was she gliding? Was she moving? Was she still?. . . Thereeds parted with a sound like the rustling of silk. The boat groundednoiselessly. They climbed out on to the bank, and returned on foot. Theywould not return until dawn. They followed the river-bank. Clouds of silverablets, green as ears of corn, or blue as jewels, teemed in the first lightof day. They swarmed like the serpents of Medusa's head, and flungthemselves greedily at the bread thrown to them; they plunged for it as itsank, and turned in spirals, and then darted away in a flash, like a ray oflight. The river took on rosy and purple hues of reflection. The birds wokeone after another. The truants hurried back. Just as carefully as when theyhad set out, they returned to the room, with its thick atmosphere, andJean-Christophe, worn out, fell into bed, and slept at once, with his bodysweet-smelling with the smell of the fields. 

All was well, and nothing would have been known, but that one day Ernest, his younger brother, betrayed Jean-Christophe's midnight sallies. From thatmoment they were forbidden, and he was watched. But he contrived to escape, and he preferred the society of the little peddler and his friends to anyother. His family was scandalized. Melchior said that he had the tastes ofa laborer. Old Jean Michel was jealous of Jean-Christophe's affection forGottfried, and used to lecture him about lowering himself so far as to likesuch vulgar company when he had the honor of mixing with the best peopleand of being the servant of princes. It was considered that Jean-Christophewas lacking in dignity and self-respect. 

In spite of the penury which increased with Melchior's intemperance andfolly, life was tolerable as long as Jean Michel was there. He was the onlycreature who had any influence over Melchior, and who could hold him backto a certain extent from his vice. The esteem in which he was generallyheld did serve to pass over the drunkard's freaks, and he used constantlyto come to the aid of the household with money. Besides the modest pensionwhich he enjoyed as retired _Kapellmeister_, he was still able to earnsmall sums by giving lessons and tuning pianos. He gave most of it to hisdaughter-in-law, for he perceived her difficulties, though she strove tohide them from him. Louisa hated the idea that he was denying himself forthem, and it was all the more to the old man's credit in that he had alwaysbeen accustomed to a large way of living and had great needs to satisfy. Sometimes even his ordinary sacrifices were not sufficient, and to meetsome urgent debt Jean Michel would have secretly to sell a piece offurniture or books, or some relic that he set store by. Melchior knew thathis father made presents to Louisa that were concealed from himself, andvery often he would lay hands on them, in spite of protest. But when thiscame to the old man's ears--not from Louisa, who said nothing of hertroubles to him, but from one of his grandchildren--he would fly into aterrible passion, and there were frightful scenes between the two men. Theywere both extraordinarily violent, and they would come to round oaths andthreats--almost it seemed as though they would come to blows. But even inhis most angry passion respect would hold Melchior in check, and, howeverdrunk he might be, in the end he would bow his head to the torrent ofinsults and humiliating reproach which his father poured out upon him. Butfor that he did not cease to watch for the first opportunity of breakingout again, and with his thoughts on the future, Jean Michel would be filledwith melancholy and anxious fears. 

"My poor children, " he used to say to Louisa, "what will become, of youwhen I am no longer here?. . . Fortunately, " he would add, fondlingJean-Christophe, "I can go on until this fellow pulls you out of the mire. "But he was out in his reckoning; he was at the end of his road. No onewould have suspected it. He was surprisingly strong. He was past eighty; hehad a full head of hair, a white mane, still gray in patches, and in histhick beard were still black hairs. He had only about ten teeth left, butwith these he could chew lustily. It was a pleasure to see him at table. Hehad a hearty appetite, and though, he reproached Melchior for drinking, healways emptied his bottle himself. He had a preference for white Moselle. For the rest--wine, beer, cider--he could do justice to all the good thingsthat the Lord hath made. He was not so foolish as to lose his reason in hiscups, and he kept to his allowance. It is true that it was a plentifulallowance, and that a feebler intelligence must have been made drunk by it. He was strong of foot and eye, and indefatigably active. He got up at six, and performed his ablutions scrupulously, for he cared for his appearanceand respected his person. He lived alone in his house, of which he was soleoccupant, and never let his daughter-in-law meddle with his affairs. Hecleaned out his room, made his own coffee, sewed on his buttons, nailed, and glued, and altered; and going to and fro and up and down stairs in hisshirt-sleeves, he never stopped singing in a sounding bass which he lovedto let ring out as he accompanied himself with operatic gestures. And thenhe used to go out in all weathers. He went about his business, omittingnone, but he was not often punctual. He was to be seen at every streetcorner arguing with some acquaintance or joking with some woman whose facehe had remembered, for he loved pretty women and old friends. And so he wasalways late, and never knew the time. But he never let the dinner-hour slipby. He dined wherever he might be, inviting himself, and he would not gohome until late--after nightfall, after a visit to his grandchildren. Thenhe would go to bed, and before he went to sleep read a page of his oldBible, and during the night--for he never slept for more than an hour ortwo together--he would get up to take down one of his old books, boughtsecond-hand--history, theology, belles-lettres, or science. He used to readat random a few pages, which interested and bored him, and he did notrightly understand them, though he did not skip a word, until sleep came tohim again. On Sunday he would go to church, walk with the children, andplay bowls. He had never been ill, except for a little gout in his toes, which used to make him swear at night while he was reading his Bible. Itseemed as though he might live to be a hundred, and he himself could see noreason why he should not live longer. When people said that he would die acentenarian, he used to think, like another illustrious old man, that nolimit can be appointed to the goodness of Providence, The only sign that hewas growing old was that he was more easily brought to tears, and wasbecoming every day more irritable. The smallest impatience with him couldthrow him into a violent fury. His red face and short neck would growredder than ever. He would stutter angrily, and have to stop, choking. Thefamily doctor, an old friend, had warned him to take care and to moderateboth his anger and his appetite. But with an old man's obstinacy he plungedinto acts of still greater recklessness out of bravado, and he laughed atmedicine and doctors. He pretended to despise death, and did not mince hislanguage when he declared that he was not afraid of it. 

One summer day, when it was very hot, and he had drunk copiously, andargued in the market-place, he went home and began to work quietly in hisgarden. He loved digging. Bareheaded under the sun, still irritated by hisargument, he dug angrily. Jean-Christophe was sitting in the arbor with abook in his hand, but he was not reading. He was dreaming and listening tothe cheeping of the crickets, and mechanically following his grandfather'smovements. The old man's back was towards him; he was bending and pluckingout weeds. Suddenly Jean-Christophe saw him rise, beat against the air withhis arms, and fall heavily with his face to the ground. For a moment hewanted to laugh; then he saw that the old man did not stir. He called tohim, ran to him, and shook him with all his strength. Fear seized him. Heknelt, and with his two hands tried to raise the great head from theground. It was so heavy and he trembled so that he could hardly move it. But when he saw the eyes turned up, white and bloody, he was frozen withhorror and, with a shrill cry, let the head fall. He got up in terror, ranaway and out of the place. He cried and wept. A man passing by stopped theboy. Jean-Christophe could not speak, but he pointed to the house. The manwent in, and Jean-Christophe followed him. Others had heard his cries, andthey came from the neighboring houses. Soon the garden was full of people. They trampled the flowers, and bent down over the old man. They criedaloud. Two or three men lifted him up. Jean-Christophe stayed by the gate, turned to the wall, and hid his face in his hands. He was afraid to look, but he could not help himself, and when they passed him he saw through hisfingers the old man's huge body, limp and flabby. One arm dragged along theground, the head, leaning against the knee of one of the men carrying thebody, bobbed at every step, and the face was scarred, covered with mud, bleeding. The mouth was open and the eyes were fearful. He howled again, and took to flight. He ran as though something were after him, and neverstopped until he reached home. He burst into the kitchen with frightfulcries. Louisa was cleaning vegetables. He hurled himself at her, and huggedher desperately, imploring her help. His face was distorted with his sobs;he could hardly speak. But at the first word she understood. She wentwhite, let the things fall from her hands, and without a word rushed fromthe house. 

Jean-Christophe was left alone, crouching against a cupboard. He went onweeping. His brothers were playing. He could not make out quite what hadhappened. He did not think of his grandfather; he was thinking only of thedreadful sights he had just seen, and he was in terror lest he should bemade to return to see them again. 

And as it turned out in the evening, when the other children, tired ofdoing every sort of mischief in the house, were beginning to feel weariedand hungry, Louisa rushed in again, took them by the hand, and led them totheir grandfather's house. She walked very fast, and Ernest and Rodolphetried to complain, as usual; but Louisa bade them be silent in such a toneof voice that they held their peace. An instinctive fear seized them, andwhen they entered the house they began to weep. It was not yet night. Thelast hours of the sunset cast strange lights over the inside of thehouse--on the door-handle, on the mirror, on the violin hung on the wall inthe chief room, which was half in darkness. But in the old man's room acandle was alight, and the flickering flame, vying with the livid, dyingday, made the heavy darkness of the room more oppressive. Melchior wassitting near the window, loudly weeping. The doctor, leaning over the bed, hid from sight what was lying there. Jean-Christophe's heart beat so thatit was like to break. Louisa made the children kneel at the foot of thebed. Jean-Christophe stole a glance. He expected something so terrifyingafter what he had seen in the afternoon that at the first glimpse he wasalmost comforted. His grandfather lay motionless, and seemed to be asleep. For a moment the child believed that the old man was better, and that allwas at an end. But when he heard his heavy breathing; when, as he lookedcloser, he saw the swollen face, on which the wound that he had come by inthe fall had made a broad scar; when he understood that here was a man atpoint of death, he began to tremble; and while he repeated Louisa's prayerfor the restoration of his grandfather, in his heart he prayed that if theold man could not get well he might be already dead. He was terrified atthe prospect of what was going to happen. 

The old man had not been conscious since the moment of his fall. He onlyreturned to consciousness for a moment, enough to learn his condition, andthat was lamentable. The priest was there, and recited the last prayersover him. They raised the old man on his pillow. He opened his eyes slowly, and they seemed no longer to obey his will. He breathed noisily, and withunseeing eyes looked at the faces and the lights, and suddenly he openedhis mouth. A nameless terror showed on his features. 

"But then . . . " he gasped--"but I am going to die!"

The awful sound of his voice pierced Jean-Christophe's heart. Never, neverwas it to fade from his memory. The old man said no more. He moaned like alittle child. The stupor took him once more, but his breathing became moreand more difficult. He groaned, he fidgeted with his hands, he seemed tostruggle against the mortal sleep. In his semi-consciousness he cried once:

"Mother!"

Oh, the biting impression that it made, this mumbling of the old man, calling in anguish on his mother, as Jean-Christophe would himself havedone--his mother, of whom he was never known to talk in life, to whom henow turned instinctively, the last futile refuge in the last terror!. . . Then he seemed to be comforted for a moment. He had once more a flicker ofconsciousness. His heavy eyes, the pupils of which seemed to moveaimlessly, met those of the boy frozen in his fear. They lit up. The oldman tried to smile and speak. Louisa took Jean-Christophe and led him tothe bedside. Jean Michel moved his lips, and tried to caress his head withhis hand, but then he fell back into his torpor. It was the end. 

They sent the children into the next room, but they had too much to do toworry about them, and Jean-Christophe, under the attraction of the horrorof it, peeped through the half-open door at the tragic face on the pillow;the man strangled by the firm, clutch that had him by the neck; the facewhich grew ever more hollow as he watched; the sinking of the creature intothe void, which seemed to suck it down like a pump; and the horribledeath-rattle, the mechanical breathing, like a bubble of air bursting onthe surface of waters; the last efforts of the body, which strives to livewhen the soul is no longer. Then the head fell on one side on the pillow. All, all was silence. 

A few moments later, in the midst of the sobs and prayers and the confusioncaused by the death, Louisa saw the child, pale, wide-eyed, with gapingmouth, clutching convulsively at the handle of the door. She ran to him. Hehad a seizure in her arms. She carried him away. He lost consciousness. Hewoke up to find himself in his bed. He howled in terror, because he hadbeen left alone for a moment, had another seizure, and fainted again. Forthe rest of the night and the next day he was in a fever. Finally, he grewcalm, and on the next night fell into a deep sleep, which lasted until themiddle of the following day. He felt that some one was walking in his room, that his mother was leaning over his bed and kissing him. He thought heheard the sweet distant sound of bells. But he would not stir; he was in adream. 

When he opened his eyes again his Uncle Gottfried was sitting at the footof his bed. Jean-Christophe was worn out, and could remember nothing. Thenhis memory returned, and: he began to weep. Gottfried got up and kissedhim. 

"Well, my boy--well?" he said gently. 

"Oh, uncle, uncle!" sobbed the boy, clinging to him. 

"Cry, then . . . " said Gottfried. "Cry!"

He also was weeping. 

When he was a little comforted Jean-Christophe dried his eyes and looked atGottfried. Gottfried understood that he wanted to ask something. 

"No, " he said, putting a finger to his lips, "you must not talk. It is goodto cry, bad to talk. "

The boy insisted. 

"It is no good. "

"Only one thing--only one!. . . "

"What?"

Jean-Christophe hesitated. 

"Oh, uncle!" he asked, "where is he now?"

Gottfried answered:

"He is with the Lord, my boy. "

But that was not what Jean-Christophe had asked. 

"No; you do not understand. Where is he--he _himself_?" (He meant thebody. )

He went on in a trembling voice:

"Is _he_ still in the house?"

"They buried the good man this morning, " said Gottfried. "Did you not hearthe bells?"

Jean-Christophe was comforted. Then, when he thought that he would neversee his beloved grandfather again, he wept once more bitterly. 

"Poor little beast!" said Gottfried, looking pityingly at the child. 

Jean-Christophe expected Gottfried to console him, but Gottfried made noattempt to do so, knowing that it was useless. 

"Uncle Gottfried, " asked the boy, "are not you afraid of it, too?"

(Much did he wish that Gottfried should not have been afraid, and wouldtell him the secret of it!)

"'Ssh!" he said, in a troubled voice. . . . 

"And how is one not to be afraid?" he said, after a moment. "But what canone do? It is so. One must put up with it. "

Jean-Christophe shook his head in protest. 

"One has to put up with it, my boy, " said Gottfried. "_He_ ordered it upyonder. One has to love what _He_ has ordered. "

"I hate Him!" said Jean-Christophe, angrily shaking his fist at the sky. 

Gottfried fearfully bade him be silent. Jean-Christophe himself was afraidof what he had just said, and he began to pray with Gottfried. But bloodboiled, and as he repeated the words of servile humility and resignationthere was in his inmost heart a feeling of passionate revolt and horror ofthe abominable thing and the monstrous Being who had been able to createit. 

Days passed and nights of rain over the freshly-turned earth under whichlay the remains of poor old Jean Michel. At the moment Melchior wept andcried and sobbed much, but the week was not out before Jean-Christopheheard him laughing heartily. When the name of the dead man was pronouncedin his presence, his face grew longer and a lugubrious expression came intoit, but in a moment he would begin to talk and gesticulate excitedly. Hewas sincerely afflicted, but it was impossible for him to remain sad forlong. 

Louisa, passive and resigned, accepted the misfortune as she acceptedeverything. She added a prayer to her daily prayers; she went regularly tothe cemetery, and cared for the grass as if it were part of her household. 

Gottfried paid touching attention to the little patch of ground where theold man slept. When he came to the neighborhood, he brought a littlesouvenir--a cross that he had made, or flowers that Jean Michel had loved. He never missed, even if he were only in the town for a few hours, and hedid it by stealth. 

Sometimes Louisa took Jean-Christophe with her on her visits to thecemetery. Jean-Christophe revolted in disgust against the fat patch ofearth clad in its sinister adornment of flowers and trees, and against theheavy scent which mounts to the sun, mingling with the breath of thesonorous cypress. But he dared not confess his disgust, because hecondemned it in himself as cowardly and impious. He was very unhappy. Hisgrandfather's death haunted him incessantly, and yet he had long known whatdeath was, and had thought about it and been afraid of it. But he had neverbefore seen it, and he who sees it for the first time learns that he knewnothing, neither of death nor of life. One moment brings everythingtottering. Reason is of no avail. You thought you were alive, you thoughtyou had some experience of life; you see then that you knew nothing, thatyou have been living in a veil of illusions spun by your own mind to hidefrom your eyes the awful countenance of reality. There is no connectionbetween the idea of suffering and the creature who bleeds and suffers. There is no connection between the idea of death and the convulsions ofbody and soul in combat and in death. Human language, human wisdom, areonly a puppet-show of stiff mechanical dolls by the side of the grim charmof reality and the creatures of mind and blood, whose desperate and vainefforts are strained to the fixing of a life which crumbles away with everyday. 

Jean-Christophe thought of death day and night. Memories of the last agonypursued him. He heard that horrible breathing; every night, whatever hemight be doing, he saw his grandfather again. All Nature was changed; itseemed as though there were an icy vapor drawn over her. Round him, everywhere, whichever way he turned, he felt upon his face the fatalbreathing of the blind, all-powerful Beast; he felt himself in the grip ofthat fearful destructive Form, and he felt that there was nothing to bedone. But, far from crushing him, the thought of it set him aflame withhate and indignation. He was never resigned to it. He butted head downagainst the impossible; it mattered nothing that he broke his head, and wasforced to realize that he was not the stronger. He never ceased to revoltagainst suffering. From that time on his life was an unceasing struggleagainst the savagery of a Fate which he could not admit. 

The very misery of his life afforded him relief from the obsession of histhoughts. The ruin of his family, which only Jean Michel had withheld, proceeded apace when he was removed. With him the Kraffts had lost theirchief means of support, and misery entered the house. 

Melchior increased it. Far from working more, he abandoned himself utterlyto his vice when he was free of the only force that had held him in check. Almost every night he returned home drunk, and he never brought back hisearnings. Besides, he had lost almost all his lessons. One day he hadappeared at the house of one of his pupils in a state of completeintoxication, and, as a consequence of this scandal, all doors were closedto him. He was only tolerated in the orchestra out of regard for the memoryof his father, but Louisa trembled lest he should he dismissed any dayafter a scene. He had already been threatened with it on several eveningswhen he had turned up in his place about the end of the performance. 

Twice or thrice he had forgotten altogether to put in an appearance. And ofwhat was he not capable in those moments of stupid excitement when he wastaken with the itch to do and say idiotic things! Had he not taken it intohis head one evening to try and play his great violin concerto in themiddle of an act of the _Valkyrie_? They were hard put to it to stop him. Sometimes, too, he would shout with laughter in the middle of a performanceat the amusing pictures that were presented on the stage or whirling in hisown brain. He was a joy to his colleagues, and they passed over many thingsbecause he was so funny. But such indulgence was worse than severity, andJean-Christophe could have died for shame. 

The boy was now first violin in the orchestra. He sat so that he couldwatch over his father, and, when necessary, beseech him, and make him besilent. It was not easy, and the best thing was not to pay any attentionto him, for if he did, as soon as the sot felt that eyes were uponhim, he would take to making faces or launch out into a speech. ThenJean-Christophe would turn away, trembling with fear lest he should commitsome outrageous prank. He would try to be absorbed in his work, but hecould not help hearing Melchior's utterances and the laughter of hiscolleagues. Tears would come into his eyes. The musicians, good fellowsthat they were, had seen that, and were sorry for him. They would hushtheir laughter, and only talk about his father when Jean-Christophe was notby. But Jean-Christophe was conscious of their pity. He knew that as soonas he had gone their jokes would break out again, and that Melchior was thelaughing-stock of the town. He could not stop him, and he was in torment. He used to bring his father home after the play. He would take his arm, putup with his pleasantries, and try to conceal the stumbling in his walk. Buthe deceived no one, and in spite of all his efforts it was very rarely thathe could succeed in leading Melchior all the way home. At the corner of thestreet Melchior would declare that he had an urgent appointment with somefriends, and no argument could dissuade him from keeping this engagement. Jean-Christophe took care not to insist too much, so as not to exposehimself to a scene and paternal imprecations which might attract theneighbors to their windows. 

All the household money slipped away in this fashion. Melchior was notsatisfied with drinking away his earnings; he drank away all that his wifeand son so hardly earned. Louisa used to weep, but she dared not resist, since her husband had harshly reminded her that nothing in the housebelonged to her, and that he had married her without a sou. Jean-Christophetried to resist. Melchior boxed his ears, treated him like a naughty child, and took the money out of his hands. The boy was twelve or thirteen. He wasstrong, and was beginning to kick against being beaten; but he was stillafraid to rebel, and rather than expose himself to fresh humiliations ofthe kind he let himself be plundered. The only resource that Louisa andJean-Christophe had was to hide their money; but Melchior was singularlyingenious in discovering their hiding-places when they were not there. 

Soon that was not enough for him. He sold the things that he had inheritedfrom his father. Jean-Christophe sadly saw the precious relics go--thebooks, the bed, the furniture, the portraits of musicians. He could saynothing. But one day, when Melchior had crashed into Jean Michel's oldpiano, he swore as he rubbed his knee, and said that there was no longerroom to move about in his own house, and that he would rid the house ofall such gimcrackery. Jean-Christophe cried aloud. It was true that therooms were too full, since all Jean Michel's belongings were crowdedinto them, so as to be able to sell the house, that dear house in whichJean-Christophe had spent the happiest hours of his childhood. It was truealso that the old piano was not worth much, that it was husky in tone, andthat for a long time Jean-Christophe had not used it, since he played onthe fine new piano due to the generosity of the Prince; but however old anduseless it might be, it was Jean-Christophe's best friend. It had awakenedthe child to the boundless world of music; on its worn yellow keys he haddiscovered with his fingers the kingdom of sounds and its laws; it had beenhis grandfather's work (months had gone to repairing it for his grandson), and he was proud of it; it was in some sort a holy relic, andJean-Christophe protested that his father had no right to sell it. Melchiorbade him be silent. Jean-Christophe cried louder than ever that the pianowas his, and that he forbade any one to touch it; but Melchior looked athim with an evil smile, and said nothing. 

Next day Jean-Christophe had forgotten the affair. He came home tired, butin a fairly good temper. He was struck by the sly looks of his brothers. They pretended to be absorbed in their books, but they followed him withtheir eyes, and watched all his movements, and bent over their booksagain when he looked at them. He had no doubt that they had played sometrick upon him, but he was used to that, and did not worry about it, butdetermined, when he had found it out, to give them a good thrashing, as healways did on such occasions. He scorned to look into the matter, and hebegan to talk to his father, who was sitting by the fire, and questionedhim as to the doings of the day with an affectation of interest whichsuited him but ill; and while he talked he saw that Melchior was exchangingstealthy nods and winks with the two children. Something caught at hisheart. He ran into his room. The place where the piano had stood was empty!He gave a cry of anguish. In the next room he heard the stifled laughter ofhis brothers. The blood rushed to his face. He rushed in to them, andcried:

"My piano!"

Melchior raised his head with an air of calm bewilderment which madethe children roar with laughter. He could not contain himself when hesaw Jean-Christophe's piteous look, and he turned aside to guffaw. Jean-Christophe no longer knew what he was doing. He hurled himself likea mad thing on his father. Melchior, lolling in his chair, had no time toprotect himself. The boy seized him by the throat and cried:

"Thief! Thief!"

It was only for a moment. Melchior shook himself, and sent Jean-Christopherolling down on to the tile floor, though in his fury he was clingingto him like grim death. The boy's head crashed against the tiles. Jean-Christophe got upon his knees. He was livid, and he went on saying ina choking voice:

"Thief, thief!. . . You are robbing us--mother and me. . . . Thief!. . . You areselling my grandfather!"

Melchior rose to his feet, and held his fist above Jean-Christophe's head. The boy stared at him with hate; in his eyes. He was trembling with rage. Melchior began to tremble, too. 

He sat down, and hid his face in his hands. The two children had run awayscreaming. Silence followed the uproar. Melchior groaned and mumbled. Jean-Christophe, against the wall, never ceased glaring at him withclenched teeth, and he trembled in every limb. Melchior began to blamehimself. 

"I am a thief! I rob my family! My children despise me! It were better ifI were dead!"

When he had finished whining, Jean-Christophe did not budge, but asked himharshly:

"Where is the piano?"

"At Wormser's, " said Melchior, not daring to look at him. 

Jean-Christophe took a step forward, and said:

"The money!"

Melchior, crushed, took the money from his pocket and gave it to his son. Jean-Christophe turned towards the door. Melchior called him:

"Jean-Christophe!"

Jean-Christophe stopped. Melchior went on in a quavering voice:

"Dear Jean-Christophe . . . Do not despise me!"

Jean-Christophe flung his arms round his neck and sobbed:

"No, father--dear father! I do not despise you! I am so unhappy!"

They wept loudly. Melchior lamented:

"It is not my fault. I am not bad. That's true, Jean-Christophe? I am notbad?"

He promised that he would drink no more. Jean-Christophe wagged his headdoubtfully, and Melchior admitted that he could not resist it when he hadmoney in his hands. Jean-Christophe thought for a moment and said:

"You see, father, we must. . . "

He stopped. 

"What then?"

"I am ashamed. . . "

"Of whom?" asked Melchior naïvely. 

"Of you. "

Melchior made a face and said:

"That's nothing. "

Jean-Christophe explained that they would have to put all the family money, even Melchior's contribution, into the hands of some one else, who woulddole it out to Melchior day by day, or week by week, as he needed it. Melchior, who was in humble mood--he was not altogether starving--agreedto the proposition, and declared that he would then and there write aletter to the Grand Duke to ask that the pension which came to him shouldbe regularly paid over in his name to Jean-Christophe. Jean-Christopherefused, blushing for his father's humiliation. But Melchior, thirstingfor self-sacrifice, insisted on writing. He was much moved by his ownmagnanimity. Jean-Christophe refused to take the letter, and when Louisacame in and was acquainted with the turn of events, she declared that shewould rather beg in the streets than expose her husband to such an insult. She added that she had every confidence in him, and that she was sure hewould make amends out of love for the children and herself. In the endthere was a scene of tender reconciliation and Melchior's letter was lefton the table, and then fell under the cupboard, where it remainedconcealed. 

But a few days later, when she was cleaning up, Louisa found it there, andas she was very unhappy about Melchior's fresh outbreaks--he had forgottenall about it--instead of tearing it up, she kept it. She kept it forseveral months, always rejecting the idea of making use of it, in spite ofthe suffering she had to endure. But one day, when she saw Melchior oncemore beating Jean-Christophe and robbing him of his money, she could bearit no longer, and when she was left alone with the boy, who was weeping, she went and fetched the letter, and gave it him, and said:

"Go!"

Jean-Christophe hesitated, but he understood that there was no other wayif they wished to save from the wreck the little that was left to them. He went to the Palace. He took nearly an hour to walk a distance thatordinarily took twenty minutes. He was overwhelmed by the shame of whathe was doing. His pride, which had grown great in the years of sorrow andisolation, bled at the thought of publicly confessing his father's vice. He knew perfectly well that it was known to everybody, but by a strangeand natural inconsequence he would not admit it, and pretended to noticenothing, and he would rather have been hewn in pieces than agree. And now, of his own accord, he was going!. . . Twenty times he was on the point ofturning back. He walked two or three times round the town, turning awayjust as he came near the Palace. He was not alone in his plight. His motherand brothers had also to be considered. Since his father had deserted themand betrayed them, it was his business as eldest son to take his place andcome to their assistance. There was no room for hesitation or pride; hehad to swallow down his shame. He entered the Palace. On the staircase healmost turned and fled. He knelt down on a step; he stayed for severalminutes on the landing, with his hand on the door, until some one comingmade him go in. 

Every one in the offices knew him. He asked to see His Excellency theDirector of the Theaters, Baron de Hammer Langbach. A young clerk, sleek, bald, pink-faced, with a white waistcoat and a pink tie, shook his handfamiliarly, and began to talk about the opera of the night before. Jean-Christophe repeated his question. The clerk replied that HisExcellency was busy for the moment, but that if Jean-Christophe had arequest to make they could present it with other documents which were tobe sent in for His Excellency's signature. Jean-Christophe held out hisletter. The clerk read it, and gave a cry of surprise. 

"Oh, indeed!" he said brightly. "That is a good idea. He ought to havethought of that long ago! He never did anything better in his life! Ah, theold sot! How the devil did he bring himself to do it?"

He stopped short. Jean-Christophe had snatched the paper out of his hands, and, white with rage, shouted:

"I forbid you!. . . I forbid you to insult me!"

The clerk was staggered. 

"But, my dear Jean-Christophe, " he began to say, "whoever thought ofinsulting you? I only said what everybody thinks, and what you thinkyourself. "

"No!" cried Jean-Christophe angrily. 

"What! you don't think so? You don't think that he drinks?"

"It is not true!" said Jean-Christophe. 

He stamped his foot. 

The clerk shrugged his shoulders. 

"In that case, why did he write this letter?"

"Because, " said Jean-Christophe (he did not know what to say)--"because, when I come for my wages every month, I prefer to take my father's at thesame time. It is no good our both putting ourselves out. . . . My father isvery busy. "

He reddened at the absurdity of his explanation. The clerk looked at himwith pity and irony in his eyes. Jean-Christophe crumpled the paper in hishands, and turned to go. The clerk got up and took him by the arm. 

"Wait a moment, " he said. "I'll go and fix it up for you. "

He went into the Director's office. Jean-Christophe waited, with the eyesof the other clerks upon him. His blood boiled. He did not know what he wasdoing, what to do, or what he ought to do. He thought of going away beforethe answer was brought to him, and he had just made up his mind to thatwhen the door opened. 

"His Excellency will see you, " said the too obliging clerk. 

Jean-Christophe had to go in. 

His Excellency Baron de Hammer Langbach, a little neat old man withwhiskers, mustaches, and a shaven chin, looked at Jean-Christophe over hisgolden spectacles without stopping writing, nor did he give any response tothe boy's awkward bow. 

"So, " he said, after a moment, "you are asking, Herr Krafft . . . ?"

"Your Excellency, " said Jean-Christophe hurriedly, "I ask your pardon. Ihave thought better of it. I have nothing to ask. "

The old man sought no explanation for this sudden reconsideration. Helooked more closely at Jean-Christophe, coughed, and said:

"Herr Krafft, will you give me the letter that is in your hand?"

Jean-Christophe saw that the Director's gaze was fixed on the paper whichhe was still unconsciously holding crumpled up in his hand. 

"It is no use, Your Excellency, " he murmured. "It is not worth while now. "

"Please give it me, " said the old man quietly, as though he had not heard. 

Mechanically Jean-Christophe gave him the crumpled letter, but he plungedinto a torrent of stuttered words while he held out his hand for theletter. His Excellency carefully smoothed out the paper, read it, looked atJean-Christophe, let him flounder about with his explanations, then checkedhim, and said with a malicious light in his eyes:

"Very well, Herr Krafft; the request is granted. "

He dismissed him with a wave of his hand and went on with his writing. 

Jean-Christophe went out, crushed. 

"No offense, Jean-Christophe!" said the clerk kindly, when the boy cameinto the office again. Jean-Christophe let him shake his hand withoutdaring to raise his eyes. He found himself outside the Palace. He was coldwith shame. Everything that had been said to him recurred in his memory, and he imagined that there was an insulting irony in the pity of the peoplewho honored and were sorry for him. He went home, and answered only with afew irritable words Louisa's questions, as though he bore a grudge againsther for what he had just done. He was racked by remorse when he thought ofhis father. He wanted to confess everything to him, and to beg his pardon. Melchior was not there. Jean-Christophe kept awake far into the night, waiting for him. The more he thought of him the more his remorse quickened. He idealized him; he thought of him as weak, kind, unhappy, betrayed by hisown family. As soon as he heard his step on the stairs he leaped from hisbed to go and meet him, and throw himself in his arms; but Melchior was insuch a disgusting state of intoxication that Jean-Christophe had not eventhe courage to go near him, and he went to bed again, laughing bitterly athis own illusions. 

When Melchior learned a few days later of what had happened, he was in atowering passion, and, in spite of all Jean-Christophe's entreaties, hewent and made a scene at the Palace. But he returned with his tail betweenhis legs, and breathed not a word of what had happened. He had beenvery badly received. He had been told that he would have to take a verydifferent tone about the matter, that the pension had only been continuedout of consideration for the worth of his son, and that if in thefuture there came any scandal concerning him to their ears, it would besuppressed. And so Jean-Christophe was much surprised and comforted to seehis father accept his living from day to day, and even boast about havingtaken, the initiative in the _sacrifice_. 

But that did not keep Melchior from complaining outside that he had beenrobbed by his wife and children, that he had put himself out for them allhis life, and that now they let him want for everything. He tried also toextract money from Jean-Christophe by all sorts of ingenious tricks anddevices, which often used to make Jean-Christophe laugh, although he washardly ever taken in by them. But as Jean-Christophe held firm, Melchiordid not insist. He was curiously intimidated by the severity in the eyesof this boy of fourteen who judged him. He used to avenge himself by somestealthy, dirty trick. He used to go to the cabaret and eat and drink asmuch as he pleased, and then pay nothing, pretending that his son wouldpay his debts. Jean-Christophe did not protest, for fear of increasingthe scandal, and he and Louisa exhausted their resources in dischargingMelchior's debts. In the end Melchior more and more lost interest in hiswork as violinist, since he no longer received his wages, and his absencefrom the theater became so frequent that, in spite of Jean-Christophe'sentreaties, they had to dismiss him. The boy was left to support hisfather, his brothers, and the whole household. 

So at fourteen Jean-Christophe became the head of the family. 

 * * * * *

He stoutly faced his formidable task. His pride would not allow him toresort to the charity of others. He vowed that he would pull through alone. From his earliest days he had suffered too much from seeing his motheraccept and even ask for humiliating charitable offerings. He used to arguethe matter with her when she returned home triumphant with some presentthat she had obtained from one of her patronesses. She saw no harm in it, and was glad to be able, thanks to the money, to spare Jean-Christophe alittle, and to bring another meager dish forth for supper. ButJean-Christophe would become gloomy, and would not talk all evening, andwould even refuse, without giving any reason, to touch food gained in thisway. Louisa was vexed, and clumsily urged her son to eat. He was not to bebudged, and in the end she would lose her temper, and say unkind things tohim, and he would retort. Then he would fling his napkin on the table andgo out. His father would shrug his shoulders and call him a _poseur_; hisbrothers would laugh at him and eat his portion. 

But he had somehow to find a livelihood. His earnings from the orchestrawere not enough. He gave lessons. His talents as an instrumentalist, hisgood reputation, and, above all, the Prince's patronage, brought him anumerous _clientèle_ among the middle classes. Every morning from nineo'clock on he taught the piano to little girls, many of them older thanhimself, who frightened him horribly with their coquetry and maddened himwith the clumsiness of their playing. They were absolutely stupid as faras music went, but, on the other hand, they had all, more or less, a keensense of ridicule, and their mocking looks spared none of Jean-Christophe'sawkwardnesses. It was torture for him. Sitting by their side on the edge ofhis chair, stiff, and red in the face; bursting with anger, and not daringto stir; controlling himself so as not to say stupid things, and afraid ofthe sound of his own voice, so that he could hardly speak a word; tryingto look severe, and feeling that his pupil was looking at him out of thecorner of her eye, he would lose countenance, grow confused in the middleof a remark; fearing to make himself ridiculous, he would become so, andbreak out into violent reproach. But it was very easy for his pupils toavenge themselves, and they did not fail to do so, and upset him by acertain way of looking at him, and by asking him the simplest questions, which made him blush up to the roots of his hair; or they would ask him todo them some small service, such as fetching something they had forgottenfrom a piece of furniture, and that was for him a most painful ordeal, forhe had to cross the room under fire of malicious looks, which pitilesslyremarked the least awkwardness in his movements and his clumsy legs, hisstiff arms, his body cramped by his shyness. 

From these lessons he had to hasten to rehearsal at the theater. Often hehad no time for lunch, and he used to carry a piece of bread and some coldmeat in his pocket to eat during the interval. Sometimes he had to takethe place of Tobias Pfeiffer, the _Musik Direktor_, who was interested inhim, and sometimes had him to conduct the orchestra rehearsals instead ofhimself. And he had also to go on with his own musical education. Otherpiano lessons filled his day until the hour of the performance, and veryoften in the evening after the play he was sent for to play at the Palace. There he had to play for an hour or two. The Princess laid claim to aknowledge of music. She was very fond of it, but had never been ableto perceive the difference between good and bad. She used to makeJean-Christophe play through strange programmes, in which dull rhapsodiesstood side by side with masterpieces. But her greatest pleasure was to makehim improvise, and she used to provide him with heartbreakingly sentimentalthemes. 

Jean-Christophe used to leave about midnight, worn out, with his handsburning, his head aching, his stomach empty. He was in a sweat, and outsidesnow would be falling, or there would be an icy fog. He had to walk acrosshalf the town to reach home. He went on foot, his teeth chattering, longingto sleep and to cry, and he had to take care not to splash his only eveningdress-suit in the puddles. 

He would go up to his room, which he still shared with his brothers, andnever was he so overwhelmed by disgust and despair with his life as at themoment when in his attic, with its stifling smell, he was at last permittedto take off the halter of his misery. He had hardly the heart to undresshimself. Happily, no sooner did his head touch the pillow than he wouldsink into a heavy sleep which deprived him of all consciousness of histroubles. 

But he had to get up by dawn in summer, and before dawn in winter. Hewished to do his own work. It was all the free time that he had betweenfive o'clock and eight. Even then he had to waste some of it by work tocommand, for his title of _Hof Musicus_ and his favor with the Grand Dukeexacted from him official compositions for the Court festivals. 

So the very source of his life was poisoned. Even his dreams were not free, but, as usual, this restraint made them only the stronger. When nothinghampers action, the soul has fewer reasons for action, and the closer thewalls of Jean-Christophe's prison of care and banal tasks were drawn abouthim, the more his heart in its revolt felt its independence. In a lifewithout obstacles he would doubtless have abandoned himself to chance andto the voluptuous sauntering of adolescence. As he could be free only foran hour or two a day, his strength flowed into that space of time like ariver between walls of rock. It is a good discipline for art for a man toconfine his efforts between unshakable bounds. In that sense it may be saidthat misery is a master, not only of thought, but of style; it teachessobriety to the mind as to the body. When time is doled out and thoughtsmeasured, a man says no word too much, and grows accustomed to thinkingonly what is essential; so he lives at double pressure, having less timefor living. 

This had happened in Jean-Christophe's case. Under his yoke he tookfull stock of the value of liberty and he never frittered away theprecious minutes with useless words or actions. His natural tendencyto write diffusely, given up to all the caprice of a mind sincere butindiscriminating, found correction in being forced to think and do as muchas possible in the least possible time. Nothing had so much influence onhis artistic and moral development--not the lessons of his masters, nor theexample of the masterpieces. During the years when the character is formedhe came to consider music as an exact language, in which every sound has ameaning, and at the same time he came to loathe those musicians who talkwithout saying anything. 

And yet the compositions which he wrote at this time were still far fromexpressing himself completely, because he was still very far from havingcompletely discovered himself. He was seeking himself through the mass ofacquired feelings which education imposes on a child as second nature. Hehad only intuitions of his true being, until he should feel the passionsof adolescence, which strip the personality of its borrowed garments as athunder-clap purges the sky of the mists that hang over it. Vague and greatforebodings were mingled in him with strange memories, of which he couldnot rid himself. He raged against these lies; he was wretched to see howinferior what he wrote was to what he thought; he had bitter doubts ofhimself. But he could not resign himself to such a stupid defeat. He longedpassionately to do better, to write great things, and always he missedfire. After a moment of illusion as he wrote, he saw that what he had donewas worthless. He tore it up; he burned everything that he did; and, tocrown his humiliation, he had to see his official works, the most mediocreof all, preserved, and he could not destroy them--the concerto, _TheRoyal Eagle_, for the Prince's birthday and the cantata, _The Marriageof Pallas_, written on the occasion of the marriage of PrincessAdelaide--published at great expense in _éditions de luxe_, whichperpetuated his imbecilities for posterity; for he believed in posterity. He wept in his humiliation. 

Fevered years! No respite, no release--nothing to create a diversion fromsuch maddening toil; no games, no friends. How should he have them? In theafternoon, when other children played, young Jean-Christophe, with hisbrows knit in attention, was at his place in the orchestra in the dusty andill-lighted theater; and in the evening, when other children were abed, hewas still there, sitting in his chair, bowed with weariness. 

No intimacy with his brothers. The younger, Ernest, was twelve. He was alittle ragamuffin, vicious and impudent, who spent his days with otherrapscallions like himself, and from their company had caught not onlydeplorable manners, but shameful habits which good Jean-Christophe, whohad never so much as suspected their existence, was horrified to see oneday. The other, Rodolphe, the favorite of Uncle Theodore, was to go intobusiness. He was steady, quiet, but sly. He thought himself much superiorto Jean-Christophe, and did not admit his authority in the house, althoughit seemed natural to him to eat the food that he provided. He had espousedthe cause of Theodore and Melchior's ill-feeling against Jean-Christopheand used to repeat their absurd gossip. Neither of the brothers cared formusic, and Rodolphe, in imitation of his uncle, affected to despise it. Chafing against Jean-Christophe's authority and lectures--for he tookhimself very seriously as the head of the family--the two boys had tried torebel; but Jean-Christophe, who had lusty fists and the consciousness ofright, sent them packing. Still they did not for that cease to do with himas they liked. They abused his credulity, and laid traps for him, intowhich he invariably fell. They used to extort money from him with barefacedlies, and laughed at him behind his back. Jean-Christophe was always takenin. He had so much need of being loved that an affectionate word was enoughto disarm his rancor. He would have forgiven them everything for a littlelove. But his confidence was cruelly shaken when he heard them laughing athis stupidity after a scene of hypocritical embracing which had moved himto tears, and they had taken advantage of it to rob him of a gold watch, apresent from the Prince, which they coveted. He despised them, and yet wenton letting himself be taken in from his unconquerable tendency to trust andto love. He knew it. He raged against himself, and he used to thrash hisbrothers soundly when he discovered once more that they had tricked him. That did not keep him from swallowing almost immediately the fresh hookwhich it pleased them to bait for him. 

A more bitter cause of suffering was in store for him. He learned fromofficious neighbors that his father was speaking ill of him. After havingbeen proud of his son's successes, and having boasted of them everywhere, Melchior was weak and shameful enough to be jealous of them. He tried todecry them. It was stupid to weep; Jean-Christophe could only shrug hisshoulders in contempt. It was no use being angry about it, for his fatherdid not know what he was doing, and was embittered by his own downfall. Theboy said nothing. He was afraid, if he said anything, of being too hard;but he was cut to the heart. 

They were melancholy gatherings at the family evening meal round the lamp, with a spotted cloth, with all the stupid chatter and the sound of the jawsof these people whom he despised and pitied, and yet loved in spite ofeverything. Only between himself and his brave mother did Jean-Christophefeel a bond of affection. But Louisa, like himself, exhausted herselfduring the day, and in the evening she was worn out and hardly spoke, andafter dinner used to sleep in her chair over her darning. And she was sogood that she seemed to make no difference in her love between her husbandand her three sons. She loved them all equally. Jean-Christophe did notfind in her the trusted friend that he so much needed. 

So he was driven in upon himself. For days together he would not speak, fulfilling his tiresome and wearing task with a sort of silent rage. Sucha mode of living was dangerous, especially for a child at a critical age, when he is most sensitive, and is exposed to every agent of destructionand the risk of being deformed for the rest of his life. Jean-Christophe'shealth suffered seriously. He had been endowed by his parents with ahealthy constitution and a sound and healthy body; but his very healthinessonly served to feed his suffering when the weight of weariness and tooearly cares had opened up a gap by which it might enter. Quite early inlife there were signs of grave nervous disorders. When he was a small boyhe was subject to fainting-fits and convulsions and vomiting whenever heencountered opposition. When he was seven or eight, about the time of theconcert, his sleep had been troubled. He used to talk, cry, laugh and weepin his sleep, and this habit returned to him whenever he had too much tothink of. Then he had cruel headaches, sometimes shooting pains at the baseof his skull or the top of his head, sometimes a leaden heaviness. His eyestroubled him. Sometimes it was as though red-hot needles were piercing hiseyeballs. He was subject to fits of dizziness, when he could not see toread, and had to stop for a minute or two. Insufficient and unsound foodand irregular meals ruined the health of his stomach. He was racked byinternal pains or exhausted by diarrhea. But nothing brought him moresuffering than his heart. It beat with a crazy irregularity. Sometimes itwould leap in his bosom, and seem like to break; sometimes it would hardlybeat at all, and seem like to stop. At night his temperature would varyalarmingly; it would change suddenly from fever-point to next to nothing. He would burn, then shiver with cold, pass through agony. His throat wouldgo dry; a lump in it would prevent his breathing. Naturally his imaginationtook fire. He dared not say anything to his family of what he was goingthrough, but he was continually dissecting it with a minuteness whicheither enlarged his sufferings or created new ones. He decided that he hadevery known illness one after the other. He believed that he was goingblind, and as he sometimes used to turn giddy as he walked, he thought thathe was going to fall down dead. Always that dreadful fear of being stoppedon his road, of dying before his time, obsessed him, overwhelmed him, andpursued him. Ah, if he had to die, at least let it not be now, not beforehe had tasted victory!. . . 

Victory . . . The fixed idea which never ceases to burn within him withouthis being fully aware of it--the idea which bears him up through all hisdisgust and fatigues and the stagnant morass of such a life! A dim andgreat foreknowledge of what he will be some day, of what he is already!. . . What is he? A sick, nervous child, who plays the violin in the orchestraand writes mediocre concertos? No; far more than such a child. That is nomore than the wrapping, the seeming of a day; that is not his Being. Thereis no connection between his Being and the existing shape of his face andthought. He knows that well. When he looks at himself in the mirror he doesnot know himself. That broad red face, those prominent eyebrows, thoselittle sunken eyes, that short thick nose, that sullen mouth--the wholemask, ugly and vulgar, is foreign to himself. Neither does he know himselfin his writings. He judges, he knows that what he does and what he is arenothing; and yet he is sure of what he will be and do. Sometimes he fallsfoul of such certainty as a vain lie. He takes pleasure in humiliatinghimself and bitterly mortifying himself by way of punishment. But hiscertainty endures; nothing can alter it. Whatever he does, whatever hethinks, none of his thoughts, actions, or writings contain him or expresshim, He knows, he has this strange presentiment, that the more that he is, is not contained in the present but is what he _will be_, what he _will beto-morrow. He will be!_. . . He is fired by that faith, he is intoxicated bythat light! Ah, if only _To-day_ does not block the way! If only he doesnot fall into one of the cunning traps which _To-day_ is forever laying forhim!

So he steers his bark across the sea of days, turning his eyes neither toright nor left, motionless at the helm, with his gaze fixed on the bourne, the refuge, the end that he has in sight. In the orchestra, among thetalkative musicians, at table with his own family, at the Palace, while heis playing without a thought of what he is playing, for the entertainmentof Royal folk--it is in that future, that future which a speck may bringtoppling to earth--no matter, it is in that that he lives. 

 * * * * *

He is at his old piano, in his garret, alone. Night falls. The dying lightof day is cast upon his music. He strains his eyes to read the notes untilthe last ray of light is dead. The tenderness of hearts that are deadbreathed forth from the dumb page fills him with love. His eyes are filledwith tears. It seems to him that a beloved creature is standing behind him, that soft breathing caresses his cheek, that two arms are about his neck. He turns, trembling. He feels, he knows, that he is not alone. A soul thatloves and is loved is there, near him. He groans aloud because he cannotperceive it, and yet that shadow of bitterness falling upon his ecstasyhas sweetness, too. Even sadness has its light. He thinks of his belovedmasters, of the genius that is gone, though its soul lives on in the musicwhich it had lived in its life. His heart is overflowing with love; hedreams of the superhuman happiness which must have been the lot of theseglorious men, since the reflection only of their happiness is still so muchaflame. He dreams of being like them, of giving out such love as this, withlost rays to lighten his misery with a godlike smile. In his turn to be agod, to give out the warmth of joy, to be a sun of life!. . . 

Alas! if one day he does become the equal of those whom he loves, if hedoes achieve that brilliant happiness for which he longs, he will see theillusion that was upon him. . . . 

II

OTTO

One Sunday when Jean-Christophe had been invited by his _Musik Direktor_to dine at the little country house which Tobias Pfeiffer owned an hour'sjourney from the town, he took the Rhine steamboat. On deck he sat next toa boy about his own age, who eagerly made room for him. Jean-Christophepaid no attention, but after a moment, feeling that his neighbor had nevertaken his eyes off him, he turned and looked at him. He was a fair boy, with round pink cheeks, with his hair parted on one side, and a shade ofdown on his lip. He looked frankly what he was--a hobbledehoy--though hemade great efforts to seem grown up. He was dressed with ostentatiouscare--flannel suit, light gloves, white shoes, and a pale blue tie--and hecarried a little stick in his hand. He looked at Jean-Christophe out ofthe corner of his eye without turning his head, with his neck stiff, likea hen; and when Jean-Christophe looked at him he blushed up to his ears, took a newspaper from his pocket, and pretended to be absorbed in it, andto look important over it. But a few minutes later he dashed to pick upJean-Christophe's hat, which had fallen. Jean-Christophe, surprised atsuch politeness, looked once more at the boy, and once more he blushed. Jean-Christophe thanked him curtly, for he did not like such obsequiouseagerness, and he hated to be fussed with. All the same, he was flatteredby it. 

Soon it passed from his thoughts; his attention was occupied by the view. It was long since he had been able to escape from the town, and so he hadkeen pleasure in the wind that beat against his face, in the sound of thewater against the boat, in the great stretch of water and the changingspectacle presented by the banks--bluffs gray and dull, willow-trees halfunder water, pale vines, legendary rocks, towns crowned with Gothic towersand factory chimneys belching black smoke. And as he was in ecstasy over itall, his neighbor in a choking voice timidly imparted a few historic factsconcerning the ruins that they saw, cleverly restored and covered with ivy. He seemed to be lecturing to himself. Jean-Christophe, roused to interest, plied him with questions. The other replied eagerly, glad to display hisknowledge, and with every sentence he addressed himself directly toJean-Christophe, calling him "_Herr Hof Violinist_. "

"You know me, then?" said Jean-Christophe. 

"Oh yes, " said the boy, with a simple admiration that tickledJean-Christophe's vanity. 

They talked. The boy had often seen Jean-Christophe at concerts, and hisimagination had been touched by everything that he had heard about him. Hedid not say so to Jean-Christophe, but Jean-Christophe felt it, and waspleasantly surprised by it. He was not used to being spoken to in this toneof eager respect. He went on questioning his neighbor about the historyof the country through which they were passing. The other set out all theknowledge that he had, and Jean-Christophe admired his learning. But thatwas only the peg on which their conversation hung. What interested them wasthe making of each other's acquaintance. They dared not frankly approachthe subject; they returned to it again and again with awkward questions. Finally they plunged, and Jean-Christophe learned that his new friend wascalled Otto Diener, and was the son of a rich merchant in the town. Itappeared, naturally, that they had friends in common, and little by littletheir tongues were loosed. They were talking eagerly when the boat arrivedat the town at which Jean-Christophe was to get out. Otto got out, too. That surprised them, and Jean-Christophe proposed that they should takea walk together until dinner-time. They struck out across the fields. Jean-Christophe had taken Otto's arm familiarly, and was telling him hisplans as if he had known him from his birth. He had been so much deprivedof the society of children of his own age that he found an inexpressiblejoy in being with this boy, so learned and well brought up, who was insympathy with him. 

Time passed, and Jean-Christophe took no count of it. Diener, proud of theconfidence which the young musician showed him, dared not point out thatthe dinner-hour had rung. At last he thought that he must remind him ofit, but Jean-Christophe, who had begun the ascent of a hill in the woods, declared that they most go to the top, and when they reached it he lay downon the grass as though he meant to spend the day there. After a quarterof an hour Diener, seeing that he seemed to have no intention of moving, hazarded again:

"And your dinner?"

Jean-Christophe, lying at full length, with his hands behind his head, saidquietly:

"Tssh!"

Then he looked at Otto, saw his scared look, and began to laugh. 

"It is too good here, " he explained. "I shan't go. Let them wait for me!"

He half rose. 

"Are you in a hurry? No? Do you know what we'll do? We'll dine together. Iknow of an inn. "

Diener would have had many objections to make--not that any one was waitingfor him, but because it was hard for him to come to any sudden decision, whatever it might be. He was methodical, and needed to be preparedbeforehand. But Jean-Christophe's question was put in such a tone asallowed of no refusal. He let himself be dragged off, and they began totalk again. 

At the inn their eagerness died down. Both were occupied with the questionas to who should give the dinner, and each within himself made it a pointof honor to give it--Diener because he was the richer, Jean-Christophebecause he was the poorer. They made no direct reference to the matter, but Diener made great efforts to assert his right by the tone of authoritywhich he tried to take as he asked for the menu. Jean-Christophe understoodwhat he was at and turned the tables on him by ordering other dishes of arare kind. He wanted to show that he was as much at his ease as anybody, and when Diener tried again by endeavoring to take upon himself the choiceof wine, Jean-Christophe crushed him with a look, and ordered a bottle ofone of the most expensive vintages they had in the inn. 

When they found themselves seated before a considerable repast, they wereabashed by it. They could find nothing to say, ate mincingly, and wereawkward and constrained in their movements. They became conscious suddenlythat they were strangers, and they watched each other. They made vainefforts to revive the conversation; it dropped immediately. Their firsthalf-hour was a time of fearful boredom. Fortunately, the meat and drinksoon had an effect on them, and they looked at each other more confidently. Jean-Christophe especially, who was not used to such good things, becameextraordinarily loquacious. He told of the difficulties of his life, andOtto, breaking through his reserve, confessed that he also was not happy. He was weak and timid, and his schoolfellows put upon him. They laughedat him, and could not forgive him for despising their vulgar manners. They played all sorts of tricks on him. Jean-Christophe clenched hisfists, and said they had better not try it in his presence. Otto also wasmisunderstood by his family. Jean-Christophe knew the unhappiness of that, and they commiserated each other on their common misfortunes. Diener'sparents wanted him to become a merchant, and to step into his father'splace, but he wanted to be a poet. He would be a poet, even though he hadto fly the town, like Schiller, and brave poverty! (His father's fortunewould all come to him, and it was considerable. ) He confessed blushinglythat he had already written verses on the sadness of life, but he could notbring himself to recite them, in spite of Jean-Christophe's entreaties. But in the end he did give two or three of them, dithering with emotion. Jean-Christophe thought them admirable. They exchanged plans. Later on theywould work together; they would write dramas and song-cycles. They admiredeach other. Besides his reputation as a musician, Jean-Christophe'sstrength and bold ways made an impression on Otto, and Jean-Christophe wassensible of Otto's elegance and distinguished manners--everything in thisworld is relative--and of his ease of manner--that ease of manner which helooked and longed for. 

Made drowsy by their meal, with their elbows on the table, they talked andlistened to each other with softness in their eyes. The afternoon drewon; they had to go. Otto made a last attempt to procure the bill, butJean-Christophe nailed him to his seat with an angry look which made itimpossible for him to insist. Jean-Christophe was only uneasy on onepoint--that he might be asked for more than he had. He would have given hiswatch and everything that he had about him rather than admit it to Otto. But he was not called on to go so far. He had to spend on the dinner almostthe whole of his month's money. 

They went down the hill again. The shades of evening were beginning to fallover the pine-woods. Their tops were still bathed in rosy light; they swungslowly with a surging sound. The carpet of purple pine-needles deadened thesound of their footsteps. They said no word. Jean-Christophe felt a strangesweet sadness welling through his heart. He was happy; he wished to talk, but was weighed down with his sweet sorrow. He stopped for a moment, andso did Otto. All was silence. Flies buzzed high above them in a ray ofsunlight; a rotten branch fell. Jean-Christophe took Otto's hand, and in atrembling voice said:

"Will you be my friend?"

Otto murmured:

"Yes. "

They shook hands; their hearts beat; they dared hardly look at each other. 

After a moment they walked on. They were a few paces away from each other, and they dared say no more until they were out of the woods. They werefearful of each other, and of their strange emotion. They walked very fast, and never stopped until they had issued from the shadow of the trees; thenthey took courage again, and joined hands. They marveled at the limpidevening falling, and they talked disconnectedly. 

On the boat, sitting at the bows in the brilliant twilight, they tried totalk of trivial matters, but they gave no heed to what they were saying. They were lost in their own happiness and weariness. They felt no need totalk, or to hold hands, or even to look at each other; they were near eachother. 

When they were near their journey's end they agreed to meet again on thefollowing Sunday, Jean-Christophe took Otto to his door. Under the lightof the gas they timidly smiled and murmured _au revoir_. They were glad topart, so wearied were they by the tension at which they had been living forthose hours and by the pain it cost them to break the silence with a singleword. 

Jean-Christophe returned alone in the night. His heart was singing: "I havea friend! I have a friend!" He saw nothing, he heard nothing, he thought ofnothing else. 

He was very sleepy, and fell asleep as soon as he reached his room; but hewas awakened twice or thrice during the night, as by some fixed idea. Herepeated, "I have a friend, " and went to sleep again at once. 

Next morning it seemed to be all a dream. To test the reality of it, hetried to recall the smallest details of the day. He was absorbed by thisoccupation while he was giving his lessons, and even during the afternoonhe was so absent during the orchestra rehearsal that when he left he couldhardly remember what he had been playing. 

When he returned home he found a letter waiting for him. He had no need toask himself whence it came. He ran and shut himself up in his room to readit. It was written on pale blue paper in a labored, long, uncertain hand, with very correct flourishes:

DEAR HERR JEAN-CHRISTOPHE--dare I say HONORED FRIEND?--

I am thinking much of our doings yesterday, and I do thank you tremendouslyfor your kindness to me. I am so grateful for all that you have done, andfor your kind words, and the delightful walk and the excellent dinner! I amonly worried that you should have spent so much money on it. What a lovelyday! Do you not think there was something providential in that strangemeeting? It seems to me that it was Fate decreed that we should meet. Howglad I shall be to see you again on Sunday! I hope you will not have hadtoo much unpleasantness for having missed the _Hof Musik Direktor's_dinner. I should be so sorry if you had any trouble because of me. 

Dear Herr Jean-Christophe, I am always

Your very devoted servant and friend, OTTO DIENER. 

P. S. --On Sunday please do not call for me at home. It would be better, ifyou will, for us to meet at the _Schloss Garten_. 

Jean-Christophe read the letter with tears in his eyes. He kissed it; helaughed aloud; he jumped about on his bed. Then he ran to the table andtook pen in hand to reply at once. He could not wait a moment. But he wasnot used to writing. He could not express what was swelling in his heart;he dug into the paper with his pen, and blackened his fingers with ink; hestamped impatiently. At last, by dint of putting out his tongue and makingfive or six drafts, he succeeded in writing in malformed letters, whichflew out in all directions, and with terrific mistakes in spelling:

"MY SOUL, --

"How dare you speak of gratitude, because I love you? Have I not told youhow sad I was and lonely before I knew you? Your friendship is the greatestof blessings. Yesterday I was happy, happy!--for the first time in my life. I weep for joy as I read your letter. Yes, my beloved, there is no doubtthat it was Fate brought us together. Fate wishes that we should be friendsto do great things. Friends! The lovely word! Can it be that at last I havea friend? Oh! you will never leave me? You will be faithful to me? Always!always!. . . How beautiful it will be to grow up together, to work together, to bring together--I my musical whimsies, and all the crazy things that gochasing through my mind; you your intelligence and amazing learning! Howmuch you know! I have never met a man so clever as you. There are momentswhen I am uneasy. I seem to be unworthy of your friendship. You are sonoble and so accomplished, and I am so grateful to you for loving so coarsea creature as myself!. . . But no! I have just said, let there be no talk ofgratitude. In friendship there is no obligation nor benefaction. I wouldnot accept any benefaction! We are equal, since we love. How impatientI am to see you! I will not call for you at home, since you do notwish it--although, to tell the truth, I do not understand all theseprecautions--but you are the wiser; you are surely right. . . . 

"One word only! No more talk of money. I hate money--the word and the thingitself. If I am not rich, I am yet rich enough to give to my friend, and itis my joy to give all I can for him. Would not you do the same? And if Ineeded it, would you not be the first to give me all your fortune? But thatshall never be! I have sound fists and a sound head, and I shall always beable to earn the bread that I eat. Till Sunday! Dear God, a whole weekwithout seeing you! And for two days I have not seen you! How have I beenable to live so long without you?

"The conductor tried to grumble, but do not bother about it any more than Ido. What are others to me? I care nothing what they think or what they mayever think of me. Only you matter. Love me well, my soul; love me as I loveyou! I cannot tell you how much I love you. I am yours, yours, yours, fromthe tips of my fingers to the apple of my eye. 

"Yours always, "JEAN-CHRISTOPHE. "

Jean-Christophe was devoured with impatience for the rest of the week. Hewould go out of his way, and make long turns to pass by Otto's house. Notthat he counted on seeing him, but the sight of the house was enough tomake him grow pale and red with emotion. On the Thursday he could bear itno longer, and sent a second letter even more high-flown than the first. Otto answered it sentimentally. 

Sunday came at length, and Otto was punctually at the meeting-place. ButJean-Christophe had been there for an hour, waiting impatiently for thewalk. He began to imagine dreadfully that Otto would not come. He trembledlest Otto should be ill, for he did not suppose for a moment that Ottomight break his word. He whispered over and over again, "Dear God, let himcome--let him come!" and he struck at the pebbles in the avenue with hisstick, saying to himself that if he missed three times Otto would not come, but if he hit them Otto would appear at once. In spite of his care andthe easiness of the test, he had just missed three times when he saw Ottocoming at his easy, deliberate pace; for Otto was above all things correct, even when he was most moved. Jean-Christophe ran to him, and with histhroat dry wished him "Good-day!" Otto replied, "Good-day!" and they foundthat they had nothing more to say to each other, except that the weatherwas fine and that it was five or six minutes past ten, or it might be tenpast, because the castle clock was always slow. 

They went to the station, and went by rail to a neighboring place which wasa favorite excursion from the town. On the way they exchanged not more thanten words. They tried to make up for it by eloquent looks, but they wereno more successful. In vain did they try to tell each other what friendsthey were; their eyes would say nothing at all. They were just playacting. Jean-Christophe saw that, and was humiliated. He did not understand howhe could not express or even feel all that had filled his heart an hourbefore. Otto did not, perhaps, so exactly take stock of their failure, because he was less sincere, and examined himself with more circumspection, but he was just as disappointed. The truth is that the boys had, duringtheir week of separation, blown out their feelings to such a diapason thatit was impossible for them to keep them actually at that pitch, and whenthey met again their first impression must of necessity be false. They hadto break away from it, but they could not bring themselves to agree to it. 

All day they wandered in the country without ever breaking through theawkwardness and constraint that were upon them. It was a holiday. The innsand woods were filled with a rabble of excursionists--little _bourgeois_families who made a great noise and ate everywhere. That added to theirill-humor. They attributed to the poor people the impossibility of againfinding the carelessness of their first walk. But they talked, theytook great pains to find subjects of conversation; they were afraid offinding that they had nothing to say to each other. Otto displayed hisschool-learning; Jean-Christophe entered into technical explanations ofmusical compositions and violin-playing. They oppressed each other; theycrushed each other by talking; and they never stopped talking, tremblinglest they should, for then there opened before them abysses of silencewhich horrified them. Otto came near to weeping, and Jean-Christophe wasnear leaving him and running away as hard as he could, he was so bored andashamed. 

Only an hour before they had to take the train again did they thaw. In thedepths of the woods a dog was barking; he was hunting on his own account. Jean-Christophe proposed that they should hide by his path to try and seehis quarry. They ran into the midst of the thicket. The dog came near them, and then went away again. They went to right and left, went forward anddoubled. The barking grew louder: the dog was choking with impatience inhis lust for slaughter. He came near once more. Jean-Christophe and Otto, lying on the dead leaves in the rut of a path, waited and held theirbreath. The barking stopped; the dog had lost the scent. They heard his yaponce again in the distance; then silence came upon the woods. Not a sound, only the mysterious hum of millions of creatures, insects, and creepingthings, moving unceasingly, destroying the forest--the measured breathingof death, which never stops. The boys listened, they did not stir. Justwhen they got up, disappointed, and said, "It is all over; he will notcome!" a little hare plunged out of the thicket. He came straight uponthem. They saw him at the same moment, and gave a cry of joy. The hareturned in his tracks and jumped aside. They saw him dash into the brushwoodhead over heels. The stirring of the rumpled leaves vanished away like aripple on the face of waters. Although they were sorry for having criedout, the adventure filled them with joy. They rocked with laughter as theythought of the hare's terrified leap, and Jean-Christophe imitated itgrotesquely. Otto did the same. Then they chased each other. Otto was thehare, Jean-Christophe the dog. They plunged through woods and meadows, dashing through hedges and leaping ditches. A peasant shouted at them, because they had rushed over a field of rye. They did not stop to hear him. Jean-Christophe imitated the hoarse barking of the dog to such perfectionthat Otto laughed until he cried. At last they rolled down a slope, shouting like mad things. When they could not utter another sound they satup and looked at each other, with tears of laughter in their eyes. Theywere quite happy and pleased with themselves. They were no longer trying toplay the heroic friend; they were frankly what they were--two boys. 

They came back arm-in-arm, singing senseless songs, and yet, when they wereon the point of returning to the town, they thought they had better resumetheir pose, and under the last tree of the woods they carved their initialsintertwined. But then good temper had the better of their sentimentality, and in the train they shouted with laughter whenever they looked ateach other. They parted assuring each other that they had had a "hugelydelightful" (_kolossal entzückend_) day, and that conviction gained withthem when they were alone once more. 

 * * * * *

They resumed their work of construction more patient and ingenious eventhan that of the bees, for of a few mediocre scraps of memory theyfashioned a marvelous image of themselves and their friendship. Afterhaving idealized each other during the week, they met again on the Sunday, and in spite of the discrepancy between the truth and their illusion, theygot used to not noticing it and to twisting things to fit in with theirdesires. 

They were proud of being friends. The very contrast of their naturesbrought them together. Jean-Christophe knew nothing so beautiful as Otto. His fine hands, his lovely hair, his fresh complexion, his shy speech, the politeness of his manners, and his scrupulous care of his appearancedelighted him. Otto was subjugated by Jean-Christophe's brimming strengthand independence. Accustomed by age-old inheritance to religious respectfor all authority, he took a fearful joy in the company of a comrade inwhose nature was so little reverence for the established order of things. He had a little voluptuous thrill of terror whenever he heard him decryevery reputation in the town, and even mimic the Grand Duke himself. Jean-Christophe knew the fascination that he exercised over his friend, and used to exaggerate his aggressive temper. Like some old revolutionary, he hewed away at social conventions and the laws of the State. Otto wouldlisten, scandalized and delighted. He used timidly to try and join in, buthe was always careful to look round to see if any one could hear. 

Jean-Christophe never failed, when they walked together, to leap the fencesof a field whenever he saw a board forbidding it, or he would pick fruitover the walls of private grounds. Otto was in terror lest they should bediscovered. But such feelings had for him an exquisite savor, and in theevening, when he had returned, he would think himself a hero. He admiredJean-Christophe fearfully. His instinct of obedience found a satisfyingquality in a friendship in which he had only to acquiesce in the will ofhis friend. Jean-Christophe never put him to the trouble of coming to adecision. He decided everything, decreed the doings of the day, decreedeven the ordering of life, making plans, which admitted of no discussion, for Otto's future, just as he did for his own family. Otto fell inwith them, though he was a little put aback by hearing Jean-Christophedispose of his fortune for the building later on of a theater of his owncontriving. But, intimidated by his friend's imperious tones, he did notprotest, being convinced also by his friend's conviction that the moneyamassed by _Commerzienrath_ Oscar Diener could be put to no nobler use. Jean-Christophe never for a moment had any idea that he might be violatingOtto's will. He was instinctively a despot, and never imagined that hisfriend's wishes might be different from his own. Had Otto expressed adesire different from his own, he would not have hesitated to sacrifice hisown personal preference. He would have sacrificed even more for him. He wasconsumed by the desire to run some risk for him. He wished passionatelythat there might appear some opportunity of putting his friendship to thetest. When they were out walking he used to hope that they might meet somedanger, so that he might fling himself forward to face it. He would haveloved to die for Otto. Meanwhile, he watched over him with a restlesssolicitude, gave him his hand in awkward places, as though he were a girl. He was afraid that he might be tired, afraid that he might be hot, afraidthat he might be cold. When they sat down under a tree he took off his coatto put it about his friend's shoulders; when they walked he carried hiscloak. He would have carried Otto himself. He used to devour him with hiseyes like a lover, and, to tell the truth, he was in love. 

He did not know it, not knowing yet what love was. But sometimes, when theywere together, he was overtaken by a strange unease--the same that hadchoked him on that first day of their friendship in the pine-woods--and theblood would rush to his face and set his cheeks aflame. He was afraid. Byan instinctive unanimity the two boys used furtively to separate and runaway from each other, and one would lag behind on the road. They wouldpretend to be busy looking for blackberries in the hedges, and they did notknow what it was that so perturbed them. 

But it was in their letters especially that their feelings flew high. Theywere not then in any danger of being contradicted by facts, and nothingcould check their illusions or intimidate them. They wrote to each othertwo or three times a week in a passionately lyric style. They hardly everspoke of real happenings or common things; they raised great problems in anapocalyptic manner, which passed imperceptibly from enthusiasm to despair. They called each other, "My blessing, my hope, my beloved, my Self. " Theymade a fearful hash of the word "Soul. " They painted in tragic colors thesadness of their lot, and were desolate at having brought into theexistence of their friend the sorrows of their existence. 

"I am sorry, my love, " wrote Jean-Christophe, "for the pain which I bringyou. I cannot bear that you should suffer. It must not be. _I will not haveit_. " (He underlined the words with a stroke of the pen that dug into thepaper. ) "If you suffer, where shall I find strength to live? I have nohappiness but in you. Oh, be happy! I will gladly take all the burden ofsorrow upon myself! Think of me! Love me! I have such great need of beingloved. From your love there comes to me a warmth which gives me life. Ifyou knew how I shiver! There is winter and a biting wind in my heart. Iembrace your soul. "

"My thought kisses yours, " replied Otto. 

"I take your face in my hands, " was Jean-Christophe's answer, "and what Ihave not done and will not do with my lips I do with all my being. I kissyou as I love you, Prudence!", Otto pretended to doubt him. 

"Do you love me as much as I love you?"

"O God, " wrote Jean-Christophe, "not as much, but ten a hundred, a thousandtimes more! What! Do you not feel it? What would you have me do to stiryour heart?"

"What a lovely friendship is ours!" sighed Otto. "Was, there ever its likein history? It is sweet and fresh as a dream. If only it does not passaway! If you were to cease to love me!"

"How stupid you are, my beloved!" replied Jean-Christophe. "Forgive me, butyour weakling fear enrages me. How can you ask whether I shall cease tolove you! For me to live is to love you. Death is powerless against mylove. You yourself could do nothing if you wished to destroy it. Even ifyou betrayed me, even if you rent my heart, I should die with a blessingupon you for the love with which you fill me. Once for all, then, do not beuneasy, and vex me no more with these cowardly doubts!"

But a week later it was he who wrote:

"It is three days now since I heard a word fall from your lips. I tremble. Would you forget me? My blood freezes at the thought. . . . Yes, doubtless. . . . The other day only I saw your coldness towards me. You love me no longer!You are thinking of leaving me!. . . Listen! If you forget me, if you everbetray me, I will kill you like a dog!"

"You do me wrong, my dear heart, " groaned Otto. "You draw tears from me. Ido not deserve this. But you can do as you will. You have such rights overme that, if you were to break my soul, there would always be a spark leftto live and love you always!"

"Heavenly powers!" cried Jean-Christophe. "I have made my friend weep!. . . Heap insults on me, beat me, trample me underfoot! I am a wretch! I do notdeserve your love!"

They had special ways of writing the address on their letters, of placingthe stamp--upside down, askew, at bottom in a corner of the envelope--todistinguish their letters from those which they wrote to persons who didnot matter. These childish secrets had the charm of the sweet mysteries oflove. 

 * * * * *

One day, as he was returning from a lesson, Jean-Christophe saw Ottoin the street with a boy of his own age. They were laughing and talkingfamiliarly. Jean-Christophe went pale, and followed them with his eyesuntil they had disappeared round the corner of the street. They had notseen him. He went home. It was as though a cloud had passed over the sun;all was dark. 

When they met on the following Sunday, Jean-Christophe said nothing atfirst; but after they had been walking for half an hour he said in achoking voice:

"I saw you on Wednesday in the _Königgasse_. "

"Ah!" said Otto. 

And he blushed. 

Jean-Christophe went on:

"You were not alone. "

"No, " said Otto; "I was with some one. "

Jean-Christophe swallowed down his spittle and asked in a voice which hestrove to make careless:

"Who was it?"

"My cousin Franz. "

"Ah!" said Jean-Christophe; and after a moment: "You have never saidanything about him to me. "

"He lives at Rheinbach. "

"Do you see him often?"

"He comes here sometimes. "

"And you, do you go and stay with him?"

"Sometimes. "

"Ah!" said Jean-Christophe again. 

Otto, who was not sorry to turn the conversation, pointed out a bird whowas pecking at a tree. They talked of other things. Ten minutes laterJean-Christophe broke out again:

"Are you friends with him?"

"With whom?" asked Otto. 

(He knew perfectly who was meant. )

"With your cousin. "

"Yes. Why?"

"Oh, nothing!"

Otto did not like his cousin much, for he used to bother him with badjokes; but a strange malign instinct made him add a few moments later:

"He is very nice. "

"Who?" asked Jean-Christophe. 

(He knew quite well who was meant. )

"Franz. "

Otto waited for Jean-Christophe to say something, but he seemed not to haveheard. He was cutting a switch from a hazel-tree. Otto went on:

"He is amusing. He has all sorts of stories. "

Jean-Christophe whistled carelessly. 

Otto renewed the attack:

"And he is so clever . . . And distinguished!. . . "

Jean-Christophe shrugged his shoulders as though to say:

"What interest can this person have for me?"

And as Otto, piqued, began to go on, he brutally cut him short, and pointedout a spot to which to run. 

They did not touch on the subject again the whole afternoon, but they werefrigid, affecting an exaggerated politeness which was unusual for them, especially for Jean-Christophe. The words stuck in his throat. At last hecould contain himself no longer, and in the middle of the road he turned toOtto, who was lagging five yards behind. He took him fiercely by the hands, and let loose upon him:

"Listen, Otto! I will not--I will not let you be so friendly with Franz, because . . . Because you are my friend, and I will not let you love any onemore than me! I will not! You see, you are everything to me! You cannot . . . You must not!. . . If I lost you, there would be nothing left but death. I donot know what I should do. I should kill myself; I should kill you! No, forgive me!. . . "

Tears fell from his eyes. 

Otto, moved and frightened by the sincerity of such grief, growling outthreats, made haste to swear that he did not and never would love anybodyso much as Jean-Christophe, that Franz was nothing to him, and that hewould not see him again if Jean-Christophe wished it. Jean-Christophe drankin his words, and his heart took new life. He laughed and breathed heavily;he thanked Otto effusively. He was ashamed of having made such a scene, buthe was relieved of a great weight. They stood face to face and looked ateach other, not moving, and holding hands. They were very happy and verymuch embarrassed. They became silent; then they began to talk again, andfound their old gaiety. They felt more at one than ever. 

But it was not the last scene of the kind. Now that Otto felt his powerover Jean-Christophe, he was tempted to abuse it. He knew his sore spot, and was irresistibly tempted to place his finger on it. Not that he hadany pleasure in Jean-Christophe's anger; on the contrary, it made himunhappy--but he felt his power by making Jean-Christophe suffer. He was notbad; he had the soul of a girl. 

In spite of his promises, he continued to appear arm in arm with Franz orsome other comrade. They made a great noise between them, and he used tolaugh in an affected way. When Jean-Christophe reproached him with it, he used to titter and pretend not to take him seriously, until, seeingJean-Christophe's eyes change and his lips tremble with anger, he wouldchange his tone, and fearfully promise not to do it again, and the next dayhe would do it. Jean-Christophe would write him furious letters, in whichhe called him:

"Scoundrel! Let me never hear of you again! I do not know you! May thedevil take you and all dogs of your kidney!"

But a tearful word from Otto, or, as he ever did, the sending of a floweras a token of his eternal constancy, was enough for Jean-Christophe to beplunged in remorse, and to write:

"My angel, I am mad! Forget my idiocy. You are the best of men. Your littlefinger alone is worth more than all stupid Jean-Christophe. You have thetreasures of an ingenuous and delicate tenderness. I kiss your flower withtears in my eyes. It is there on my heart. I thrust it into my skin withblows of my fist. I would that it could make me bleed, so that I might themore feel your exquisite goodness and my own infamous folly!. . . "

But they began to weary of each other. It is false to pretend that littlequarrels feed friendship. Jean-Christophe was sore against Otto for theinjustice that Otto made him be guilty of. He tried to argue with himself;he laid the blame upon his own despotic temper. His loyal and eager nature, brought for the first time to the test of love, gave itself utterly, anddemanded a gift as utter without the reservation of one particle of theheart. He admitted no sharing in friendship. Being ready to sacrifice allfor his friend, he thought it right and even necessary that his friendshould wholly sacrifice himself and everything for him. But he wasbeginning to feel that the world was not built on the model of his owninflexible character, and that he was asking things which others could notgive. Then he tried to submit. He blamed himself, he regarded himself as anegoist, who had no right to encroach upon the liberty of his friend, andto monopolize his affection. He did sincerely endeavor to leave him free, whatever it might cost himself. In a spirit of humiliation he did sethimself to pledge Otto not to neglect Franz; he tried to persuade himselfthat he was glad to see him finding pleasure in society other than his own. But when Otto, who was not deceived, maliciously obeyed him, he could nothelp lowering at him, and then he broke out again. 

If necessary, he would have forgiven Otto for preferring other friends tohimself; but what he could not stomach was the lie. Otto was neither liarnor hypocrite, but it was as difficult for him to tell the truth as fora stutterer to pronounce words. What he said was never altogether truenor altogether false. Either from timidity or from uncertainty of his ownfeelings he rarely spoke definitely. His answers were equivocal, and, aboveall, upon every occasion he made mystery and was secret in a way that setJean-Christophe beside himself. When he was caught tripping, or was caughtin what, according to the conventions of their friendship, was a fault, instead of admitting it he would go on denying it and telling absurdstories. One day Jean-Christophe, exasperated, struck him. He thought itmust be the end of their friendship and that Otto would never forgive him;but after sulking for a few hours Otto came back as though nothing hadhappened. He had no resentment for Jean-Christophe's violence--perhaps evenit was not unpleasing to him, and had a certain charm for him--and yethe resented Jean-Christophe letting himself be tricked, gulping down allhis mendacities. He despised him a little, and thought himself superior. Jean-Christophe, for his part, resented Otto's receiving blows withoutrevolting. 

They no longer saw each other with the eyes of those first days. Theirfailings showed up in full light. Otto found Jean-Christophe's independenceless charming. Jean-Christophe was a tiresome companion when they wentwalking. He had no sort of concern for correctness. He used to dress as heliked, take off his coat, open his waistcoat, walk with open collar, rollup his shirt-sleeves, put his hat on the end of his stick, and fling outhis chest in the air. He used to swing his arms as he walked, whistle, andsing at the top of his voice. He used to be red in the face, sweaty, anddusty. He looked like a peasant returning from a fair. The aristocraticOtto used to be mortified at being seen in his company. When he saw acarriage coming he used to contrive to lag some ten paces behind, and tolook as though he were walking alone. 

Jean-Christophe was no less embarrassing company when he began to talk atan inn or in a railway-carriage when they were returning home. He used totalk loudly, and say anything that came into his head, and treat Otto witha disgusting familiarity. He used to express opinions quite recklesslyconcerning people known to everybody, or even about the appearance ofpeople sitting only a few yards away from him, or he would enter intointimate details concerning his health and domestic affairs. It was uselessfor Otto to roll his eyes and to make signals of alarm. Jean-Christopheseemed not to notice them, and no more controlled himself than if he hadbeen alone. Otto would see smiles on the faces of his neighbors, and wouldgladly have sunk into the ground. He thought Jean-Christophe coarse, andcould not understand how he could ever have found delight in him. 

What was most serious was that Jean-Christophe was just as recklessand indifferent concerning all the hedges, fences, inclosures, walls, prohibitions of entry, threats of fines, _Verbot_ of all sorts, andeverything that sought to confine his liberty and protect the sacred rightsof property against it. Otto lived in fear from moment to moment, and allhis protests were useless. Jean-Christophe grew worse out of bravado. 

One day, when Jean-Christophe, with Otto at his heels, was walkingperfectly at home across a private wood, in spite of, or because of, thewalls fortified with broken bottles which they had had to clear, they foundthemselves suddenly face to face with a gamekeeper, who let fire a volleyof oaths at them, and after keeping them for some time under a threat oflegal proceedings, packed them off in the most ignominious fashion. Ottodid not shine under this ordeal. He thought that he was already in jail, and wept, stupidly protesting that he had gone in by accident, and that hehad followed Jean-Christophe without knowing whither he was going. Whenhe saw that he was safe, instead of being glad, he bitterly reproachedJean-Christophe. He complained that Jean-Christophe had brought himinto trouble. Jean-Christophe quelled him with a look, and called him"Lily-liver!" There was a quick passage of words. Otto would have leftJean-Christophe if he had known how to find the way home. He was forced tofollow him, but they affected to pretend that they were not together. 

A storm was brewing. In their anger they had not seen it coming. The bakingcountryside resounded with the cries of insects. Suddenly all was still. They only grew aware of the silence after a few minutes. Their ears buzzed. They raised their eyes; the sky was black; huge, heavy, livid cloudsovercast it. They came up from every side like a cavalry-charge. Theyseemed all to be hastening towards an invisible point, drawn by a gap inthe sky. Otto, in terror, dare not tell his fears, and Jean-Christophe tooka malignant pleasure in pretending not to notice anything. But withoutsaying a word they drew nearer together. They were alone in the widecountry. Silence. Not a wind stirred, --hardly a fevered tremor that madethe little leaves of the trees shiver now and then. Suddenly a whirlingwind raised the dust, twisted the trees and lashed them furiously. And thesilence came again, more terrible than before. Otto, in a trembling voice, spoke at last. 

"It is a storm. We must go home. "

Jean-Christophe said:

"Let us go home. "

But it was too late. A blinding, savage light flashed, the heavens roared, the vault of clouds rumbled. In a moment they were wrapped about by thehurricane, maddened by the lightning, deafened by the thunder, drenchedfrom head to foot. They were in deserted country, half an hour from thenearest house. In the lashing rain, in the dim light, came the great redflashes of the storm. They tried to run but, their wet clothes clinging, they could hardly walk. Their shoes slipped on their feet, the watertrickled down their bodies. It was difficult to breathe. Otto's teethwere chattering, and he was mad with rage. He said biting things toJean-Christophe. He wanted to stop; he declared that it was dangerous towalk; he threatened to sit down on the road, to sleep on the soil in themiddle of the plowed fields. Jean-Christophe made no reply. He went onwalking, blinded by the wind, the rain, and the lightning; deafened by thenoise; a little uneasy, but unwilling to admit it. 

And suddenly it was all over. The storm had passed, as it had come. Butthey were both in a pitiful condition. In truth, Jean-Christophe was, asusual, so disheveled that a little more disorder made hardly any differenceto him. But Otto, so neat, so careful of his appearance, cut a sorryfigure. It was as though he had just taken a bath in his clothes, andJean-Christophe, turning and seeing him, could not help roaring withlaughter. Otto was so exhausted that he could not even be angry. Jean-Christophe took pity and talked gaily to him. Otto replied with a lookof fury. Jean-Christophe made him stop at a farm. They dried themselvesbefore a great fire, and drank hot wine. Jean-Christophe thought theadventure funny, and tried to laugh at it; but that was not at all toOtto's taste, and he was morose and silent for the rest of their walk. Theycame back sulking and did not shake hands when they parted. 

As a result of this prank they did not see each other for more than a week. They were severe in their judgment of each other. But after inflictingpunishment on themselves by depriving themselves of one of their Sundaywalks, they got so bored that their rancor died away. Jean-Christophe madethe first advances as usual. Otto condescended to meet them, and they madepeace. 

In spite of their disagreement it was impossible for them to do withouteach other. They had many faults; they were both egoists. But their egoismwas naïve; it knew not the self-seeking of maturity which makes it sorepulsive; it knew not itself even; it was almost lovable, and did notprevent them from sincerely loving each other! Young Otto used to weep onhis pillow as he told himself stories of romantic devotion of which he wasthe hero; lie used to invent pathetic adventures, in which he was strong, valiant, intrepid, and protected Jean-Christophe, whom he used to imaginethat he adored. Jean-Christophe never saw or heard anything beautiful orstrange without thinking: "If only Otto were here!" He carried the imageof his friend into his whole life, and that image used to be transfigured, and become so gentle that, in spite of all that he knew about Otto, it usedto intoxicate him. Certain words of Otto's which he used to remember longafter they were spoken, and to embellish by the way, used to make himtremble with emotion. They imitated each other. Otto aped Jean-Christophe'smanners, gestures, and writing. Jean-Christophe was sometimes irritatedby the shadow which repeated every word that he said and dished up histhoughts as though they were its own. But he did not see that he himselfwas imitating Otto, and copying his way of dressing, walking, andpronouncing certain words. They were under a fascination. They were infusedone in the other; their hearts were overflowing with tenderness. Theytrickled over with it on every side like a fountain. Each imagined that hisfriend was the cause of it. They did not know that it was the waking oftheir adolescence. 

 * * * * *

Jean-Christophe, who never distrusted any one, used to leave his paperslying about. But an instinctive modesty made him keep together the draftsof the letters which he scrawled to Otto, and the replies. But he did notlock them up; he just placed them between the leaves of one of hismusic-books, where he felt certain that no one would look for them. Hereckoned without his brothers' malice. 

He had seen them for some time laughing and whispering and looking athim; they were declaiming to each other fragments of speech which threwthem into wild laughter. Jean-Christophe could not catch the words, and, following his usual tactics with them, he feigned utter indifference toeverything they might do or say. A few words roused his attention; hethought he recognized them. Soon he was left without doubt that they hadread his letters. But when he challenged Ernest and Rodolphe, who werecalling each other "My dear soul, " with pretended earnestness, he couldget nothing from them. The little wretches pretended not to understand, and said that they had the right to call each other whatever they liked. Jean-Christophe, who had found all the letters in their places, did notinsist farther. 

Shortly afterwards he caught Ernest in the act of thieving; the littlebeast was rummaging in the drawer of the chest in which Louisa kept hermoney. Jean-Christophe shook him, and took advantage of the opportunity totell him everything that he had stored up against him. He enumerated, interms of scant courtesy, the misdeeds of Ernest, and it was not a shortcatalogue. Ernest took the lecture in bad part; he replied impudentlythat Jean-Christophe had nothing to reproach him with, and he hinted atunmentionable things in his brother's friendship with Otto. Jean-Christophedid not understand; but when he grasped that Otto was being dragged intothe quarrel he demanded an explanation of Ernest. The boy tittered; then, when he saw Jean-Christophe white with anger, he refused to say any more. Jean-Christophe saw that he would obtain nothing in that way; he sat down, shrugged his shoulders, and affected a profound contempt for Ernest. Ernest, piqued by this, was impudent again; he set himself to hurt hisbrother, and set forth a litany of things each more cruel and more vilethan the last. Jean-Christophe kept a tight hand on himself. When at lasthe did understand, he saw red; he leaped from his chair. Ernest had no timeto cry out. Jean-Christophe had hurled himself on him, and rolled with himinto the middle of the room, and beat his head against the tiles. On thefrightful cries of the victim, Louisa, Melchior, everybody, came running. They rescued Ernest in a parlous state. Jean-Christophe would not loose hisprey; they had to beat and beat him. They called him a savage beast, and helooked it. His eyes were bursting from his head, he was grinding his teeth, and his only thought was to hurl himself again on Ernest. When they askedhim what had happened, his fury increased, and he cried out that he wouldkill him. Ernest also refused to tell. 

Jean-Christophe could not eat nor sleep. He was shaking with fever, and wept in his bed. It was not only for Otto that he was suffering. Arevolution was taking place in him. Ernest had no idea of the hurt thathe had been able to do his brother. Jean-Christophe was at heart of apuritanical intolerance, which could not admit the dark ways of life, andwas discovering them one by one with horror. At fifteen, with his free lifeand strong instincts, he remained strangely simple. His natural purity andceaseless toil had protected him. His brother's words had opened up abysson abyss before him. Never would he have conceived such infamies, and nowthat the idea of it had come to him, all his joy in loving and being lovedwas spoiled. Not only his friendship with Otto, but friendship itself waspoisoned. 

It was much worse when certain sarcastic allusions made him think, perhapswrongly, that he was the object of the unwholesome curiosity of thetown, and especially, when, some time afterwards, Melchior made a remarkabout his walks with Otto. Probably there was no malice in Melchior, butJean-Christophe, on the watch, read hidden meanings into every word, andalmost he thought himself guilty. At the same time Otto was passing througha similar crisis. 

They tried still to see each other in secret. But it was impossible forthem to regain the carelessness of their old relation. Their frankness wasspoiled. The two boys who loved each other with a tenderness so fearfulthat they had never dared exchange a fraternal kiss, and had imagined thatthere could be no greater happiness than in seeing each other, and in beingfriends, and sharing each other's dreams, now felt that they were stainedand spotted by the suspicion of evil minds. They came to see evil even inthe most innocent acts: a look, a hand-clasp--they blushed, they had evilthoughts. Their relation became intolerable. 

Without saying anything they saw each other less often. They tried writingto each other, but they set a watch upon their expressions. Their lettersbecame cold and insipid. They grew disheartened. Jean-Christophe excusedhimself on the ground of his work, Otto on the ground of being too busy, and their correspondence ceased. Soon afterwards Otto left for theUniversity, and the friendship which had lightened a few months of theirlives died down and out. 

And also, a new love, of which this had been only the forerunner, tookpossession of Jean-Christophe's heart, and made every other light seem paleby its side. 

III

MINNA

Four or five months before these events Frau Josephs von Kerich, widow ofCouncilor Stephan von Kerich, had left Berlin, where her husband's dutieshad hitherto detained them, and settled down with her daughter in thelittle Rhine town, in her native country. She had an old house with alarge garden, almost a park, which sloped down to the river, not far fromJean-Christophe's home. From his attic Jean-Christophe could see the heavybranches of the trees hanging over the walls, and the high peak of the redroof with its mossy tiles. A little sloping alley, with hardly room topass, ran alongside the park to the right; from there, by climbing a post, you could look over the wall. Jean-Christophe did not fail to make use ofit. He could then see the grassy avenues, the lawns like open meadows, thetrees interlacing and growing wild, and the white front of the house withits shutters obstinately closed. Once or twice a year a gardener made therounds, and aired the house. But soon Nature resumed her sway over thegarden, and silence reigned over all. 

That silence impressed Jean-Christophe. He used often stealthily to climbup to his watch-tower, and as he grew taller, his eyes, then his nose, thenhis mouth reached up to the top of the wall; now he could put his arms overit if he stood on tiptoe, and, in spite of the discomfort of that position, he used to stay so, with his chin on the wall, looking, listening, whilethe evening unfolded over the lawns its soft waves of gold, which lit upwith bluish rays the shade of the pines. There he could forget himselfuntil he heard footsteps approaching in the street. The night scattered itsscents over the garden: lilac in spring, acacia in summer, dead leaves inthe autumn. When Jean-Christophe, was on his way home in the evening fromthe Palace, however weary he might be, he used to stand by the door todrink in the delicious scent, and it was hard for him to go back to thesmells of his room. And often he had played--when he used to play--inthe little square with its tufts of grass between the stones, before thegateway of the house of the Kerichs. On each side of the gate grew achestnut-tree a hundred years old; his grandfather used to come and sitbeneath them, and smoke his pipe, and the children used to use the nuts formissiles, and toys. 

One morning, as he went up the alley, he climbed up the post as usual. Hewas thinking of other things, and looked absently. He was just going toclimb down when he felt that there was something unusual about it. Helooked towards the house. The windows were open; the sun was shining intothem and, although no one was to be seen, the old place seemed to have beenroused from its fifteen years' sleep, and to be smiling in its awakening. Jean-Christophe went home uneasy in his mind. 

At dinner his father talked of what was the topic of the neighborhood: thearrival of Frau Kerich and her daughter with an incredible quantity ofluggage. The chestnut square was filled with rascals who had turned up tohelp unload the carts. Jean-Christophe was excited by the news, which, inhis limited life, was an important event, and he returned to his work, trying to imagine the inhabitants of the enchanted house from his father'sstory, as usual hyperbolical. Then he became absorbed in his work, and hadforgotten the whole affair when, just as he was about to go home in theevening, he remembered it all, and he was impelled by curiosity to climbhis watch-tower to spy out what might be toward within the walls. He sawnothing but the quiet avenue, in which the motionless trees seemed to besleeping in the last rays of the sun. In a few moments he had forgotten whyhe was looking, and abandoned himself as he always did to the sweetness ofthe silence. That strange place--standing erect, perilously balanced on thetop of a post--was meet for dreams. Coming from the ugly alley, stuffy anddark, the sunny gardens were of a magical radiance. His spirit wanderedfreely through these regions of harmony, and music sang in him; they lulledhim and he forgot time and material things, and was only concerned to missnone of the whisperings of his heart. 

So he dreamed open-eyed and open-mouthed, and he could not have told howlong he had been dreaming, for he saw nothing. Suddenly his heart leaped. In front of him, at a bend in an avenue, were two women's faces looking athim. One, a young lady in black, with fine irregular features and fairhair, tail, elegant, with carelessness and indifference in the poise of herhead, was looking at him with kind, laughing eyes. The other, a girl offifteen, also in deep mourning, looked as though she were going to burstout into a fit of wild laughter; she was standing a little behind hermother, who, without looking at her, signed to her to be quiet. She coveredher lips with her hands, as if she were hard put to it not to burst outlaughing. She was a little creature with a fresh face, white, pink, andround-cheeked; she had a plump little nose, a plump little mouth, a plumplittle chin, firm eyebrows, bright eyes, and a mass of fair hair plaitedand wound round her head in a crown to show her rounded neck and her smoothwhite forehead--a Cranach face. 

Jean-Christophe was turned to stone by this apparition. He could not goaway, but stayed, glued to his post, with his mouth wide open. It was onlywhen he saw the young lady coming towards him with her kindly mocking smilethat he wrenched himself away, and jumped--tumbled--down into the alley, dragging with him pieces of plaster from the wall. He heard a kind voicecalling him, "Little boy!" and a shout of childish laughter, clear andliquid as the song of a bird. He found himself in the alley on hands andknees, and, after a moment's bewilderment, he ran away as hard as he couldgo, as though he was afraid of being pursued. He was ashamed, and his shamekept bursting upon him again when he was alone in his room at home. Afterthat he dared not go down the alley, fearing oddly that they might be lyingin wait for him. When he had to go by the house, he kept close to thewalls, lowered his head, and almost ran without ever looking back. At thesame time he never ceased to think of the two faces that he had seen; heused to go up to the attic, taking off his shoes so as not to be heard, and to look his hardest out through the skylight in the direction of theKerichs' house and park, although he knew perfectly well that it wasimpossible to see anything but the tops of the trees and the topmostchimneys. 

About a month later, at one of the weekly concerts of the _Hof MusikVerein_, he was playing a concerto for piano and orchestra of his owncomposition. He had reached the last movement when he chanced to see inthe box facing him Frau and Fräulein Kerich looking at him. He so littleexpected to see them that he was astounded, and almost missed out hisreply to the orchestra. He went on playing mechanically to the end ofthe piece. When it was finished he saw, although he was not looking intheir direction, that Frau and Fräulein Kerich were applauding a littleexaggeratedly, as though they wished him to see that they were applauding. He hurried away from the stage. As he was leaving the theater he saw FrauKerich in the lobby, separated from him by several rows of people, and sheseemed to be waiting for him to pass. It was impossible for him not to seeher, but he pretended not to do so, and, brushing his way through, he lefthurriedly by the stage-door of the theater. Then he was angry with himself, for he knew quite well that Frau Kerich meant no harm. But he knew that inthe same situation he would do the same again. He was in terror of meetingher in the street. Whenever he saw at a distance a figure that resembledher, he used to turn aside and take another road. 

 * * * * *

It was she who came to him. She sought him out at home. 

One morning when he came back to dinner Louisa proudly told him that alackey in breeches and livery had left a letter for him, and she gave hima large black-edged envelope, on the back of which was engraved the Kericharms. Jean-Christophe opened it, and trembled as he read these words:

"Frau Josepha von Kerich requests the pleasure of _Hof Musicus_Jean-Christophe Krafft's company at tea to-day at half-past five. "

"I shall not go, " declared Jean-Christophe. 

"What!" cried Louisa. "I said that you would go. "

Jean-Christophe made a scene, and reproached his mother with meddling inaffairs that were no concern of hers. 

"The servant waited for a reply. I said that you were free to-day. You havenothing to do then. "

In vain did Jean-Christophe lose his temper, and swear that he would notgo; he could not get out of it now. When the appointed time came, he gotready fuming; in his heart of hearts he was not sorry that chance had sodone violence to his whims. 

Frau von Kerich had had no difficulty in recognizing in the pianist at theconcert the little savage whose shaggy head had appeared over her gardenwall on the day of her arrival. She had made inquiries about him of herneighbors, and what she learned about Jean-Christophe's family and theboy's brave and difficult life had roused interest in him, and a desire totalk to him. 

Jean-Christophe, trussed up in an absurd coat, which made him look like acountry parson, arrived at the house quite ill with shyness. He tried topersuade himself that Frau and Fräulein Kerich had had no time to remarkhis features on the day when they had first seen him. A servant led himdown a long corridor, thickly carpeted, so that his footsteps made nosound, to a room with a glass-paneled door which opened on to the garden. It was raining a little, and cold; a good fire was burning in thefireplace. Near the window, through which he had a peep of the wet treesin the mist, the two ladies were sitting. Frau Kerich was working and herdaughter was reading a book when Jean-Christophe entered. When they saw himthey exchanged a sly look. 

"They know me again, " thought Jean-Christophe, abashed. 

He bobbed awkwardly, and went on bobbing. 

Frau von Kerich smiled cheerfully, and held out her hand. 

"Good-day, my dear neighbor, " she said. "I am glad to see you. Since Iheard you at the concert I have been wanting to tell you how much pleasureyou gave me. And as the only way of telling you was to invite you here, Ihope you will forgive me for having done so. "

In the kindly, conventional words of welcome there was so much cordiality, in spite of a hidden sting of irony, that Jean-Christophe grew more at hisease. 

"They do not know me again, " he thought, comforted. 

Frau von Kerich presented her daughter, who had closed her book and waslooking interestedly at Jean-Christophe. 

"My daughter Minna, " she said, "She wanted so much to see you. "

"But, mamma, " said Minna, "it is not the first time that we have seen eachother. "

And she laughed aloud. 

"They do know me again, " thought Jean-Christophe, crestfallen. 

"True, " said Frau von Kerich, laughing too, "you paid us a visit the day wecame. "

At these words the girl laughed again, and Jean-Christophe looked sopitiful that when Minna looked at him she laughed more than ever. She couldnot control herself, and she laughed until she cried. Frau von Kerich triedto stop her, but she, too, could not help laughing, and Jean-Christophe, in spite of his constraint, fell victim to the contagiousness of it. Theirmerriment was irresistible; it was impossible to take offense at it. ButJean-Christophe lost countenance altogether when Minna caught her breathagain, and asked him whatever he could be doing on the wall. She wastickled by his uneasiness. He murmured, altogether at a loss. Frau vonKerich came to his aid, and turned the conversation by pouring out tea. 

She questioned him amiably about his life. But he did not gain confidence. He could not sit down; he could not hold his cup, which threatened toupset; and whenever they offered him water, milk, sugar or cakes, hethought that he had to get up hurriedly and bow his thanks, stiff, trussedup in his frock-coat, collar, and tie, like a tortoise in its shell, not daring and not being able to turn his head to right or left, andoverwhelmed by Frau von Kerich's innumerable questions, and the warmth ofher manner, frozen by Minna's looks, which he felt were taking in hisfeatures, his hands, his movements, his clothes. They made him even moreuncomfortable by trying to put him at his ease--Frau von Kerich, by herflow of words, Minna by the coquettish eyes which instinctively she made athim to amuse herself. 

Finally they gave up trying to get anything more from him than bows andmonosyllables, and Frau von Kerich, who had the whole burden of theconversation, asked him, when she was worn out, to play the piano. Muchmore shy of them than of a concert audience, he played an adagio of Mozart. But his very shyness, the uneasiness which was beginning to fill his heartfrom the company of the two women, the ingenuous emotion with which hisbosom swelled, which made him happy and unhappy, were in tune with thetenderness and youthful modesty of the music, and gave it the charm ofspring. Frau von Kerich was moved by it; she said so with the exaggeratedwords of praise customary among men and women of the world; she was nonethe less sincere for that, and the very excess of the flattery was sweetcoming from such charming lips. Naughty Minna said nothing, and lookedastonished at the boy who was so stupid when he talked, but was so eloquentwith his fingers. Jean-Christophe felt their sympathy, and grew bold underit. He went on playing; then, half turning towards Minna, with an awkwardsmile and without raising his eyes, he said timidly:

"This is what I was doing on the wall. "

He played a little piece in which he had, in fact, developed the musicalideas which had come to him in his favorite spot as he looked into thegarden, not, be it said, on the evening when he had seen Minna and Frau vonKerich--for some obscure reason, known only to his heart, he was trying topersuade himself that it was so--but long before, and in the calm rhythm ofthe _andante con moto_, there were to be found the serene impression of thesinging of birds, mutterings of beasts, and the majestic slumber of thegreat trees in the peace of the sunset. 

The two hearers listened delightedly. When he had finished Frau von Kerichrose, took his hands with her usual vivacity, and thanked him effusively. Minna clapped her hands, and cried that it was "admirable, " and that tomake him compose other works as "sublime" as that, she would have a ladderplaced against the wall, so that he might work there at his case. Frau vonKerich told Jean-Christophe not to listen to silly Minna; she begged him tocome as often as he liked to her garden, since he loved it, and she addedthat he need never bother to call on them if he found it tiresome. 

"You need never bother to come and see us, " added Minna. "Only if you donot come, beware!"

She wagged her finger in menace. 

Minna was possessed by no imperious desire that Jean-Christophe should cometo see her, or should even follow the rules of politeness with regard toherself, but it pleased her to produce a little effect which instinctivelyshe felt to be charming. 

Jean-Christophe blushed delightedly. Frau von Kerich won him completely bythe tact with which she spoke of his mother and grandfather, whom she hadknown. The warmth and kindness of the two ladies touched his heart; heexaggerated their easy urbanity, their worldly graciousness, in his desireto think it heartfelt and deep. He began to tell them, with his naïvetrustfulness, of his plans and his wretchedness. He did not notice thatmore than an hour had passed, and he jumped with surprise when a servantcame and announced dinner. But his confusion turned to happiness when Frauvon Kerich told him to stay and dine with them, like the good friends thatthey were going to be, and were already. A place was laid for him betweenthe mother and daughter, and at table his talents did not show to suchadvantage as at the piano. That part of his education had been muchneglected; it was his impression that eating and drinking were theessential things at table, and not the manner of them. And so tidy Minnalooked at him, pouting and a little horrified. 

They thought that he would go immediately after supper. But he followedthem into the little room, and sat with them, and had no idea of going. Minna stifled her yawns, and made signs to her mother. He did not noticethem, because he was dumb with his happiness, and thought they were likehimself--because Minna, when she looked at him, made eyes at him fromhabit--and finally, once he was seated, he did not quite know how to get upand take his leave. He would have stayed all night had not Frau von Kerichsent him away herself, without ceremony, but kindly. 

He went, carrying in his heart the soft light of the brown eyes of Frau vonKerich and the blue eyes of Minna; on his hands he felt the sweet contactof soft fingers, soft as flowers, and a subtle perfume, which he had neverbefore breathed, enveloped him, bewildered him, brought him almost toswooning. 

 * * * * *

He went again two days later, as was arranged, to give Minna amusic-lesson. Thereafter, under this arrangement, he went regularly twice aweek in the morning, and very often he went again in the evening to playand talk. 

Frau von Kerich was glad to see him. She was a clever and a kind woman. Shewas thirty-five when she lost her husband, and although young in body andat heart, she was not sorry to withdraw from the world in which she hadgone far since her marriage. Perhaps she left it the more easily becauseshe had found it very amusing, and thought wisely that she could not botheat her cake and have it. She was devoted to the memory of Herr von Kerich, not that she had felt anything like love for him when they married; butgood-fellowship was enough for her; she was of an easy temper and anaffectionate disposition. 

She had given herself up to her daughter's education; but the samemoderation which she had had in her love, held in check the impulsive andmorbid quality which is sometimes in motherhood, when the child is the onlycreature upon whom the woman can expend her jealous need of loving andbeing loved. She loved Minna much, but was clear in her judgment of her, and did not conceal any of her imperfections any more than she tried todeceive herself about herself. Witty and clever, she had a keen eye fordiscovering at a glance the weakness, and ridiculous side, of any person;she took great pleasure in it, without ever being the least malicious, forshe was as indulgent as she was scoffing, and while she laughed at peopleshe loved to be of use to them. 

Young Jean-Christophe gave food both to her kindness and to her criticalmind. During the first days of her sojourn in the little town, when hermourning kept her out of society, Jean-Christophe was a distractionfor her--primarily by his talent. She loved music, although she was nomusician; she found in it a physical and moral well-being in which thoughtscould idly sink into a pleasant melancholy. Sitting by the fire--whileJean-Christophe played--a book in her hands, and smiling vaguely, she tooka silent delight in the mechanical movements of his fingers, and thepurposeless wanderings of her reverie, hovering among the sad, sweet imagesof the past. 

But more even than the music, the musician interested her. She was cleverenough to be conscious of Jean-Christophe's rare gifts, although she wasnot capable of perceiving his really original quality. It gave her acurious pleasure to watch the waking of those mysterious fires which shesaw kindling in him. She had quickly appreciated his moral qualities, hisuprightness, his courage, the sort of Stoicism in him, so touching ina child. But for all that she did mot view him the less with the usualperspicacity of her sharp, mocking eyes. His awkwardness, his ugliness, hislittle ridiculous qualities amused her; she did not take him altogetherseriously; she did not take many things seriously. Jean-Christophe's anticoutbursts, his violence, his fantastic humor, made her think sometimesthat he was a little unbalanced; she saw in him one of the Kraffts, honestmen and good musicians, but always a little wrong in the head. Her lightirony escaped Jean-Christophe; he was conscious only of Frau von Kerich'skindness. He was so unused to any one being kind to him! Although hisduties at the Palace brought him into daily contact with the world, poorJean-Christophe had remained a little savage, untutored and uneducated. Theselfishness of the Court was only concerned in turning him to its profitand not in helping him in any way. He went to the Palace, sat at thepiano, played, and went away again, and nobody ever took the trouble totalk to him, except absently to pay him some banal compliment. Since hisgrandfather's death, no one, either at home or outside, had ever thoughtof helping him to learn the conduct of life, or to be a man. He sufferedcruelly from his ignorance and the roughness of his manners. He wentthrough an agony and bloody sweat to shape himself alone, but he did notsucceed. Books, conversation, example--all were lacking. He would fain haveconfessed his distress to a friend, but could not bring himself to do so. Even with Otto he had not dared, because at the first words he had uttered, Otto had assumed a tone of disdainful superiority which had burned into himlike hot iron. 

And now with Frau von Kerich it all became easy. Of her own accord, withouthis having to ask anything--it cost Jean-Christophe's pride so much!--sheshowed him gently what he should not do, told him what he ought to do, advised him how to dress, eat, walk, talk, and never passed over any faultof manners, taste, or language; and he could not be hurt by it, so lightand careful was her touch in the handling of the boy's easily injuredvanity. She took in hand also his literary education without seeming to beconcerned with it; she never showed surprise at his strange ignorance, butnever let slip an opportunity of correcting his mistakes simply, easily, asif it were natural for him to have been in error; and, instead of alarminghim with pedantic lessons, she conceived the idea of employing theirevening meetings by making Minna or Jean-Christophe read passages ofhistory, or of the poets, German and foreign. She treated him as a son ofthe house, with a few fine shades of patronizing familiarity which he neversaw. She was even concerned with his clothes, gave him new ones, knittedhim a woolen comforter, presented him with little toilet things, and all sogently that he never was put about by her care or her presents. In short, she gave him all the little attentions and the quasi-maternal care whichcome to every good woman instinctively for a child who is intrusted toher, or trusts himself to her, without her having any deep feeling forit. But Jean-Christophe thought that all the tenderness was given to himpersonally, and he was filled with gratitude; he would break out intolittle awkward, passionate speeches, which seemed a little ridiculous toFrau von Kerich, though they did not fail to give her pleasure. 

With Minna his relation was very different. When Jean-Christophe met heragain at her first lesson, he was still intoxicated by his memories ofthe preceding evening and of the girl's soft looks, and he was greatlysurprised to find her an altogether different person from the girl he hadseen only a few hours before. She hardly looked at him, and did not listento what he said, and when she raised her eyes to him, he saw in them soicy a coldness that he was chilled by it. He tortured himself for a longtime to discover wherein lay his offense. He had given none, and Minna'sfeelings were neither more nor less favorable than on the preceding day;just as she had been then, Minna was completely indifferent to him. If onthe first occasion she had smiled upon him in welcome, it was from a girl'sinstinctive coquetry, who delights to try the power of her eyes on thefirst comer, be it only a trimmed poodle who turns up to fill her idlehours. But since the preceding day the too-easy conquest had already lostinterest for her. She had subjected Jean-Christophe to a severe scrutinyand she thought him an ugly boy, poor, ill-bred, who played the piano well, though he had ugly hands, held his fork at table abominably, and ate hisfish with a knife. Then he seemed to her very uninteresting. She wanted tohave music-lessons from him; she wanted, even, to amuse herself with him, because for the moment she had no other companion, and because in spite ofher pretensions of being no longer a child, she had still in gusts a crazylonging to play, a need of expending her superfluous gaiety, which was, inher as in her mother, still further roused by the constraint imposed bytheir mourning. But she took no more account of Jean-Christophe than ofa domestic animal, and if it still happened occasionally during the daysof her greatest coldness that she made eyes at him, it was purely out offorgetfulness, and because she was thinking of something else, or simplyso as not to get out of practice. And when she looked at him like that, Jean-Christophe's heart used to leap. It is doubtful if she saw it; she wastelling herself stories. For she was at the age when we delight the senseswith sweet fluttering dreams. She was forever absorbed in thoughts of love, filled with a curiosity which was only innocent from ignorance. And sheonly thought of love, as a well-taught young lady should, in terms ofmarriage. Her ideal was far from having taken definite shape. Sometimes shedreamed of marrying a lieutenant, sometimes of marrying a poet, properlysublime, _à la_ Schiller. One project devoured another and the lastwas always welcomed with the same gravity and just the same amount ofconviction. For the rest, all of them were quite ready to give way beforea profitable reality, for it is wonderful to see how easily romantic girlsforget their dreams, when something less ideal, but more certain, appearsbefore them. 

As it was, sentimental Minna was, in spite of all, calm and cold. In spiteof her aristocratic name, and the pride with which the ennobling particlefilled her, she had the soul of a little German housewife in the exquisitedays of adolescence. 

 * * * * *

Naturally Jean-Christophe did not in the least understand the complicatedmechanism--more complicated in appearance than in reality--of the feminineheart. He was often baffled by the ways of his friends, but he was so happyin loving them that he credited them with all that disturbed and made himsad with them, so as to persuade himself that he was as much loved by themas he loved them himself. A word or an affectionate look plunged him indelight. Sometimes he was so bowled over by it that he would burst intotears. 

Sitting by the table in the quiet little room, with Frau von Kerich a fewyards away sewing by the light of the lamp--Minna reading on the otherside of the table, and no one talking, he looking through the half-opengarden-door at the gravel of the avenue glistening under the moon, a softmurmur coming from the tops of the trees--his heart would be so full ofhappiness that suddenly, for no reason, he would leap from his chair, throwhimself at Frau von Kerich's feet, seize her hand, needle or no needle, cover it with kisses, press it to his lips, his cheeks, his eyes, and sob. Minna would raise her eyes, lightly shrug her shoulders, and make a face. Frau von Kerich would smile down at the big boy groveling at her feet, andpat his head with her free hand, and say to him in her pretty voice, affectionately and ironically:

"Well, well, old fellow! What is it?"

Oh, the sweetness of that voice, that peace, that silence, that soft airin which were no shouts, no roughness, no violence, that oasis in theharsh desert of life, and--heroic light gilding with its rays people andthings--the light of the enchanted world conjured up by the reading of thedivine poets! Goethe, Schiller, Shakespeare, springs of strength, ofsorrow, and of love!. . . 

Minna, with her head down over the book, and her face faintly colored byher animated delivery, would read in her fresh voice, with its slight lisp, and try to sound important when she spoke in the characters of warriorsand kings. Sometimes Frau von Kerich herself would take the book; then shewould lend to tragic histories the spiritual and tender graciousness of herown nature, but most often she would listen, lying back in her chair, hernever-ending needlework in her lap; she would smile at her own thoughts, for always she would come back to them through every book. 

Jean-Christophe also had tried to read, but he had had to give it up; hestammered, stumbled over the words, skipped the punctuation, seemed tounderstand nothing, and would be so moved that he would have to stop in themiddle of the pathetic passages, feeling tears coming. Then in a tantrum hewould throw the book down on the table, and his two friends would burst outlaughing. . . . How he loved them! He carried the image of them everywherewith him, and they were mingled with the persons in Shakespeare and Goethe. He could hardly distinguish between them. Some fragrant word of the poetswhich called up from the depths of his being passionate emotions could notin him be severed from the beloved lips that had made him hear it for thefirst time. Even twenty years later he could never read Egmont or Romeo, orsee them played, without there leaping up in him at certain lines thememory of those quiet evenings, those dreams of happiness, and the belovedfaces of Frau von Kerich and Minna. 

He would spend hours looking at them in the evening when they were reading;in the night when he was dreaming in his bed, awake, with his eyes closed;during the day, when he was dreaming at his place in the orchestra, playingmechanically with his eyes half closed. He had the most innocent tendernessfor them, and, knowing nothing of love, he thought he was in love. But hedid not quite know whether it was with the mother or the daughter. He wentinto the matter gravely, and did not know which to choose. And yet, as itseemed to him he must at all costs make his choice, he inclined towardsFrau von Kerich. And he did in fact discover, as soon as he had made uphis mind to it, that it was she that he loved. He loved her quick eyes, the absent smile upon her half-open lips, her pretty forehead, so young inseeming, and the parting to one side in her fine, soft hair, her ratherhusky voice, with its little cough, her motherly hands, the elegance of hermovements, and her mysterious soul. He would thrill with happiness when, sitting by his side, she would kindly explain to him the meaning of somepassage in a book which he did not understand; she would lay her hand onJean-Christophe's shoulder; he would feel the warmth of her fingers, herbreath on his cheek, the sweet perfume of her body; he would listen inecstasy, lose all thought of the book, and understand nothing at all. Shewould see that and ask him to repeat what she had said; then he would saynothing, and she would laughingly be angry, and tap his nose with her book, telling him that he would always be a little donkey. To that he would replythat he did not care so long as he was _her_ little donkey, and she did notdrive him out of her house. She would pretend to make objections; then shewould say that although he was an ugly little donkey, and very stupid, shewould agree to keep him--and perhaps even to love him--although he was goodfor nothing, if at the least he would be just _good_. Then they would bothlaugh, and he would go swimming in his joy. 

 * * * * *

When he discovered that he loved Frau von Kerich, Jean-Christophe brokeaway from Minna. He was beginning to be irritated by her coldness anddisdain, and as, by dint of seeing her often, he had been emboldened littleby little to resume his freedom of manner with her, he did not conceal hisexasperation from her. She loved to sting him, and he would reply sharply. They were always saying unkind things to each other, and Frau von Kerichonly laughed at them. Jean-Christophe, who never got the better in suchpassages of words, used sometimes to issue from them so infuriated that hethought he detested Minna; and he persuaded himself that he only went toher house again because of Frau von Kerich. 

He went on giving her music lessons. Twice a week, from nine to ten in themorning, he superintended the girl's scales and exercises. The room inwhich they did this was Minna's studio--an odd workroom, which, with anamusing fidelity, reflected the singular disorder of her little femininemind. 

On the table were little figures of musical cats--a whole orchestra--oneplaying a violin, another the violoncello--a little pocket-mirror, toiletthings and writing things, tidily arranged. On the shelves were tiny bustsof musicians--Beethoven frowning, Wagner with his velvet cap, and theApollo Belvedere. On the mantelpiece, by a frog smoking a red pipe, a paperfan on which was painted the Bayreuth Theater. On the two bookshelveswere a few books--Lübke, Mommsen, Schiller, "Sans Famille, " Jules Verne, Montaigne. On the walls large photographs of the Sistine Madonna, andpictures by Herkomer, edged with blue and green ribbons. There was alsoa view of a Swiss hotel in a frame of silver thistles; and above all, everywhere in profusion, in every corner of the room, photographs ofofficers, tenors, conductors, girl-friends, all with inscriptions, almostall with verse--or at least what is accepted as verse in Germany. In thecenter of the room, on a marble pillar, was enthroned a bust of Brahms, with a beard; and, above the piano, little plush monkeys and cotilliontrophies hung by threads. 

Minna would arrive late, her eyes still puffy with sleep, sulky; she wouldhardly reach out her hand to Jean-Christophe, coldly bid him good-day, and, without a word, gravely and with dignity sit down at the piano. When shewas alone, it pleased her to play interminable scales, for that allowed heragreeably to prolong her half-somnolent condition and the dreams which shewas spinning for herself. But Jean-Christophe would compel her to fix herattention on difficult exercises, and so sometimes she would avenge herselfby playing them as badly as she could. She was a fair musician, but she didnot like music--like many German women. But, like them, she thought sheought to like it, and she took her lessons conscientiously enough, exceptfor certain moments of diabolical malice indulged in to enrage her master. She could enrage him much more by the icy indifference with which she setherself to her task. But the worst was when she took it into her head thatit was her duty to throw her soul into an expressive passage: then shewould become sentimental and feel nothing. 

Young Jean-Christophe, sitting by her side, was not very polite. He neverpaid her compliments--far from it. She resented that, and never let anyremark pass without answering it. She would argue about everything that hesaid, and when she made a mistake she would insist that she was playingwhat was written. He would get cross, and they would go on exchangingungracious words and impertinences. With her eyes on the keys, she neverceased to watch Jean-Christophe and enjoy his fury. As a relief fromboredom she would invent stupid little tricks, with no other object thanto interrupt the lesson and to annoy Jean-Christophe. She would pretendto choke, so as to make herself interesting; she would have a fit ofcoughing, or she would have something very important to say to the maid. Jean-Christophe knew that she was play-acting; and Minna knew thatJean-Christophe knew that she was play-acting; and it amused her, forJean-Christophe could not tell her what he was thinking. 

One day, when she was indulging in this amusement and was coughinglanguidly, hiding her mouth in her handkerchief, as if she were on thepoint of choking, but in reality watching Jean-Christophe's exasperationout of the corner of her eye, she conceived the ingenious idea of lettingthe handkerchief fall, so as to make Jean-Christophe pick it up, which hedid with the worst grace in the world. She rewarded him with a "Thank you!"in her grand manner, which nearly made him explode. 

She thought the game too good not to be repeated. Next day she did itagain. Jean-Christophe did not budge; he was boiling with rage. She waiteda moment, and then said in an injured tone:

"Will you please pick up my handkerchief?"

Jean-Christophe could not contain himself. 

"I am not your servant!" he cried roughly. "Pick it up yourself!"

Minna choked with rage. She got up suddenly from her stool, which fellover. 

"Oh, this is too much!" she said, and angrily thumped the piano; and sheleft the room in a fury. 

Jean-Christophe waited. She did not come back. He was ashamed of what hehad done; he felt that he had behaved like a little cad. And he was at theend of his tether; she made fun of him too impudently! He was afraid lestMinna should complain to her mother, and he should be forever banished fromFrau von Kerich's thoughts. He knew not what to do; for if he was sorry forhis brutality, no power on earth would have made him ask pardon. 

He came again on the chance the next day, although he thought thatMinna would refuse to take her lesson. But Minna, who was too proud tocomplain to anybody--Minna, whose conscience was not shielded againstreproach--appeared again, after making him wait five minutes more thanusual; and she sat down at the piano, stiff, upright, without turning herhead or saying a word, as though Jean-Christophe no longer existed for her. But she did not fail to take her lesson, and all the subsequent lessons, because she knew very well that Jean-Christophe was a fine musician, andthat she ought to learn to play the piano properly if she wished tobe--what she wished to be--a well-bred young lady of finished education. 

But how bored she was! How they bored each other!

 * * * * *

One misty morning in March, when little flakes of snow were flying, likefeathers, in the gray air, they were in the studio. It was hardly daylight. Minna was arguing, as usual, about a false note that she had struck, andpretending that it "was written so. " Although he knew perfectly well thatshe was lying, Jean-Christophe bent over the book to look at the passage inquestion closely. Her hand was on the rack, and she did not move it. Hislips were near her hand. He tried to read and could not; he was looking atsomething else--a thing soft, transparent, like the petals of a flower. Suddenly--he did not know what he was thinking of--he pressed his lips ashard as he could on the little hand. 

They were both dumfounded by it. He flung backwards; she withdrew herhand--both blushing. They said no word; they did not look at each other. After a moment of confused silence she began to play again; she was veryuneasy: her bosom rose and fell as though she were under some weight; shestruck wrong note after wrong note. He did not notice it; he was moreuneasy than she. His temples throbbed; he heard nothing; he knew not whatshe was playing; and, to break the silence, he made a few random remarks ina choking voice. He thought that he was forever lost in Minna's opinion. He was confounded by what he had done, thought it stupid and rude. Thelesson-hour over, he left Minna without looking at her, and even forgotto say good-bye. She did not mind. She had no thought now of deemingJean-Christophe ill-mannered; and if she made so many mistakes in playing, it was because all the time she was watching him out of the corner of hereye with astonishment and curiosity, and--for the first time--sympathy. 

When she was left alone, instead of going to look for her mother as usual, she shut herself up in her room and examined this extraordinary event. Shesat with her face in her hands in front of the mirror. Her eyes seemed toher soft and gleaming. She bit gently at her lip in the effort of thinking. And as she looked complacently at her pretty face, she visualized thescene, and blushed and smiled. At dinner she was animated and merry. Sherefused to go out at once, and stayed in the drawing-room for part of theafternoon; she had some work in her hand, and did not make ten stitcheswithout a mistake, but what did that matter! In a corner of the room, withher back turned to her mother, she smiled; or, under a sudden impulse tolet herself go, she pranced about the room and sang at the top of hervoice. Frau von Kerich started and called her mad. Minna flung her armsround her neck, shaking with laughter, and hugged and kissed her. 

In the evening, when she went to her room, it was a long time beforeshe went to bed. She went on looking at herself in the mirror, tryingto remember, and having thought all through the day of the samething--thinking of nothing. She undressed slowly; she stopped every moment, sitting on the bed, trying to remember what Jean-Christophe was like. Itwas a Jean-Christophe of fantasy who appeared, and now he did not seemnearly so uncouth to her. She went to bed and put out the light. Tenminutes later the scene of the morning rushed back into her mind, and sheburst out laughing. Her mother got up softly and opened the door, thinkingthat, against orders, she was reading in bed. She found Minna lying quietlyin her bed, with her eyes wide open in the dim candlelight. 

"What is it?" she asked. "What is amusing you?"

"Nothing, " said Minna gravely. "I was thinking. "

"You are very lucky to find your own company so amusing. But go to sleep. "

"Yes, mamma, " replied Minna meekly. Inside herself she was grumbling; "Goaway! Do go away!" until the door was closed, and she could go on enjoyingher dreams. She fell into a sweet drowsiness. When she was nearly asleep, she leaped for joy:

"He loves me. . . . What happiness! How good of him to love me!. . . How I lovehim!"

She kissed her pillow and went fast asleep. 

 * * * * *

When next they were together Jean-Christophe was surprised at Minna'samiability. She gave him "Good-day, " and asked him how he was in a verysoft voice; she sat at the piano, looking wise and modest; she was an angelof docility. There were none of her naughty schoolgirl's tricks, but shelistened religiously to Jean-Christophe's remarks, acknowledged that theywere right, gave little timid cries herself when she made a mistake and setherself to be more accurate. Jean-Christophe could not understand it. In avery short time she made astounding progress. Not only did she play better, but with musical feeling. Little as he was given to flattery, he had to payher a compliment. She blushed with pleasure, and thanked him for it with alook tearful with gratitude. She took pains with her toilet for him; shewore ribbons of an exquisite shade; she gave Jean-Christophe little smilesand soft glances, which he disliked, for they irritated him, and moved himto the depths of his soul. And now it was she who made conversation, butthere was nothing childish in what she said; she talked gravely, and quotedthe poets in a pedantic and pretentious way. He hardly ever replied; he wasill at ease. This new Minna that he did not know astonished and disquietedhim. 

Always she watched him. She was waiting. . . . For what?. . . Did she knowherself?. . . She was waiting for him to do it again. He took good care notto; for he was convinced that he had behaved like a clod; he seemed neverto give a thought to it. She grew restless, and one day when he was sittingquietly at a respectful distance from her dangerous little paws, she wasseized with impatience: with a movement so quick that she had no time tothink of it, she herself thrust her little hand against his lips. He wasstaggered by it, then furious and ashamed. But none the less he kissed itvery passionately. Her naïve effrontery enraged him; he was on the point ofleaving her there and then. 

But he could not. He was entrapped. Whirling thoughts rushed in his mind;he could make nothing of them. Like mists ascending from a valley they rosefrom the depths of his heart. He wandered hither and thither at randomthrough this mist of love, and whatever he did, he did but turn round andround an obscure fixed idea, a Desire unknown, terrible and fascinating asa flame to an insect. It was the sudden eruption of the blind forces ofNature. 

 * * * * *

They passed through a period of waiting. They watched each other, desiredeach other, were fearful of each other. They were uneasy. But they did notfor that desist from their little hostilities and sulkinesses; only therewere no more familiarities between them; they were silent. Each was busyconstructing their love in silence. 

Love has curious retroactive effects. As soon as Jean-Christophe discoveredthat he loved Minna, he discovered at the same time that he had alwaysloved her. For three months they had been seeing each other almost everyday without ever suspecting the existence of their love. But from the daywhen he did actually love her, he was absolutely convinced that he hadloved her from all eternity. 

It was a good thing for him to have discovered at last _whom_ he loved. He had loved for so long without knowing whom! It was a sort of relief tohim, like a sick man, who, suffering from a general illness, vague andenervating, sees it become definite in sharp pain in some portion of hisbody. Nothing is more wearing than love without a definite object; it eatsaway and saps the strength like a fever. A known passion leads the mind toexcess; that is exhausting, but at least one knows why. It is an excess; itis not a wasting away. Anything rather than emptiness. 

Although Minna had given Jean-Christophe good reason to believe that shewas not indifferent to him, he did not fail to torture himself with theidea that she despised him. They had never had any very clear idea of eachother, but this idea had never been more confused and false than it wasnow; it consisted of a series of strange fantasies which could never bemade to agree, for they passed from one extreme to the other, endowing eachother in turn with faults and charms which they did not possess--charmswhen they were parted, faults when they were together. In either case theywere wide of the mark. 

They did not know themselves what they desired. For Jean-Christophe hislove took shape as that thirst for tenderness, imperious, absolute, demanding reciprocation, which had burned in him since childhood, which he demanded from others, and wished to impose on them by will orforce. Sometimes this despotic desire of full sacrifice of himself andothers--especially others, perhaps--was mingled with gusts of a brutaland obscure desire, which set him whirling, and he did not understand it. Minna, curious above all things, and delighted to have a romance, triedto extract as much pleasure as possible from it for her vanity andsentimentality; she tricked herself whole-heartedly as to what she wasfeeling. A great part of their love was purely literary. They fed on thebooks they had read, and were forever ascribing to themselves feelingswhich they did not possess. 

But the moment was to come when all these little lies and small egoismswere to vanish away before the divine light of love. A day, an hour, a fewseconds of eternity. . . . And it was so unexpected!. . . 

 * * * * *

One evening they were alone and talking. The room was growing dark. Theirconversation took a serious turn. They talked of the infinite, of Life, andDeath. It made a larger frame for their little passion. Minna complained ofher loneliness, which led naturally to Jean-Christophe's answer that shewas not so lonely as she thought. 

"No, " she said, shaking her head. "That is only words. Every one lives forhimself; no one is interested in you; nobody loves you. "

Silence. 

"And I?" said Jean-Christophe suddenly, pale with emotion. 

Impulsive Minna jumped to her feet, and took his hands. 

The door opened. They flung apart. Frau von Kerich entered. Jean-Christopheburied himself in a book, which he held upside down. Minna bent over herwork, and pricked her finger with her needle. 

They were not alone together for the rest of the evening, and they wereafraid of being left. When Frau von Kerich got up to look for something inthe next room, Minna, not usually obliging, ran to fetch it for her, andJean-Christophe took advantage of her absence to take his leave withoutsaying goodnight to her. 

Next day they met again, impatient to resume their interruptedconversation. They did not succeed. Yet circumstances were favorable tothem. They went a walk with Frau von Kerich, and had plenty of opportunityfor talking as much as they liked. But Jean-Christophe could not speak, andhe was so unhappy that he stayed as far away as possible from Minna. Andshe pretended not to notice his discourtesy; but she was piqued by it, andshowed it. When Jean-Christophe did at last contrive to utter a few words, she listened icily; he had hardly the courage to finish his sentence. Theywere coming to the end of the walk. Time was flying. And he was wretched atnot having been able to make use of it. 

A week passed. They thought they had mistaken their feeling for each other. They were not sure but that they had dreamed the scene of that evening. Minna was resentful against Jean-Christophe. Jean-Christophe was afraid ofmeeting her alone. They were colder to each other than ever. 

A day came when it had rained all morning and part of the afternoon. Theyhad stayed in the house without speaking, reading, yawning, looking out ofthe window; they were bored and cross. About four o'clock the sky cleared. They ran into the garden. They leaned their elbows on the terrace wall, and looked down at the lawns sloping to the river. The earth was steaming;a soft mist was ascending to the sun; little rain-drops glittered onthe grass; the smell of the damp earth and the perfume of the flowersintermingled; around them buzzed a golden swarm of bees. They were side byside, not looking at each other; they could not bring themselves to breakthe silence. A bee came up and clung awkwardly to a clump of wistaria heavywith rain, and sent a shower of water down on them. They both laughed, andat once they felt that they were no longer cross with each other, and werefriends again. But still they did not look at each other. Suddenly, withoutturning her head, she took his hand, and said:

"Come!"

She led him quickly to the little labyrinth with its box-bordered paths, which was in the middle of the grove. They climbed up the slope, slippingon the soaking ground, and the wet trees shook out their branches overthem. Near the top she stopped to breathe. 

"Wait . . . Wait . . . " she said in a low voice, trying to take breath. 

He looked at her. She was looking away; she was smiling, breathing hard, with her lips parted; her hand was trembling in Jean-Christophe's. Theyfelt the blood throbbing in their linked hands and their trembling fingers. Around them all was silent. The pale shoots of the trees were quivering inthe sun; a gentle rain dropped from the leaves with silvery sounds, and inthe sky were the shrill cries of swallows. 

She turned her head towards him; it was a lightning flash. She flung herarms about his neck; he flung himself into her arms. 

"Minna! Minna! My darling!. . . "

"I love you, Jean Christophe! I love you!"

They sat on a wet wooden seat. They were filled with love, sweet, profound, absurd. Everything else had vanished. No more egoism, no more vanity, nomore reservation. Love, love--that is what their laughing, tearful eyeswere saying. The cold coquette of a girl, the proud boy, were devoured withthe need of self-sacrifice, of giving, of suffering, of dying for eachother. They did not know each other; they were not the same; everything waschanged; their hearts, their faces, their eyes, gave out a radiance of themost touching kindness and tenderness. Moments of purity, of self-denial, of absolute giving of themselves, which through life will never return!

After a desperate murmuring of words and passionate promises to belong toeach other forever, after kisses and incoherent words of delight, they sawthat it was late, and they ran back hand in hand, almost falling in thenarrow paths, bumping into trees, feeling nothing, blind and drunk with thejoy of it. 

When he left her he did not go home; he could not have gone to sleep. Heleft the town, and walked over the fields; he walked blindly through thenight. The air was fresh, the country dark and deserted. A screech-owlhooted shrilly. Jean-Christophe went on like a sleep-walker. The littlelights of the town quivered on the plain, and the stars in the dark sky. Hesat on a wall by the road and suddenly burst into tears. He did not knowwhy. He was too happy, and the excess of his joy was compounded of sadnessand delight; there was in it thankfulness for his happiness, pity forthose who were not happy, a melancholy and sweet feeling of the frailty ofthings, the mad joy of living. He wept for delight, and slept in the midstof his tears. When he awoke dawn was peeping. White mists floated over theriver, and veiled the town, where Minna, worn out; was sleeping, while inher heart was the light of her smile of happiness. 

 * * * * *

They contrived to meet again in the garden next morning and told their loveonce more, but now the divine unconsciousness of it all was gone. She was alittle playing the part of the girl in love, and he, though more sincere, was also playing a part. They talked of what their life should be. Heregretted his poverty and humble estate. She affected to be generous, andenjoyed her generosity. She said that she cared nothing for money. That wastrue, for she knew nothing about it, having never known the lack of it. Hepromised that he would become a great artist; that she thought fine andamusing, like a novel. She thought it her duty to behave really like awoman in love. She read poetry; she was sentimental. He was touched by theinfection. He took pains with his dress; he was absurd; he set a guard uponhis speech; he was pretentious. Frau von Kerich watched him and laughed, and asked herself what could have made him so stupid. 

But they had moments of marvelous poetry, and these would suddenly burstupon them out of dull days, like sunshine through a mist. A look, agesture, a meaningless word, and they were bathed in happiness; they hadtheir good-byes in the evening on the dimly-lighted stairs, and their eyeswould seek each other, divine each other through the half darkness, and thethrill of their hands as they touched, the trembling in their voices, allthose little nothings that fed their memory at night, as they slept solightly that the chiming of each hour would awake them, and their heartswould sing "I am loved, " like the murmuring of a stream. 

They discovered the charm of things. Spring smiled with a marveloussweetness. The heavens were brilliant, the air was soft, as they had neverbeen before. All the town--the red roofs, the old walls, the cobbledstreets--showed with a kindly charm that moved Jean-Christophe. At night, when everybody was asleep, Minna would get up from her bed, and stand bythe window, drowsy and feverish. And in the afternoon, when he was notthere, she would sit in a swing, and dream, with a book on her knees, her eyes half closed, sleepy and lazily happy, mind and body hoveringin the spring air. She would spend hours at the piano, with a patienceexasperating to others, going over and over again scales and passages whichmade her turn pale and cold with emotion. She would weep when she heardSchumann's music. She felt full of pity and kindness for all creatures, andso did he. They would give money stealthily to poor people whom they met inthe street, and would then exchange glances of compassion; they were happyin their kindness. 

To tell the truth, they were kind only by fits and starts. Minna suddenlydiscovered how sad was the humble life of devotion of old Frida, who hadbeen a servant in the house since her mother's childhood, and at once sheran and hugged her, to the great astonishment of the good old creature, whowas busy mending the linen in the kitchen. But that did not keep her fromspeaking harshly to her a few hours later, when Frida did not come at onceon the sound of the bell. And Jean-Christophe, who was consumed with lovefor all humanity, and would turn aside so as not to crush an insect, wasentirely indifferent to his own family. By a strange reaction he wascolder and more curt with them the more affectionate he was to all othercreatures; he hardly gave thought to them; he spoke abruptly to them, andfound no interest in seeing them. Both in Jean-Christophe and Minna theirkindness was only a surfeit of tenderness which overflowed at intervals tothe benefit of the first comer. Except for these overflowings they weremore egoistic than ever, for their minds were filled only with the onethought, and everything was brought back to that. 

How much of Jean-Christophe's life was filled with the girl's face! Whatemotion was in him when he saw her white frock in the distance, when he waslooking for her in the garden; when at the theater, sitting a few yardsaway from their empty places, he heard the door of their box open, and themocking voice that he knew so well; when in some outside conversation thedear name of Kerich cropped up! He would go pale and blush; for a moment ortwo he would see and hear nothing. And then there would be a rush of bloodover all his body, the assault of unknown forces. 

The little German girl, naïve and sensual, had odd little tricks. She wouldplace her ring on a little pile of flour, and he would have to get it againand again with his teeth without whitening his nose. Or she would pass athread through a biscuit, and put one end of it in her mouth and one inhis, and then they had to nibble the thread to see who could get to thebiscuit first. Their faces would come together; they would feel eachother's breathing; their lips would touch, and they would laugh forcedly, while their hands would turn to ice. Jean-Christophe would feel a desire tobite, to hurt; he would fling back, and she would go on laughing forcedly. They would turn away, pretend indifference, and steal glances at eachother. 

These disturbing games had a disquieting attraction for them; they wantedto play them, and yet avoided them. Jean-Christophe was fearful of them, and preferred even the constraint of the meetings when Frau von Kerich orsome one else was present. So outside presence could break in upon theconverse of their loving hearts; constraint only made their love sweeterand more intense. Everything gained infinitely in value; a word, amovement of the lips, a glance were enough to make the rich new treasureof their inner life shine through the dull veil of ordinary existence. They alone could see it, or so they thought, and smiled, happy in theirlittle mysteries. Their words were no more than those of a drawing-roomconversation about trivial matters; to them they were an unending song oflove. They read the most fleeting changes in their faces and voices as inan open book; they could have read as well with their eyes closed, for theyhad only to listen to their hearts to hear in them the echo of the heartof the beloved. They were full of confidence in life, in happiness, inthemselves. Their hopes were boundless. They loved, they were loved, happy, without a shadow, without a doubt, without a fear of the future. Wonderfulserenity of those days of spring! Not a cloud in the sky. A faith so freshthat it seems that nothing can ever tarnish it. A joy so abounding thatnothing can ever exhaust it. Are they living? Are they dreaming? Doubtlessthey are dreaming. There is nothing in common between life and theirdream--nothing, except in that moment of magic: they are but a dreamthemselves; their being has melted away at the touch of love. 

 * * * * *

It was not long before Frau von Kerich perceived their little intrigue, which they thought very subtly managed, though it was very clumsy. Minnahad suspected it from the moment when her mother had entered suddenly oneday when she was talking to Jean-Christophe, and standing as near to him asshe could, and on the click of the door they had darted apart as quicklyas possible, covered with confusion. Frau von Kerich had pretended to seenothing. Minna was almost sorry. She would have liked a tussle with hermother; it would have been more romantic. 

Her mother took care to give her no opportunity for it; she was too cleverto be anxious, or to make any remark about it. But to Minna she talkedironically about Jean-Christophe, and made merciless fun of his foibles;she demolished him in a few words. She did not do it deliberately; sheacted upon instinct, with the treachery natural to a woman who is defendingher own. It was useless for Minna to resist, and sulk, and be impertinent, and go on denying the truth of her remarks; there was only too muchjustification for them, and Frau von Kerich had a cruel skill in flickingthe raw spot. The largeness of Jean-Christophe's boots, the ugliness of hisclothes, his ill-brushed hat, his provincial accent, his ridiculous way ofbowing, the vulgarity of his loud-voicedness, nothing was forgotten whichmight sting Minna's vanity. Such remarks were always simple and made by theway; they never took the form of a set speech, and when Minna, irritated, got upon her high horse to reply, Frau von Kerich would innocently be offon another subject. But the blow struck home, and Minna was sore under it. 

She began to look at Jean-Christophe with a less indulgent eye. He wasvaguely conscious of it, and uneasily asked her:

"Why do you look at me like that?"

And she answered:

"Oh, nothing!"

But a moment after, when he was merry, she would harshly reproach him forlaughing so loudly. He was abashed; he never would have thought that hewould have to take care not to laugh too loudly with her: all his gaietywas spoiled. Or when he was talking absolutely at his ease, she wouldabsently interrupt him to make some unpleasant remark about his clothes, or she would take exception to his common expressions with pedanticaggressiveness. Then he would lose all desire to talk, and sometimes wouldbe cross. Then he would persuade himself that these ways which so irritatedhim were a proof of Minna's interest in him, and she would persuade herselfalso that it was so. He would try humbly to do better. But she was nevermuch pleased with him, for he hardly ever succeeded. 

But he had no time--nor had Minna--to perceive the change that was takingplace in her. Easter came, and Minna had to go with her mother to stay withsome relations near Weimar. 

During the last week before the separation they returned to the intimacy ofthe first days. Except for little outbursts of impatience Minna was moreaffectionate than ever. On the eve of her departure they went for a longwalk in the park; she led Jean-Christophe mysteriously to the arbor, andput about his neck a little scented bag, in which she had placed a lock ofher hair; they renewed their eternal vows, and swore to write to each otherevery day; and they chose a star out of the sky, and arranged to look at itevery evening at the same time. 

The fatal day arrived. Ten times during the night he had asked himself, "Where will she be to-morrow?" and now he thought, "It is to-day. Thismorning she is still here; to-night she will be here no longer. " He wentto her house before eight o'clock. She was not up; he set out to walk inthe park; he could not; he returned. The passages were full of boxes andparcels; he sat down in a corner of the room listening for the creaking ofdoors and floors, and recognizing the footsteps on the floor above him. Frau von Kerich passed, smiled as she saw him and, without stopping, threwhim a mocking good-day. Minna came at last; she was pale, her eyelids wereswollen; she had not slept any more than he during the night. She gaveorders busily to the servants; she held out her hand to Jean-Christophe, and went on talking to old Frida. She was ready to go. Frau von Kerich cameback. They argued about a hat-box. Minna seemed to pay no attention toJean-Christophe, who was standing, forgotten and unhappy, by the piano. Shewent out with her mother, then came back; from the door she called out toFrau von Kerich. She closed the door. They were alone. She ran to him, tookhis hand, and dragged him into the little room next door; its shutters wereclosed. Then she put her face up to Jean-Christophe's and kissed himwildly. With tears in her eyes she said:

"You promise--you promise that you will love me always?"

They sobbed quietly, and made convulsive efforts to choke their sobs downso as not to be heard. They broke apart as they heard footstepsapproaching. Minna dried her eyes, and resumed her busy air with theservants, but her voice trembled. 

He succeeded in snatching her handkerchief, which she had let fall--herlittle dirty handkerchief, crumpled and wet with her tears. 

He went to the station with his friends in their carriage. Sitting oppositeeach other Jean-Christophe and Minna hardly dared look at each other forfear of bursting into tears. Their hands sought each other, and claspeduntil they hurt. Frau von Kerich watched them with quizzical good-humor, and seemed not to see anything. The time arrived. Jean-Christophe wasstanding by the door of the train when it began to move, and he ranalongside the carriage, not looking where he was going, jostling againstporters, his eyes fixed on Minna's eyes, until the train was gone. He wenton running until it was lost from sight. Then he stopped, out of breath, and found himself on the station platform among people of no importance. Hewent home, and, fortunately, his family were all out, and all through themorning he wept. 

 * * * * *

For the first time he knew the frightful sorrow of parting, an intolerabletorture for all loving hearts. The world is empty; life is empty; all isempty. The heart is choked; it is impossible to breathe; there is mortalagony; it is difficult, impossible, to live--especially when all around youthere are the traces of the departed loved one, when everything about youis forever calling up her image, when you remain in the surroundings inwhich you lived together, she and you, when it is a torment to try to liveagain in the same places the happiness that is gone. Then it is as thoughan abyss were opened at your feet; you lean over it; you turn giddy; youalmost fall. You fall. You think you are face to face with Death. And soyou are; parting is one of his faces. You watch the beloved of your heartpass away; life is effaced; only a black hole is left--nothingness. 

Jean-Christophe went and visited all the beloved spots, so as to suffermore. Frau von Kerich had left him the key of the garden, so that he couldgo there while they were away. He went there that very day, and was liketo choke with sorrow. It seemed to him as he entered that he might findthere a little of her who was gone; he found only too much of her; herimage hovered over all the lawns; he expected to see her appear at allthe corners of the paths; he knew well that she would not appear, but hetormented himself with pretending that she might, and he went over thetracks of his memories of love--the path to the labyrinth, the terracecarpeted with wistaria, the seat in the arbor, and he inflicted torture onhimself by saying: "A week ago . . . Three days ago . . . Yesterday, it wasso. Yesterday she was here . . . This very morning. . . . " He racked his heartwith these thoughts until he had to stop, choking, and like to die. In hissorrow was mingled anger with himself for having wasted all that time, andnot having made use of it. So many minutes, so many hours, when he hadenjoyed the infinite happiness of seeing her, breathing her, and feedingupon her. And he had not appreciated it! He had let the time go by withouthaving tasted to the full every tiny moment! And now!. . . Now it was toolate. . . . Irreparable! Irreparable!

He went home. His family seemed odious to him. He could not bear theirfaces, their gestures, their fatuous conversation, the same as that of thepreceding day, the same as that of all the preceding days--always the same. They went on living their usual life, as though no such misfortune had cometo pass in their midst. And the town had no more idea of it than they. The people were all going about their affairs, laughing, noisy, busy; thecrickets were chirping; the sky was bright. He hated them all; he felthimself crushed by this universal egoism. But he himself was more egoisticthan the whole universe. Nothing was worth while to him. He had nokindness. He loved nobody. 

He passed several lamentable days. His work absorbed him againautomatically: but he had no heart for living. 

One evening when he was at supper with his family, silent and depressed, the postman knocked at the door and left a letter for him. His heart knewthe sender of it before he had seen the handwriting. Four pairs of eyes, fixed on him with undisguised curiosity, waited for him to read it, clutching at the hope that this interruption might take them out of theirusual boredom. He placed the letter by his plate, and would not open it, pretending carelessly that he knew what it was about. But his brothers, annoyed, would not believe it, and went on prying at it; and so he was intortures until the meal was ended. Then he was free to lock himself up inhis room. His heart was beating so that he almost tore the letter as heopened it. He trembled to think what might be in it; but as soon as he hadglanced over the first words he was filled with joy. 

A few very affectionate words. Minna was writing to him by stealth. Shecalled him "Dear _Christlein_" and told him that she had wept much, hadlooked at the star every evening, that she had been to Frankfort, which wasa splendid town, where there were wonderful shops, but that she had neverbothered about anything because she was thinking of him. She reminded himthat he had sworn to be faithful to her, and not to see anybody while shewas away, so that he might think only of her. She wanted him to work allthe time while she was gone, so as to make himself famous, and her too. Sheended by asking him if he remembered the little room where they had saidgood-bye on the morning when she had left him: she assured him that shewould be there still in thought, and that she would still say good-bye tohim in the same way. She signed herself, "Eternally yours! Eternally!. . . "and she had added a postscript bidding him buy a straw hat instead of hisugly felt--all the distinguished people there were wearing them--a coarsestraw hat, with a broad blue ribbon. 

Jean-Christophe read the letter four times before he could quite take itall in. He was so overwhelmed that he could not even be happy; and suddenlyhe felt so tired that he lay down and read and re-read the letter andkissed it again and again. He put it under his pillow, and his hand wasforever making sure that it was there. An ineffable sense of well-beingpermeated his whole soul. He slept all through the night. 

His life became more tolerable. He had ever sweet, soaring thoughts ofMinna. He set about answering her; but he could not write freely to her;he had to hide his feelings: that was painful and difficult for him. Hecontinued clumsily to conceal his love beneath formulæ of ceremoniouspoliteness, which he always used in an absurd fashion. 

When he had sent it he awaited Minna's reply, and only lived in expectationof it. To win patience he tried to go for walks and to read. But histhoughts were only of Minna: he went on crazily repeating her name over andover again; he was so abject in his love and worship of her name that hecarried everywhere with him a volume of Lessing, because the name of Minnaoccurred in it, and every day when he left the theater he went a longdistance out of his way so as to pass a mercery shop, on whose signboardthe five adored letters were written. 

He reproached himself for wasting time when she had bid him so urgently towork, so as to make her famous. The naïve vanity of her request touchedhim, as a mark of her confidence in him. He resolved, by way of fulfillingit, to write a work which should be not only dedicated, but consecrated, to her. He could not have written any other at that time. Hardly had thescheme occurred to him than musical ideas rushed in upon him. It was likea flood of water accumulated in a reservoir for several months, until itshould suddenly rush down, breaking all its dams. He did not leave his roomfor a week. Louisa left his dinner at the door; for he did not allow evenher to enter. 

He wrote a quintette for clarionet and strings. The first movement wasa poem of youthful hope and desire; the last a lover's joke, in whichJean-Christophe's wild humor peeped out. But the whole work was written forthe sake of the second movement, the _larghetto_, in which Jean-Christophehad depicted an ardent and ingenuous little soul, which was, or was meantto be, a portrait of Minna. No one would have recognized it, least of allherself; but the great thing was that it was perfectly recognizable tohimself; and he had a thrill of pleasure in the illusion of feeling that hehad caught the essence of his beloved. No work had ever been so easily orhappily written; it was an outlet for the excess of love which the partinghad stored up in him; and at the same time his care for the work of art, the effort necessary to dominate and concentrate his passion into abeautiful and clear form, gave him a healthiness of mind, a balance in hisfaculties, which gave him a sort of physical delight--a sovereign enjoymentknown to every creative artist. While he is creating he escapes altogetherfrom the slavery of desire and sorrow; he becomes then master in his turn;and all that gave him joy or suffering seems then to him to be only thefine play of his will. Such moments are too short; for when they are donehe finds about him, more heavy than ever, the chains of reality. 

While Jean-Christophe was busy with his work he hardly had time to thinkof his parting from Minna; he was living with her. Minna was no longer inMinna; she was in himself. But when he had finished he found that he wasalone, more alone than before, more weary, exhausted by the effort; heremembered that it was a fortnight since he had written to Minna and thatshe had not replied. 

He wrote to her again, and this time he could not bring himself altogetherto exercise the constraint which he had imposed on himself for thefirst letter. He reproached Minna jocularly--for he did not believe ithimself--with having forgotten him. He scolded her for her laziness andteased her affectionately. He spoke of his work with much mystery, so as torouse her curiosity, and because he wished to keep it as a surprise for herwhen she returned. He described minutely the hat that he had bought; and hetold how, to carry out the little despot's orders--for he had taken all hercommands literally--he did not go out at all, and said that he was ill asan excuse for refusing invitations. He did not add that he was even on badterms with the Grand Duke, because, in excess of zeal, he had refused togo to a party at the Palace to which he had been invited. The whole letterwas full of a careless joy, and conveyed those little secrets so dear tolovers. He imagined that Minna alone had the key to them, and thoughthimself very clever, because he had carefully replaced every word of lovewith words of friendship. 

After he had written he felt comforted for a moment; first, because theletter had given him the illusion of conversation with his absent fair, butchiefly because he had no doubt but that Minna would reply to it at once. He was very patient for the three days which he had allowed for the postto take his letter to Minna and bring back her answer; but when the fourthday had passed he began once more to find life difficult. He had no energyor interest in things, except during the hour before the post's arrival. Then he was trembling with impatience. He became superstitious, and lookedfor the smallest sign--the crackling of the fire, a chance word--to givehim an assurance that the letter would come. Once that hour was passed hewould collapse again. No more work, no more walks; the only object of hisexistence was to wait for the next post, and all his energy was expended infinding strength to wait for so long. But when evening came, and all hopewas gone for the day, then he was crushed; it seemed to him that he couldnever live until the morrow, and he would stay for hours, sitting at histable, without speaking or thinking, without even the power to go to bed, until some remnant of his will would take him off to it; and he would sleepheavily, haunted by stupid dreams, which made him think that the nightwould never end. 

This continual expectation became at length a physical torture, an actualillness. Jean-Christophe went so far as to suspect his father, his brother, even the postman, of having taken the letter and hidden it from him. He wasracked with uneasiness. He never doubted Minna's fidelity for an instant. If she did not write, it must be because she was ill, dying, perhaps dead. Then he rushed to his pen and wrote a third letter, a few heartrendinglines, in which he had no more thought of guarding his feelings than oftaking care with his spelling. The time for the post to go was drawingnear; he had crossed out and smudged the sheet as he turned it over, dirtied the envelope as he closed it. No matter! He could not wait untilthe next post. He ran and hurled his letter into the box and waited inmortal agony. On the next night but one he had a clear vision of Minna, ill, calling to him; he got up, and was on the point of setting out on footto go to her. But where? Where should he find her?

On the fourth morning Minna's letter came at last--hardly ahalf-sheet--cold and stiff. Minna said that she did not understand whatcould have filled him with such stupid fears, that she was quite well, thatshe had no time to write, and begged him not to get so excited in future, and not to write any more. 

Jean-Christophe was stunned. He never doubted Minna's sincerity. He blamedhimself; he thought that Minna was justly annoyed by the impudent andabsurd letters that he had written. He thought himself an idiot, and beatat his head with his fist. But it was all in vain; he was forced to feelthat Minna did not love him as much as he loved her. 

The days that followed were so mournful that it is impossible to describethem. Nothingness cannot be described. Deprived of the only boon that madeliving worth while for him--his letters to Minna--Jean-Christophe now onlylived mechanically, and the only thing which interested him at all was whenin the evening, as he was going to bed, he ticked off on the calendar, like a schoolboy, one of the interminable days which lay between himselfand Minna's return. The day of the return was past. They ought to havebeen at home a week. Feverish excitement had succeeded Jean-Christophe'sprostration. Minna had promised when she left to advise him of the day andhour of their arrival. He waited from moment to moment to go and meet them;and he tied himself up in a web of guesses as to the reasons for theirdelay. 

One evening one of their neighbors, a friend of his grandfather, Fischer, the furniture dealer, came in to smoke and chat with Melchior after dinneras he often did. Jean-Christophe, in torment, was going up to his roomafter waiting for the postman to pass when a word made him tremble. Fischersaid that next day he had to go early in the morning to the Kerichs' tohang up the curtains. Jean-Christophe stopped dead, and asked:

"Have they returned?"

"You wag! You know that as well as I do, " said old Fischer roguishly. "Fineweather! They came back the day before yesterday. "

Jean-Christophe heard no more; he left the room, and got ready to go out. His mother, who for some time had secretly been watching him without hisknowing it, followed him into the lobby, and asked him timidly where he wasgoing. He made no answer, and went out. He was hurt. 

He ran to the Kerichs' house. It was nine o'clock in the evening. They wereboth in the drawing-room and did not appear to be surprised to see him. They said "Good-evening" quietly. Minna was busy writing, and held out herhand over the table and went on with her letter, vaguely asking him forhis news. She asked him to forgive her discourtesy, and pretended to belistening to what he said, but she interrupted him to ask something of hermother. He had prepared touching words concerning all that he had sufferedduring her absence; he could hardly summon a few words; no one wasinterested in them, and he had not the heart to go on--it all rang sofalse. 

When Minna had finished her letter she took up some work, and, sitting alittle away from him, began to tell him about her travels. She talked aboutthe pleasant weeks she had spent--riding on horseback, country-house life, interesting society; she got excited gradually, and made allusions toevents and people whom Jean-Christophe did not know, and the memory ofthem made her mother and herself laugh. Jean-Christophe felt that he wasa stranger during the story; he did not know how to take it, and laughedawkwardly. He never took his eyes from Minna's face, beseeching her to lookat him, imploring her to throw him a glance for alms. But when she did lookat him--which was not often, for she addressed herself more to her motherthan to him--her eyes, like her voice, were cold and indifferent. Was sheso constrained because of her mother, or was it that he did not understand?He wished to speak to her alone, but Frau von Kerich never left themfor a moment. He tried to bring the conversation round to some subjectinteresting to himself; he spoke of his work and his plans; he was dimlyconscious that Minna was evading him, and instinctively he tried tointerest her in himself. Indeed, she seemed to listen attentively enough;she broke in upon his narrative with various interjections, which werenever very apt, but always seemed to be full of interest. But just ashe was beginning to hope once more, carried off his feet by one of hercharming smiles, he saw Minna put her little hand to her lips and yawn. Hebroke off short. She saw that, and asked his pardon amiably, saying thatshe was tired. He got up, thinking that they would persuade him to stay, but they said nothing. He spun out his "Good-bye, " and waited for a word toask him to come again next day; there was no suggestion of it. He had togo. Minna did not take him to the door. She held out her hand to him--anindifferent hand that drooped limply in his--and he took his leave of themin the middle of the room. 

He went home with terror in his heart. Of the Minna of two months before, of his beloved Minna, nothing was left. What had happened? What had becomeof her? For a poor boy who has never yet experienced the continual change, the complete disappearance, and the absolute renovation of living souls, of which the majority are not so much souls as collections of souls insuccession changing and dying away continually, the simple truth was toocruel for him to be able to believe it. He rejected the idea of it interror, and tried to persuade himself that he had not been able to seeproperly, and that Minna was just the same. He decided to go again to thehouse next morning, and to talk to her at all costs. 

He did not sleep. Through the night he counted one after another the chimesof the clock. From one o'clock on he was rambling round the Kerichs' house;he entered it as soon as he could. He did not see Minna, but Frau vonKerich. Always busy and an early riser, she was watering the pots offlowers on the veranda. She gave a mocking cry when she sawJean-Christophe. 

"Ah!" she said. "It is you!. . . I am glad you have come. I have something totalk to you about. Wait a moment. . . . "

She went in for a moment to put down her watering can and to dry her hands, and came back with a little smile as she saw Jean-Christophe'sdiscomfiture; he was conscious of the approach of disaster. 

"Come into the garden, " she said; "we shall be quieter. "

In the garden that was full still of his love he followed Frau von Kerich. She did not hasten to speak, and enjoyed the boy's uneasiness. 

"Let us sit here, " she said at last. They were sitting on the seat in theplace where Minna had held up her lips to him on the eve of her departure. 

"I think you know what is the matter, " said Frau von Kerich, lookingserious so as to complete his confusion. "I should never have thought it ofyou, Jean-Christophe. I thought you a serious boy. I had every confidencein you. I should never have thought that you would abuse it to try andturn my daughter's head. She was in your keeping. You ought to have shownrespect for her, respect for me, respect for yourself. "

There was a light irony in her accents. Frau von Kerich attached not theleast importance to this childish love affair; but Jean-Christophe was notconscious of it, and her reproaches, which he took, as he took everything, tragically, went to his heart. 

"But, Madam . . . But, Madam . . . " he stammered, with tears in his eyes, "Ihave never abused your confidence. . . . Please do not think that. . . . I am nota bad man, that I swear!. . . I love Fräulein Minna. I love her with all mySoul, and I wish to marry her. "

Frau von Kerich smiled. 

"No, my poor boy, " she said, with that kindly smile in which was so muchdisdain, as at last he was to understand, "no, it is impossible; it is justa childish folly. "

"Why? Why?" he asked. 

He took her hands, not believing that she could be speaking seriously, andalmost reassured by the new softness in her voice. She smiled still, andsaid:

"Because. . . . "

He insisted. With ironical deliberation--she did not take him altogetherseriously--she told him that he had no fortune, that Minna had differenttastes. He protested that that made no difference; that he would be rich, famous; that he would win honors, money, all that Minna could desire. Frauvon Kerich looked skeptical; she was amused by his self-confidence, andonly shook her head by way of saying no. But he stuck to it. 

"No, Jean-Christophe, " she said firmly, "no. It is not worth arguing. It isimpossible. It is not only a question of money. So many things! Theposition. . . . "

She had no need to finish. That was a needle that pierced to his verymarrow. His eyes were opened. He saw the irony of the friendly smile, hesaw the coldness of the kindly look, he understood suddenly what it wasthat separated him from this woman whom he loved as a son, this woman whoseemed to treat him like a mother; he was conscious of all that waspatronizing and disdainful in her affection. He got up. He was pale. Frauvon Kerich went on talking to him in her caressing voice, but it was theend; he heard no more the music of the words; he perceived under every wordthe falseness of that elegant soul. He could not answer a word. He went. Everything about him was going round and round. 

When he regained his room he flung himself on his bed, and gave way to afit of anger and injured pride, just as he used to do when he was a littleboy. He bit his pillow; he crammed his handkerchief into his mouth, so thatno one should hear him crying. He hated Frau von Kerich. He hated Minna. Hedespised them mightily. It seemed to him that he had been insulted, and hetrembled with shame and rage. He had to reply, to take immediate action. Ifhe could not avenge himself he would die. 

He got up, and wrote an idiotically violent letter:

"MADAM, --

"I do not know if, as you say, you have been deceived in me. But I do knowthat I have been cruelly deceived in you. I thought that you were myfriends. You said so. You pretended to be so, and I loved you more than mylife. I see now that it was all a lie, that your affection for me was onlya sham; you made use of me. I amused you, provided you with entertainment, made music for you. I was your servant. Your servant: that I am not! I amno man's servant!

"You have made me feel cruelly that I had no right to love your daughter. Nothing in the world can prevent my heart from loving where it loves, andif I am not your equal in rank, I am as noble as you. It is the heart thatennobles a man. If I am not a Count, I have perhaps more honor than manyCounts. Lackey or Count, when a man insults me, I despise him. I despise asmuch any one who pretends to be noble, and is not noble of soul. 

"Farewell! You have mistaken me. You have deceived me. I detest you!

"He who, in spite of you, loves, and will love till death, Fräulein Minna, _because she is his_, and nothing can take her from him. "

Hardly had he thrown his letter into the box than he was filled with terrorat what he had done. He tried not to think of it, but certain phrasescropped up in his memory; he was in a cold sweat as he thought of Frau vonKerich reading those enormities. At first he was upheld by his verydespair, but next day he saw that his letter could only bring about a finalseparation from Minna, and that seemed to him the direst of misfortunes. Hestill hoped that Frau von Kerich, who knew his violent fits, would not takeit seriously, that she would only reprimand him severely, and--whoknows?--that she would be touched perhaps by the sincerity of his passion. One word, and he would have thrown himself at her feet. He waited for fivedays. Then came, a letter. She said:

"DEAR SIR, --

"Since, as you say, there has been a misunderstanding between us, it wouldbe wise not any further to prolong it. I should be very sorry to force uponyou a relationship which has become painful to you. You will think itnatural, therefore, that we should break it off. I hope that you will intime to come have no lack of other friends who will be able to appreciateyou as you wish to be appreciated. I have no doubt as to your future, andfrom a distance shall, with sympathy, follow your progress in your musicalcareer. Kind regards. 

"JOSEPHA VON KERICH. "

The most bitter reproaches would have been less cruel. Jean-Christophe sawthat he was lost. It is possible to reply to an unjust accusation. But whatis to be done against the negativeness of such polite indifference? Heraged against it. He thought that he would never see Minna again, and hecould not bear it. He felt how little all the pride in the world weighsagainst a little love. He forgot his dignity; he became cowardly; he wrotemore letters, in which he implored forgiveness. They were no less stupidthan the letter in which he had railed against her. They evoked noresponse. And everything was said. 

 * * * * *

He nearly died of it. He thought of killing himself. He thought of murder. At least, he imagined that he thought of it. He was possessed by incendiaryand murderous desires. People have little idea of the paroxysm of love orhate which sometimes devours the hearts of children. It was the mostterrible crisis of his childhood. It ended his childhood. It stiffened hiswill. But it came near to breaking it forever. 

He found life impossible. He would sit for hours with his elbows on thewindow-sill looking down into the courtyard, and dreaming, as he used towhen he was a little boy, of some means of escaping from the torture oflife when it became too great. The remedy was there, under his eyes. Immediate . . . Immediate? How could one know?. . . Perhaps afterhours--centuries--horrible sufferings!. . . But so utter was his childishdespair that he let himself be carried away by the giddy round of suchthoughts. 

Louisa saw that he was suffering. She could not gauge exactly what washappening to him, but her instinct gave her a dim warning of danger. Shetried to approach her son, to discover his sorrow, so as to console him. But the poor woman had lost the habit of talking intimately toJean-Christophe. For many years he had kept his thoughts to himself, andshe had been too much taken up by the material cares of life to find timeto discover them or divine them. Now that she would so gladly have come tohis aid she knew not what to do. She hovered about him like a soul intorment; she would gladly have found words to bring him comfort, and shedared not speak for fear of irritating him. And in spite of all her careshe did irritate him by her every gesture and by her very presence, for shewas not very adroit, and he was not very indulgent. And yet he loved her;they loved each other. But so little is needed to part two creatures whoare dear to each other, and love each other with all their hearts! A tooviolent expression, an awkward gesture, a harmless twitching of an eye or anose, a trick of eating, walking, or laughing, a physical constraint whichis beyond analysis. . . . You say that these things are nothing, and yet theyare all the world. Often they are enough to keep a mother and a son, abrother and a brother, a friend and a friend, who live in proximity to eachother, forever strangers to each other. 

Jean-Christophe did not find in his mother's grief a sufficient prop in thecrisis through which he was passing. Besides, what is the affection ofothers to the egoism of passion preoccupied with itself?

One night when his family were sleeping, and he was sitting by his desk, not thinking or moving, he was engulfed in his perilous ideas, when a soundof footsteps resounded down the little silent street, and a knock on thedoor brought him from his stupor. There was a murmuring of thick voices. Heremembered that his father had not come in, and he thought angrily thatthey were bringing him back drunk, as they had done a week or two before, when they had found him lying in the street. For Melchior had abandoned allrestraint, and was more and more the victim of his vice, though hisathletic health seemed not in the least to suffer from an excess and arecklessness which would have killed any other man. He ate enough for four, drank until he dropped, passed whole nights out of doors in icy rain, wasknocked down and stunned in brawls, and would get up again next day, withhis rowdy gaiety, wanting everybody about him to be gay too. 

Louisa, hurrying up, rushed to open the door. Jean-Christophe, who had notbudged, stopped his ears so as not to hear Melchior's vicious voice and thetittering comments of the neighbors. . . . 

. . . Suddenly a strange terror seized him; for no reason he began totremble, with his face hidden in his hands. And on the instant a piercingcry made him raise his head. He rushed to the door. . . . 

In the midst of a group of men talking in low voices, in the dark passage, lit only by the flickering light of a lantern, lying, just as hisgrandfather had done, on a stretcher, was a body dripping with water, motionless. Louisa was clinging to it and sobbing. They had just foundMelchior drowned in the mill-race. 

Jean-Christophe gave a cry. Everything else vanished; all his other sorrowswere swept aside. He threw himself on his fathers body by Louisa's side, and they wept together. 

Seated by the bedside, watching Melchior's last sleep, on whose face wasnow a severe and solemn expression, he felt the dark peace of death enterinto his soul. His childish passion was gone from him like a fit of fever;the icy breath of the grave had taken it all away. Minna, his pride, hislove, and himself. . . . Alas! What misery! How small everything showed by theside of this reality, the only reality--death! Was it worth while to sufferso much, to desire so much, to be so much put about to come in the end tothat!. . . 

He watched his father's sleep, and he was filled with an infinite pity. Heremembered the smallest of his acts of kindness and tenderness. For withall his faults Melchior was not bad; there was much good in him. He lovedhis family. He was honest. He had a little of the uncompromising probity ofthe Kraffts, which, in all questions of morality and honor, suffered nodiscussion, and never would admit the least of those small moral impuritieswhich so many people in society regard not altogether as faults. He wasbrave, and whenever there was any danger faced it with a sort of enjoyment. If he was extravagant himself, he was so for others too; he could not bearanybody to be sad, and very gladly gave away all that belonged to him--anddid not belong to him--to the poor devils he met by the wayside. All hisqualities appeared to Jean-Christophe now, and he invented some of them, orexaggerated them. It seemed to him that he had misunderstood his father. Hereproached himself with not having loved him enough. He saw him as brokenby Life; he thought he heard that unhappy soul, drifting, too weak tostruggle, crying out for the life so uselessly lost. He heard thatlamentable entreaty that had so cut him to the heart one day:

"Jean-Christophe! Do not despise me!"

And he was overwhelmed by remorse. He threw himself on the bed, and kissedthe dead face and wept. And as he had done that day, he said again:

"Dear father, I do not despise you. I love you. Forgive me!"

But that piteous entreaty was not appeased, and went on:

"De not despise me! Do not despise me!" And suddenly Jean-Christophe sawhimself lying in the place of the dead man; he heard the terrible wordscoming from his own lips; he felt weighing on his heart the despair of auseless life, irreparably lost. And he thought in terror: "Ah! everything, all the suffering, all the misery in the world, rather than come tothat!. . . " How near he had been to it! Had he not all but yielded to thetemptation to snap off his life himself, cowardly to escape his sorrow? Asif all the sorrows, all betrayals, were not childish griefs beside thetorture and the crime of self-betrayal, denial of faith, of self-contemptin death!

He saw that life was a battle without armistice, without mercy, in which hewho wishes to be a man worthy of the name of a man must forever fightagainst whole armies of invisible enemies; against the murderous forces ofNature, uneasy desires, dark thoughts, treacherously leading him todegradation and destruction. He saw that he had been on the point offalling into the trap. He saw that happiness and love were only the friendsof a moment to lead the heart to disarm and abdicate. And the littlepuritan of fifteen heard the voice of his God:

"Go, go, and never rest. "

"But whither, Lord, shall I go? Whatsoever I do, whithersoever I go, is notthe end always the same? Is not the end of all things in that?"

"Go on to Death, you who must die! Go and suffer, you who must suffer! Youdo not live to be happy. You live to fulfil my Law. Suffer; die. But bewhat you must be--a Man. "

YOUTH

Christofori faciem die quaeunque tueris, Illa nempe die non morte malamorieris. 

I

THE HOUSE OF EULER

The house was plunged in silence. Since Melchior's death everything seemeddead. Now that his loud voice was stilled, from morning to night nothingwas heard but the wearisome murmuring of the river. 

Christophe hurled himself into his work. He took a fiercely angry pleasurein self-castigation for having wished to be happy. To expressions ofsympathy and kind words he made no reply, but was proud and stiff. Withouta word he went about his daily task, and gave his lessons with icypoliteness. His pupils who knew of his misfortune were shocked by hisinsensibility. But, those who were older and had some experience of sorrowknew that this apparent coldness might, in a child, be used only to concealsuffering: and they pitied him. He was not grateful for their sympathy. Even music could bring him no comfort. He played without pleasure, and as aduty. It was as though he found a cruel joy in no longer taking pleasure inanything, or in persuading himself that he did not: in depriving himself ofevery reason for living, and yet going on. 

His two brothers, terrified by the silence of the house of death, ran awayfrom it as quickly as possible. Rodolphe went into the office of his uncleTheodore, and lived with him, and Ernest, after trying two or three trades, found work on one of the Rhine steamers plying between Mainz and Cologne, and he used to come back only when he wanted money. Christophe was leftalone with his mother in the house, which was too large for them; and themeagerness of their resources, and the payment of certain debts which hadbeen discovered after his father's death, forced them, whatever pain itmight cost, to seek another more lowly and less expensive dwelling. 

They found a little flat, --two or three rooms on the second floor of ahouse in the Market Street. It was a noisy district in the middle of thetown, far from the river, far from the trees, far from the country and allthe familiar places. But they had to consult reason, not sentiment, andChristophe found in it a fine opportunity for gratifying his bitter creedof self-mortification. Besides, the owner of the house, old registrarEuler, was a friend of his grandfather, and knew the family: that wasenough for Louisa, who was lost in her empty house, and was irresistiblydrawn towards those who had known the creatures whom she had loved. 

They got ready to leave. They took long draughts of the bitter melancholyof the last days passed by the sad, beloved fireside that was to be leftforever. They dared hardly tell their sorrow: they were ashamed of it, orafraid. Each thought that they ought not to show their weakness to theother. At table, sitting alone in a dark room with half-closed shutters, they dared not raise their voices: they ate hurriedly and did not look ateach other for fear of not being able to conceal their trouble. They partedas soon as they had finished. Christophe went back to his work; but as soonas he was free for a moment, he would come back, go stealthily home, andcreep on tiptoe to his room or to the attic. Then he would shut the door, sit down in a corner on an old trunk or on the window-ledge, or stay therewithout thinking, letting the indefinable buzzing and humming of the oldhouse, which trembled with the lightest tread, thrill through him. Hisheart would tremble with it. He would listen anxiously for the faintestbreath in or out of doors, for the creaking of floors, for all theimperceptible familiar noises: he knew them all. He would loseconsciousness, his thoughts would be filled with the images of the past, and he would issue from his stupor only at the sound of St. Martin's clock, reminding him that it was time to go. 

In the room below him he could hear Louisa's footsteps passing softly toand fro, then for hours she could not be heard; she made no noise. Christophe would listen intently. He would go down, a little uneasy, as oneis for a long time after a great misfortune. He would push the door ajar;Louisa would turn her back on him; she would be sitting in front of acupboard in the midst of a heap of things--rags, old belongings, oddgarments, treasures, which she had brought out intending to sort them. Butshe had no strength for it; everything reminded her of something; she wouldturn and turn it in her hands and begin to dream; it would drop from herhands; she would stay for hours together with her arms hanging down, lyingback exhausted in a chair, given up to a stupor of sorrow. 

Poor Louisa was now spending most of her life in the past--that sad past, which had been very niggardly of joy for her; but she was so used tosuffering that she was still grateful for the least tenderness shown toher, and the pale lights which had shone here and there in the drab days ofher life, were still enough to make them bright. All the evil that Melchiorhad done her was forgotten; she remembered only the good. Her marriage hadbeen the great romance of her life. If Melchior had been drawn into it by acaprice, of which he had quickly repented, she had given herself with herwhole heart; she thought that she was loved as much as she had loved; andto Melchior she was ever most tenderly grateful. She did not try tounderstand what he had become in the sequel. Incapable of seeing reality asit is, she only knew how to bear it as it is, humbly and honestly, as awoman who has no need of understanding life in order to be able to live. What she could not explain, she left to God for explanation. In hersingular piety, she put upon God the responsibility for all the injusticethat she had suffered at the hands of Melchior and the others, and onlyvisited them with the good that they had given her. And so her life ofmisery had left her with no bitter memory. She only felt worn out--weak asshe was--by those years of privation and fatigue. And now that Melchior wasno longer there, now that two of her sons were gone from their home, andthe third seemed to be able to do without her, she had lost all heart foraction; she was tired, sleepy; her will was stupefied. She was goingthrough one of those crises of neurasthenia which often come upon activeand industrious people in the decline of life, when some unforeseen eventdeprives them of every reason for living. She had not the heart even tofinish the stocking she was knitting, to tidy the drawer in which she waslooking, to get up to shut the window; she would sit there, without athought, without strength--save for recollection. She was conscious of hercollapse, and was ashamed of it or blushed for it; she tried to hide itfrom her son; and Christophe, wrapped up in the egoism of his own grief, never noticed it. No doubt he was often secretly impatient with hismother's slowness in speaking, and acting, and doing the smallest thing;but different though her ways were from her usual activity, he never gave athought to the matter until then. 

Suddenly on that day it came home to him for the first time when hesurprised her in the midst of her rags, turned out on the floor, heaped upat her feet, in her arms, and in her lap. Her neck was drawn out, her headwas bowed, her face was stiff and rigid. When she heard him come in shestarted; her white cheeks were suffused with red; with an instinctivemovement she tried to hide the things she was holding, and muttered with anawkward smile:

"You see, I was sorting. . . . "

The sight of the poor soul stranded among the relics of the past cut to hisheart, and he was filled with pity. But he spoke with a bitter asperity andseemed to scold, to drag her from her apathy:

"Come, come, mother; you must not stay there, in the middle of all thatdust, with the room all shut up! It is not good for you. You must pullyourself together, and have done with all this. "

"Yes, " said she meekly. 

She tried to get up to put the things back in the drawer. But she sat downagain at once and listlessly let them fall from her hands. 

"Oh! I can't . . . I can't, " she moaned. "I shall never finish!"

He was frightened. He leaned over her. He caressed her forehead with hishands. 

"Come, mother, what is it?" he said. "Shall I help you? Are you ill?"

She did not answer. She gave a sort of stifled sob. He took her hands, andknelt down by her side, the better to see her in the dusky room. 

"Mother!" he said anxiously. 

Louisa laid her head on his shoulder and burst into tears. 

"My boy, my boy, " she cried, holding close to him. "My boy!. . . You will notleave me? Promise me that you will not leave me?"

His heart was torn with pity. 

"No, mother, no. I will not leave you. What made you think of such athing?"

"I am so unhappy! They have all left me, all. . . . "

She pointed to the things all about her, and he did not know whether shewas speaking of them or of her sons and the dead. 

"You will stay with me? You will not leave me?. . . What should I do, if youwent too?"

"I will not go, I tell you; we will stay together. Don't cry. I promise. "

She went on weeping. She could not stop herself. He dried her eyes with hishandkerchief. 

"What is it, mother dear? Are you in pain?"

"I don't know; I don't know what it is. " She tried to calm herself and tosmile. 

"I do try to be sensible. I do. But just nothing at all makes me cry. . . . You see, I'm doing it again. . . . Forgive me. I am so stupid. I am old. Ihave no strength left. I have no taste for anything any more. I am no goodfor anything. I wish I were buried with all the rest. . . . "

He held her to him, close, like a child. 

"Don't worry, mother; be calm; don't think about it. . . . "

Gradually she grew quiet. 

"It is foolish. I am ashamed. . . . But what is it? What is it?"

She who had always worked so hard could not understand why her strength hadsuddenly snapped, and she was humiliated to the very depths of her being. He pretended not to see it. 

"A little weariness, mother, " he said, trying to speak carelessly. "It isnothing; you will see; it is nothing. "

But he too was anxious. From his childhood he had been accustomed to seeher brave, resigned, in silence withstanding every test. And he wasastonished to see her suddenly broken: he was afraid. 

He helped her to sort the things scattered on the floor. Every now and thenshe would linger over something, but he would gently take it from herhands, and she suffered him. 

From that time on he took pains to be more with her. As soon as he hadfinished his work, instead of shutting himself up in his room, as he lovedto do, he would return to her. He felt her loneliness and that she was notstrong enough to be left alone: there was danger in leaving her alone. 

He would sit by her side in the evening near the open window looking on tothe road. The view would slowly disappear. The people were returning home. Little lights appeared in the houses far off. They had seen it all athousand times. But soon they would see it no more. They would talkdisjointedly. They would point out to each other the smallest of thefamiliar incidents and expectations of the evening, always with freshinterest. They would have long intimate silences, or Louisa, for noapparent reason, would tell some reminiscence, some disconnected story thatpassed through her mind. Her tongue was loosed a little now that she feltthat she was with one who loved her. She tried hard to talk. It wasdifficult for her, for she had grown used to living apart from her family;she looked upon her sons and her husband as too clever to talk to her, andshe had never dared to join in their conversation. Christophe's tender carewas a new thing to her and infinitely sweet, though it made her afraid. Shedeliberated over her words; she found it difficult to express herself; hersentences were left unfinished and obscure. Sometimes she was ashamed ofwhat she was saying; she would look at her son, and stop in the middle ofher narrative. But he would press her hand, and she would be reassured. Hewas filled with love and pity for the childish, motherly creature, to whomhe had turned when he was a child, and now she turned to him for support. And he took a melancholy pleasure in her prattle, that had no interest foranybody but himself, in her trivial memories of a life that had always beenjoyless and mediocre, though it seemed to Louisa to be of infinite worth. Sometimes he would try to interrupt her; he was afraid that her memorieswould make her sadder than ever, and he would urge her to sleep. She wouldunderstand what he was at, and would say with gratitude in her eyes:

"No. I assure you, it does one good; let us stay a little longer. "

They would stay until the night was far gone and the neighbors were abed. Then they would say good-night, she a little comforted by being rid of someof her trouble, he with a heavy heart under this new burden added to thatwhich already he had to bear. 

The day came for their departure. On the night before they stayed longerthan usual in the unlighted room. They did not speak. Every now and thenLouisa moaned: "Fear God! Fear God!" Christophe tried to keep her attentionfixed on the thousand details of the morrow's removal. She would not go tobed until he gently compelled her. But he went up to his room and did notgo to bed for a long time. When leaning out of the window he tried to gazethrough the darkness to see for the last time the moving shadows of theriver beneath the house. He heard the wind in the tall trees in Minna'sgarden. The sky was black. There was no one in the street. A cold rain wasjust falling. The weathercocks creaked. In a house near by a child wascrying. The night weighed with an overwhelming heaviness upon the earth andupon his soul. The dull chiming of the hours, the cracked note of thehalves and quarters, dropped one after another into the grim silence, broken only by the sound of the rain on the roofs and the cobbles. 

When Christophe at last made up his mind to go to bed, chilled in body andsoul, he heard the window below him shut. And, as he lay, he thought sadlythat it is cruel for the poor to dwell on the past, for they have no rightto have a past, like the rich: they have no home, no corner of the earthwherein to house their memories: their joys, their sorrows, all their days, are scattered in the wind. 

Next day in beating rain they moved their scanty furniture to their newdwelling. Fischer, the old furniture dealer, lent them a cart and a pony;he came and helped them himself. But they could not take everything, forthe rooms to which they were going were much smaller than the old. Christophe had to make his mother leave the oldest and most useless oftheir belongings. It was not altogether easy; the least thing had its worthfor her: a shaky table, a broken chair, she wished to leave nothing behind. Fischer, fortified by the authority of his old friendship with Jean Michel, had to join Christophe in complaining, and, good-fellow that he was andunderstanding her grief, had even to promise to keep some of her preciousrubbish for her against the day when she should want it again. Then sheagreed to tear herself away. 

The two brothers had been told of the removal, but Ernest came on the nightbefore to say that he could not be there, and Rodolphe appeared for amoment about noon; he watched them load the furniture, gave some advice, and went away again looking mightily busy. 

The procession set out through the muddy streets. Christophe led the horse, which slipped on the greasy cobbles. Louisa walked by her son's side, andtried to shelter him from the rain. And so they had a melancholy homecomingin the damp rooms, that were made darker than ever by the dull light comingfrom the lowering sky. They could not have fought against the depressionthat was upon them had it not been for the attentions of their landlord andhis family. But, when the cart had driven away, as night fell, leaving thefurniture heaped up in the room; and Christophe and Louisa were sitting, worn out, one on a box, the other on a sack; they heard a little dry coughon the staircase; there was a knock at the door. Old Euler came in. Hebegged pardon elaborately for disturbing his guests, and said that by wayof celebrating their first evening he hoped that they would be kind enoughto sup with himself and his family. Louisa, stunned by her sorrow, wishedto refuse. Christophe was not much more tempted than she by this friendlygathering, but the old man insisted and Christophe, thinking that it wouldbe better for his mother not to spend their first evening in their new homealone with her thoughts, made her accept. 

They went down to the floor below, where they found the whole familycollected: the old man, his daughter, his son-in-law, Vogel, and hisgrandchildren, a boy and a girl, both a little younger than Christophe. They clustered around their guests, bade them welcome, asked if they weretired, if they were pleased with their rooms, if they needed anything;putting so many questions that Christophe in bewilderment could makenothing of them, for everybody spoke at once. The soup was placed on thetable; they sat down. But the noise went on. Amalia, Euler's daughter, hadset herself at once to acquaint Louisa with local details: with thetopography of the district, the habits and advantages of the house, thetime when the milkman called, the time when she got up, the varioustradespeople and the prices that she paid. She did not stop until she hadexplained everything. Louisa, half-asleep, tried hard to take an interestin the information, but the remarks which she ventured showed that she hadunderstood not a word, and provoked Amalia to indignant exclamations andrepetition of every detail. Old Euler, a clerk, tried to explain toChristophe the difficulties of a musical career. Christophe's otherneighbor, Rosa, Amalia's daughter, never stopped talking from the momentwhen they sat down, --so volubly that she had no time to breathe; she losther breath in the middle of a sentence, but at once she was off again. Vogel was gloomy and complained of the food, and there were embitteredarguments on the subject. Amalia, Euler, the girl, left off talking to takepart in the discussion; and there were endless controversies as to whetherthere was too much salt in the stew or not enough; they called each otherto witness, and, naturally, no two opinions were the same. Each despisedhis neighbor's taste, and thought only his own healthy and reasonable. Theymight have gone on arguing until the Last Judgment. 

But, in the end, they all joined in crying out upon the bad weather. Theyall commiserated Louisa and Christophe upon their troubles, and in termswhich moved him greatly they praised him for his courageous conduct. Theytook great pleasure in recalling not only the misfortunes of their guests, but also their own, and those of their friends and all their acquaintance, and they all agreed that the good are always unhappy, and that there is joyonly for the selfish and dishonest. They decided that life is sad, that itis quite useless, and that they were all better dead, were it not theindubitable will of God that they should go on living so as to suffer. Allthese ideas came very near to Christophe's actual pessimism, he thought thebetter of his landlord, and closed his eyes to their little oddities. 

When he went upstairs again with his mother to the disordered rooms, theywere weary and sad, but they felt a little less lonely; and whileChristophe lay awake through the night, for he could not sleep because ofhis weariness and the noise of the neighborhood, and listened to the heavycarts shaking the walls, and the breathing of the family sleeping below, hetried to persuade himself that he would be, if not happy, at least lessunhappy here, with these good people--a little tiresome, if the truth betold--who suffered from like misfortunes, who seemed to understand him, andwhom, he thought, he understood. 

But when at last he did fall asleep, he was roused unpleasantly at dawn bythe voices of his neighbors arguing, and the creaking of a pump workedfuriously by some one who was in a hurry to swill the yard and the stairs. 

 * * * * *

Justus Euler was a little bent old man, with uneasy, gloomy eyes, a redface, all lines and pimples, gap-toothed, with an unkempt beard, with whichhe was forever fidgeting with his hands. Very honest, quite able, profoundly moral, he had been on quite good terms with Christophe'sgrandfather. He was said to be like him. And, in truth, he was of the samegeneration and brought up with the same principles; but he lacked JeanMichel's strong physique, that is, while he was of the same opinion on manypoints, fundamentally he was hardly at all like him, for it is temperamentfar more than ideas that makes a man, and whatever the divisions, fictitious or real, marked between men by intellect, the great divisionsbetween men and men are into those who are healthy and those who are not. Old Euler was not a healthy man. He talked morality, like Jean Michel, buthis morals were not the same as Jean Michel's; he had not his soundstomach, his lungs, or his jovial strength. Everything in Euler and hisfamily was built on a more parsimonious and niggardly plan. He had been anofficial for forty years, was now retired, and suffered from thatmelancholy that comes from inactivity and weighs so heavily upon old men, who have not made provision in their inner life for their last years. Allhis habits, natural and acquired, all the habits of his trade had given hima meticulous and peevish quality, which was reproduced to a certain extentin each of his children. 

His son-in-law, Vogel, a clerk at the Chancery Court, was fifty years old. Tall, strong, almost bald, with gold spectacles, fairly good-looking, heconsidered himself ill, and no doubt was so, although obviously he did nothave the diseases which he thought he had, but only a mind soured by thestupidity of his calling and a body ruined to a certain extent by hissedentary life. Very industrious, not without merit, even cultured up to apoint; he was a victim of our ridiculous modern life, or like so manyclerks, locked up in their offices, he had succumbed to the demon ofhypochondria. One of those unfortunates whom Goethe called "_ein trauriger, ungriechischer Hypochondrist_"--"a gloomy and un-Greek hypochondriac, "--andpitied, though he took good care to avoid them. 

Amalia was neither the one nor the other. Strong, loud, and active, shewasted no sympathy on her husband's jeremiads; she used to shake himroughly. But no human strength can bear up against living together, andwhen in a household one or other is neurasthenic, the chances are that intime they will both be so. In vain did Amalia cry out upon Vogel, in vaindid she go on protesting either from habit or because it was necessary;next moment she herself was lamenting her condition more loudly even thanhe, and, passing imperceptibly from scolding to lamentation, she did him nogood; she increased his ills tenfold by loudly singing chorus to hisfollies. In the end not only did she crush the unhappy Vogel, terrified bythe proportions assumed by his own outcries sent sounding back by thisecho, but she crushed everybody, even herself. In her turn she caught thetrick of unwarrantably bemoaning her health, and her father's, and herdaughter's, and her son's. It became a mania; by constant repetition shecame to believe what she said. She took the least chill tragically; she wasuneasy and worried about everybody. More than that, when they were well, she still worried, because of the sickness that was bound to come. So lifewas passed in perpetual fear. Outside that they were all in fairly goodhealth, and it seemed as though their state of continual moaning andgroaning did serve to keep them well. They all ate and slept and worked asusual, and the life of this household was not relaxed for it all. Amalia'sactivity was not satisfied with working from morning to night up and downthe house; they all had to toil with her, and there was forever a moving offurniture, a washing of floors, a polishing of wood, a sound of voices, footsteps, quivering, movement. 

The two children, crushed by such loud authority, leaving nobody alone, seemed to find it natural enough to submit to it. The boy, Leonard, wasgood looking, though insignificant of feature, and stiff in manner. Thegirl, Rosa, fair-haired, with pretty blue eyes, gentle and affectionate, would have been pleasing especially with the freshness of her delicatecomplexion, and her kind manner, had her nose not been quite so large or soawkwardly placed; it made her face heavy and gave her a foolish expression. She was like a girl of Holbein, in the gallery at Basle--the daughter ofburgomaster Meier--sitting, with eyes cast down, her hands on her knees, her fair hair falling down to her shoulders, looking embarrassed andashamed of her uncomely nose. But so far Rosa had not been troubled by it, and it never had broken in upon her inexhaustible chatter. Always hershrill voice was heard in the house telling stories, always breathless, asthough she had no time to say everything, always excited and animated, inspite of the protests which she drew from her mother, her father, and evenher grandfather, exasperated, not so much because she was forever talkingas because she prevented them talking themselves. For these good people, kind, loyal, devoted--the very cream of good people--had almost all thevirtues, but they lacked one virtue which is capital, and is the charm oflife: the virtue of silence. 

Christophe was in tolerant mood. His sorrow had softened his intolerant andemphatic temper. His experience of the cruel indifference of the elegantmade him more conscious of the worth of these honest folk, graceless anddevilish tiresome, who had yet an austere conception of life, and becausethey lived joylessly, seemed to him to live without weakness. Havingdecided that they were excellent, and that he ought to like them, like theGerman that he was, he tried to persuade himself that he did in fact likethem. But he did not succeed; he lacked that easy Germanic idealism, whichdoes not wish to see, and does not see, what would be displeasing to itssight, for fear of disturbing the very proper tranquillity of its judgmentand the pleasantness of its existence. On the contrary, he never was soconscious of the defects of these people as when he loved them, when hewanted to love them absolutely without reservation; it was a sort ofunconscious loyalty, and an inexorable demand for truth, which, in spite ofhimself, made him more clear-sighted, and more exacting, with what wasdearest to him. And it was not long before he began to be irritated by theoddities of the family. They made no attempt to conceal them. Contrary tothe usual habit they displayed every intolerable quality they possessed, and all the good in them was hidden. So Christophe told himself, for hejudged himself to have been unjust, and tried to surmount his firstimpressions, and to discover in them the excellent qualities which they socarefully concealed. 

He tried to converse with old Justus Euler, who asked nothing better. Hehad a secret sympathy with him, remembering that his grandfather had likedto praise him. But good old Jean Michel had more of the pleasant faculty ofdeceiving himself about his friends than Christophe, and Christophe soonsaw that. In vain did he try to accept Euler's memories of his grandfather. He could only get from him a discolored caricature of Jean Michel, andscraps of talk that were utterly uninteresting. Euler's stories usedinvariably to begin with: "As I used to say to your poor grandfather. . . " Hecould remember nothing else. He had heard only what he had said himself. 

Perhaps Jean Michel used only to listen in the same way. Most friendshipsare little more than arrangements for mutual satisfaction, so that eachparty may talk about himself to the other. But at least Jean Michel, however naïvely he used to give himself up to the delight of talking, hadsympathy which he was always ready to lavish on all sides. He wasinterested in everything; he always regretted that he was no longerfifteen, so as to be able to see the marvelous inventions of the newgenerations, and to share their thoughts. He had the quality, perhaps themost precious in life, a curiosity always fresh, sever changing with theyears, born anew every morning. He had not the talent to turn this gift toaccount; but how many men of talent might envy him! Most men die at twentyor thirty; thereafter they are only reflections of themselves: for the restof their lives they are aping themselves, repeating from day to day moreand more mechanically and affectedly what they said and did and thought andloved when they were alive. 

It was so long since old Euler had been alive, and he had been such a smallthing then, that what was left of him now was very poor and ratherridiculous. Outside his former trade and his family life he knew nothing, and wished to know nothing. On every subject he had ideas ready-made, dating from his youth. He pretended to some knowledge of the arts, but heclung to certain hallowed names of men, about whom he was foreverreiterating his emphatic formulæ: everything else was naught and had neverbeen. When modern interests were mentioned he would not listen, and talkedof something else. He declared that he loved music passionately, and hewould ask Christophe to play. But as soon as Christophe, who had beencaught once or twice, began to play, the old fellow would begin to talkloudly to his daughter, as though the music only increased his interest ineverything but music. Christophe would get up exasperated in the middle ofhis piece, so one would notice it. There were only a few old airs--three orfour--some very beautiful, others very ugly, but all equally sacred, whichwere privileged to gain comparative silence and absolute approval. With thevery first notes the old man would go into ecstasies, tears would come tohis eyes, not so much for the pleasure he was enjoying as for the pleasurewhich once he had enjoyed. In the end Christophe had a horror of theseairs, though some of them, like the _Adelaïde_ of Beethoven, were very dearto him; the old man was always humming the first bars of them, and neverfailed to declare, "There, that is music, " contemptuously comparing it with"all the blessed modern music, in which there is no melody. " Truth to tell, he knew nothing whatever about it. 

His son-in-law was better educated and kept in touch with artisticmovements; but that was even worse, for in his judgment there was always adisparaging tinge. He was lacking neither in taste nor intelligence; but hecould not bring himself to admire anything modern. He would have disparagedMozart and Beethoven, if they had been contemporary, just as he would haveacknowledged the merits of Wagner and Richard Strauss had they been deadfor a century. His discontented temper refused to allow that there might begreat men living during his own lifetime; the idea was distasteful to him. He was so embittered by his wasted life that he insisted on pretending thatevery life was wasted, that it could not be otherwise, and that those whothought the opposite, or pretended to think so, were one of two things:fools or humbugs. 

And so he never spoke of any new celebrity except in a tone of bitterirony, and as he was not stupid he never failed to discover at the firstglance the weak or ridiculous sides of them. Any new name roused him todistrust; before he knew anything about the man he was inclined tocriticise him--because he knew nothing about him. If he was sympathetictowards Christophe it was because he thought that the misanthropic boyfound life as evil as he did himself, and that he was not a genius. Nothingso unites the small of soul in their suffering and discontent as thestatement of their common impotence. Nothing so much restores the desirefor health or life to those who are healthy and made for the joy of life ascontact with the stupid pessimism of the mediocre and the sick, who, because they are not happy, deny the happiness of others. Christophe feltthis. And yet these gloomy thoughts were familiar to him; but he wassurprised to find them on Vogel's lips, where they were unrecognizable;more than that, they were repugnant to him; they offended him. 

He was even more in revolt against Amalia's ways. The good creature did nomore than practise Christophe's theories of duty. The word was upon herlips at every turn. She worked unceasingly, and wanted everybody to work asshe did. Her work was never directed towards making herself and othershappier; on the contrary. It almost seemed as though it Was mainly intendedto incommode everybody and to make life as disagreeable as possible so asto sanctify it. Nothing would induce her for a moment to relinquish herholy duties in the household, that sacro-sanct institution which in so manywomen takes the place of all other duties, social and moral. She would havethought herself lost had she not on the same day, at the same time, polished the wooden floors, washed the tiles, cleaned the door-handles, beaten the carpets, moved the chairs, the cupboards, the tables. She wasostentatious about it. It was as though it was a point of honor with her. And after all, is it not in much the same spirit that many women conceiveand defend their honor? It is a sort of piece of furniture which they haveto keep polished, a well waxed floor, cold, hard--and slippery. 

The accomplishment of her task did not make Frau Vogel more amicable. Shesacrificed herself to the trivialities of the household, as to a dutyimposed by God. And she despised those who did not do as she did, those whorested, and were able to enjoy life a little in the intervals of work. Shewould go and rouse Louisa in her room when from time to time she sat downin the middle of her work to dream. Louisa would sigh, but she submitted toit with a half-shamed smile. Fortunately, Christophe knew nothing about it;Amalia used to wait until he had gone out before she made these irruptionsinto their rooms, and so far she had not directly attacked him; he wouldnot have put up with it. When he was with her he was conscious of a latenthostility within himself. What he could least forgive her was the noise shemade. He was maddened by it. When he was locked in his room--a little lowroom looking out on the yard--with the window hermetically sealed, in spiteof the want of air, so as not to hear the clatter in the house, he couldnot escape from it. Involuntarily he was forced to listen attentively forthe least sound coming up from below, and when the terrible voice whichpenetrated all the walls broke out again after a moment of silence he wasfilled with rage; he would shout, stamp with his foot, and roar insults ather through the wall. In the general uproars no one ever noticed it; theythought he was composing. He would consign Frau Vogel to the depths ofhell. He had no respect for her, nor esteem to check him. At such times itseemed to him that he would have preferred the loosest and most stupid ofwomen, if only she did not talk, to cleverness, honesty, all the virtues, when they make too much noise. 

His hatred of noise brought him in touch with Leonard. In the midst of thegeneral excitement the boy was the only one to keep calm, and never toraise his voice more at one moment than another. He always expressedhimself correctly and deliberately, choosing his words, and never hurrying. Amalia, simmering, never had patience to wait until he had finished; thewhole family cried out upon his slowness. He did not worry about it. Nothing could upset his calm, respectful deference. Christophe was the moreattracted to him when he learned that Leonard intended to devote his lifeto the Church, and his curiosity was roused. 

With regard to religion, Christophe was in a queer position; he did notknow himself how he stood towards it. He had never had time to thinkseriously about it. He was not well enough educated, and he was too muchabsorbed by the difficulties of existence to be able to analyze himself andto set his ideas in order. His violence led him from one extreme to theother, from absolute facts to complete negation, without troubling to findout whether in either case he agreed with himself. When he was happy hehardly thought of God at all, but he was quite ready to believe in Him. When he was unhappy he thought of Him, but did not believe; it seemed tohim impossible that a God could authorize unhappiness and, injustice. Butthese difficulties did not greatly exercise him. He was too fundamentallyreligious to think much about God. He lived in God; he had no need tobelieve in Him. That is well enough for the weak and worn, for those whoselives are anæmic. They aspire to God, as a plant does to the sun. The dyingcling to life. But he who bears in his soul the sun and life, what need hashe to seek them outside himself?

Christophe would probably never have bothered about these questions had helived alone. But the obligations of social life forced him to bring histhoughts to bear on these puerile and useless problems, which occupy aplace out of all proportion in the world; it is impossible not to take theminto account since at every step they are in the way. As if a healthy, generous creature, overflowing with strength and love, had not a thousandmore worthy things to do than to worry as to whether God exists or no!. . . If it were only a question of believing in God! But it is needful tobelieve in _a_ God, of whatever shape or size and color and race. So farChristophe never gave a thought to the matter. Jesus hardly occupied histhoughts at all. It was not that he did not love him: he loved him whenhe thought of him: but he never thought of him. Sometimes he reproachedhimself for it, was angry with himself, could not understand why he did nottake more interest in him. And yet he professed, all his family professed;his grandfather was forever reading the Bible; he went regularly to Mass;he served it in a sort of way, for he was an organist; and he set abouthis task conscientiously and in an exemplary manner. But when he left thechurch he would have been hard put to it to say what he had been thinkingabout. He set himself to read the Holy Books in order to fix his ideas, and he found amusement and even pleasure in them, just as in any beautifulstrange books, not essentially different from other books, which noone ever thinks of calling sacred. In truth, if Jesus appealed to him, Beethoven did no less. And at his organ in Saint Florian's Church, wherehe accompanied on Sundays, he was more taken up with his organ than withMass, and he was more religious when he played Bach than when he playedMendelssohn, Some of the ritual brought him to a fervor of exaltation. Butdid he then love God, or was it only the music, as an impudent priest saidto him one day in jest, without thinking of the unhappiness which his quipmight cause in him? Anybody else would not have paid any attention to it, and would not have changed his mode of living--(so many people put up withnot knowing what they think!) But Christophe was cursed with an awkwardneed for sincerity, which filled him with scruples at every turn. And whenscruples came to him they possessed him forever. He tortured himself; hethought that he had acted with duplicity. Did he believe or did he not?. . . He had no means, material or intellectual--(knowledge and leisure arenecessary)--of solving the problem by himself. And yet it had to be solved, or he was either indifferent or a hypocrite. Now, he was incapable of beingeither one or the other. 

He tried timidly to sound those about him. They all seemed to be sureof themselves. Christophe burned to know their reasons. He could notdiscover them. Hardly did he receive a definite answer; they always talkedobliquely. Some thought him arrogant, and said that there is no arguingthese things, that thousands of men cleverer and better than himself hadbelieved without argument, and that he needed only to do as they had done. There were some who were a little hurt, as though it were a personalaffront to ask them such a question, and yet they were of all perhaps theleast certain of their facts. Others shrugged their shoulders and said witha smile: "Bah! it can't do any harm. " And their smile said: "And it is souseful!. . . " Christophe despised them with all his heart. 

He had tried to lay his uncertainties before a priest, but he wasdiscouraged by the experiment. He could not discuss the matter seriouslywith him. Though his interlocution was quite pleasant, he made Christophefeel, quite politely, that there was no real equality between them; heseemed to assume in advance that his superiority was beyond dispute, andthat the discussion could not exceed the limits which he laid down forit, without a kind of impropriety; it was just a fencing bout, and wasquite inoffensive. When Christophe wished to exceed the limits and to askquestions which the worthy man was pleased not to answer, he stepped backwith a patronizing smile, and a few Latin quotations, and a fatherlyobjurgation to pray, pray that God would enlighten him. Christopheissued from the interview humiliated and wounded by his love of politesuperiority. Wrong or right, he would never again for anything in the worldhave recourse to a priest. He admitted that these men were his superiors inintelligence or by reason of their sacred calling; but in argument there isneither superiority, nor inferiority, nor title, nor age, nor name; nothingis of worth but truth, before which all men are equal. 

So he was glad to find a boy of his own age who believed. He asked nomore than belief, and he hoped that Leonard would give him good reasonfor believing. He made advances to him. Leonard replied with his usualgentleness, but without eagerness; he was never eager about anything. Asthey could not carry on a long conversation in the house without beinginterrupted every moment by Amalia or the old man, Christophe proposed thatthey should go for a walk one evening after dinner. Leonard was too politeto refuse, although he would gladly have got out of it, for his indolentnature disliked walking, talking, and anything that cost him an effort. 

Christophe had some difficulty in opening up the conversation. After two orthree awkward sentences about trivialities he plunged with a brusquenessthat was almost brutal. He asked Leonard if he were really going to be apriest, and if he liked the idea. Leonard was nonplussed, and looked at himuneasily, but when he saw that Christophe was not hostilely disposed he wasreassured. 

"Yes, " he replied. "How could it be otherwise?"

"Ah!" said Christophe. "You are very happy. " Leonard was conscious of ashade of envy in Christophe's voice and was agreeably flattered by it. Healtered his manner, became expansive, his face brightened. 

"Yes, " he said, "I am happy. " He beamed. 

"What do you do to be so?" asked Christophe. 

Before replying Leonard proposed that they should sit down, on a quiet seatin the cloisters of St. Martin's. From there they could see a corner of thelittle square, planted with acacias, and beyond it the town, the country, bathed in the evening mists. The Rhine flowed at the foot of the hill. Anold deserted cemetery, with graves lost under the rich grass, lay inslumber beside them behind the closed gates. 

Leonard began to talk. He said, with his eyes shining with contentment, howhappy he was to escape from life, to have found a refuge, where a man is, and forever will be, in shelter. Christophe, still sore from his wounds, felt passionately the desire for rest and forgetfulness; but it was mingledwith regret. He asked with a sigh:

"And yet, does it cost you nothing to renounce life altogether?"

"Oh!" said Leonard quietly. "What is there to regret? Isn't life sad andugly?"

"There are lovely things too, " said Christophe, looking at the beautifulevening. 

"There are some beautiful things, but very few. "

"The few that there are are yet many to me. "

"Oh, well! it is simply a matter of common sense. On the one hand a littlegood and much evil; on the other neither good nor evil on earth, and after, infinite happiness--how can one hesitate?"

Christophe was not very pleased with this sort of arithmetic. So economic alife seemed to him very poor. But he tried to persuade himself that it waswisdom. 

"So, " he asked a little ironically, "there is no risk of your being seducedby an hour's pleasure?"

"How foolish! When you know that it is only an hour, and that after itthere is all eternity!"

"You are quite certain of eternity?"

"Of course. "

Christophe questioned him. He was thrilled with hope and desire. PerhapsLeonard would at last give him impregnable reasons for believing. With whata passion he would himself renounce all the world to follow him to God. 

At first Leonard, proud of his rôle of apostle, and convinced thatChristophe's doubts were only a matter of form, and that they would ofcourse give way before his first arguments, relied upon the Holy Books, theauthority of the Gospel, the miracles, and traditions. But he began to growgloomy when, after Christophe had listened for a few minutes, he stoppedhim and said that he was answering questions with questions, and that hehad not asked him to tell exactly what it was that he was doubting, but togive some means of resolving his doubts. Leonard then had to realize thatChristophe was much more ill than he seemed, and that he would only allowhimself to be convinced by the light of reason. But he still thought thatChristophe was playing the free thinker--(it never occurred to him thathe might be so sincerely). --He was not discouraged, and, strong in hisrecently acquired knowledge, he turned back to his school learning:he unfolded higgledy, piggledy, with more authority than order, hismetaphysical proofs of the existence of God and the immortality of thesoul. Christophe, with his mind at stretch, and his brow knit in theeffort, labored in silence, and made him say it all over again; triedhard to gather the meaning, and to take it to himself, and to follow thereasoning. Then suddenly he burst out, vowed that Leonard was laughing athim, that it was all tricks, jests of the fine talkers who forged wordsand then amused themselves with pretending that these words were things. Leonard was nettled, and guaranteed the good faith of his authors. Christophe shrugged his shoulders, and said with an oath that they wereonly humbugs, infernal writers; and he demanded fresh proof. 

Leonard perceived to his horror that Christophe was incurably attainted, and took no more interest in him. He remembered that he had been told notto waste his time in arguing with skeptics, --at least when they stubbornlyrefuse to believe. There was the risk of being shaken himself, withoutprofiting the other. It was better to leave the unfortunate fellow to thewill of God, who, if He so designs, would see to it that the skeptic wasenlightened: or if not, who would dare to go against the will of God?Leonard did not insist then on carrying on the discussion. He only saidgently that for the time being there was nothing to be done, that noreasoning could show the way to a man who was determined not to see it, andthat Jean-Christophe must pray and appeal to Grace: nothing is possiblewithout that: he must desire grace and the will to believe. 

"The will, " thought Christophe bitterly. "So then, God will exist becauseI will Him to exist? So then, death will not exist, because it pleases meto deny it!. . . Alas! How easy life is to those who have no need to see thetruth, to those who can see what they wish to see, and are forever forgingpleasant dreams in which softly to sleep!" In such a bed, Christophe knewwell that be would never sleep. . . . 

Leonard went on talking. He had fallen back on his favorite subject, thesweets of the contemplative life, and once on this neutral ground, he wasinexhaustible. In his monotonous voice, that shook with the pleasure inhim, he told of the joys of the life in God, outside, above the world, far from noise, of which he spoke in a sudden tone of hatred (he detestedit almost as much as Christophe), far from violence, far from frivolity, far from the little miseries that one has to suffer every day, in thewarm, secure nest of faith, from which you can contemplate in peace thewretchedness of a strange and distant world. And as Christophe listened, he perceived the egoism of that faith. Leonard saw that. He hurriedlyexplained: the contemplative life was not a lazy life. On the contrary, a man is more active in prayer than in action. What would the world bewithout prayer? You expiate the sins of others, you bear the burden oftheir misdeeds, you offer up your talents, you intercede between the worldand God. 

Christophe listened in silence with increasing hostility. He was consciousof the hypocrisy of such renunciation in Leonard. He was not unjust enoughto assume hypocrisy in all those who believe. He knew well that with afew, such abdication of life comes from the impossibility of living, froma bitter despair, an appeal to death, --that with still fewer, it is anecstasy of passion. . . . (How long does it last?). . . . But with the majorityof men is it not too often the cold reasoning of souls more busied withtheir own ease and peace than with the happiness of others, or with truth?And if sincere men are conscious of it, how much they must suffer by suchprofanation of their ideal!. . . 

Leonard was quite happy, and now set forth the beauty and harmony of theworld, seen from the loftiness of the divine roost: below all was dark, unjust, sorrowful; seen from on high, it all became clear, luminous, ordered: the world was like the works of a clock, perfectly ordered. . . . 

Now Christophe only listened absently. He was asking himself: "Does hebelieve, or does he believe that he believes?" And yet his own faith, hisown passionate desire for faith was not shaken. Not the mediocrity of soul, and the poverty of argument of a fool like Leonard could touch that. . . . 

Night came down over the town. The seat on which they were sitting was indarkness: the stars shone out, a white mist came up from the river, thecrickets chirped under the trees in the cemetery. The bells began to ring:first the highest of them, alone, like a plaintive bird, challenging thesky: then the second, a third lower, joined in its plaint: at last camethe, deepest, on the fifth, and seemed to answer them. The three voiceswere merged in each other. At the bottom of the towers there was a buzzing, as of a gigantic hive of bees. The air and the boy's heart quivered. Christophe held his breath, and thought how poor was the music of musicianscompared with such an ocean of music, with all the sounds of thousands ofcreatures: the former, the free world of sounds, compared with the worldtamed, catalogued, coldly labeled by human intelligence. He sank and sankinto that sonorous and immense world without continents or bounds. . . . 

And when the great murmuring had died away, when the air had ceased at lastto quiver, Christophe woke up. He looked about him startled. . . . He knewnothing. Around him and in him everything was changed. There was no God. . . . 

As with faith, so the loss of faith is often equally a flood of grace, asudden light. Reason counts for nothing: the smallest thing is enough--aword, silence, the sound of bells. A man walks, dreams, expects nothing. Suddenly the world crumbles away. All about him is in ruins. He is alone. He no longer believes. 

Christophe was terrified, and could not understand how it had come about. It was like the flooding of a river in the spring. . . . 

Leonard's voice was still sounding, more monotonous than the voice of acricket. Christophe did not hear it: he heard nothing. Night was fullycome. Leonard stopped. Surprised to find Christophe motionless, uneasybecause of the lateness of the hour, he suggested that they should go home. Christophe did not reply. Leonard took his arm. Christophe trembled, andlooked at Leonard with wild eyes. 

"Christophe, we must go home, " said Leonard. 

"Go to hell!" cried Christophe furiously. 

"Oh! Christophe! What have I done?" asked Leonard tremulously. He wasdumfounded. 

Christophe came to himself. 

"Yes. You are right, " he said more gently. "I do not know what I'm saying. Go to God! Go to God!"

He was alone. He was in bitter distress. 

"Ah! my God! my God!" he cried, wringing his hands, passionately raisinghis face to the dark sky. "Why do I no longer believe? Why can I believe nomore? What has happened to me?. . . "

The disproportion between the wreck of his faith and the conversation thathe had just had with Leonard was too great: it was obvious that theconversation had no more brought it about than that the boisterousness ofAmalia's gabble and the pettiness of the people with whom he lived were notthe cause of the upheaval which for some days had been taking place in hismoral resolutions. These were only pretexts. The uneasiness had not comefrom without. It was within himself. He felt stirring in his heartmonstrous and unknown things, and he dared not rely on his thoughts to facethe evil. The evil? Was it evil? A languor, an intoxication, a voluptuousagony filled all his being. He was no longer master of himself. In vain hesought to fortify himself with his former stoicism. His whole being crasheddown. He had a sudden consciousness of the vast world, burning, wild, aworld immeasurable. . . . How it swallows up God!

Only for a moment. But the whole balance of his old life was in that momentdestroyed. 

 * * * * *

There was only one person in the family to whom Christophe paid noattention: this was little Rosa. She was not beautiful: and Christophe, whowas far from beautiful himself, was very exacting of beauty in others. Hehad that calm, cruelty of youth, for which a woman does not exist if she beugly, --unless she has passed the age for inspiring tenderness, and there isthen no need to feel for her anything but grave, peaceful, andquasi-religious sentiments. Rosa also was not distinguished by any especialgift, although she was not without intelligence: and she was cursed with achattering tongue which drove Christophe from her. And he had never takenthe trouble to know her, thinking that there was in her nothing to know;and the most he ever did was to glance at her. 

But she was of better stuff than most girls: she was certainly better thanMinna, whom he had so loved. She was a good girl, no coquette, not at allvain, and until Christophe came it had never occurred to her that she wasplain, or if it had, it had not worried her: for none of her familybothered about it. Whenever her grandfather or her mother told her so outof a desire to grumble, she only laughed: she did not believe it, or sheattached no importance to it; nor did they. So many others, just as plain, and more, had found some one to love them! The Germans are very mildlyindulgent to physical imperfections: they cannot see them: they are evenable to embellish them, by virtue of an easy imagination which findsunexpected qualities in the face of their desire to make them like the mostillustrious examples of human beauty. Old Euler would not have needed muchurging to make him declare that his granddaughter had the nose of the JunoLudovisi. Happily he was too grumpy to pay compliments: and Rosa, unconcerned about the shape of her nose, had no vanity except in theaccomplishment, with all the ritual, of the famous household duties. Shehad accepted as Gospel all that she had been taught. She hardly ever wentout, and she had very little standard of comparison; she admired her familynaïvely, and believed what they said. She was of an expansive and confidingnature, easily satisfied, and tried to fall in with the mournfulness of herhome, and docilely used to repeat the pessimistic ideas which she heard. She was a creature of devotion--always thinking of others, trying toplease, sharing anxieties, guessing at what others wanted; she had a greatneed of loving without demanding anything in return. Naturally her familytook advantage of her, although they were kind and loved her: but there isalways a temptation to take advantage of the love of those who areabsolutely delivered into your hands. Her family were so sure of herattentions that they were not at all grateful for them: whatever she did, they expected more. And then, she was clumsy; she was awkward and hasty;her movements were jerky and boyish; she had outbursts of tenderness whichused to end in disaster: a broken glass, a jug upset, a door slammed to:things which let loose upon her the wrath of everybody in the house. Shewas always being snubbed and would go and weep in a corner. Her tears didnot last long. She would soon smile again, and begin to chatter without asuspicion of rancor against anybody. 

Christophe's advent was an important event in her life. She had often heardof him. Christophe had some place in the gossip of the town: he was a sortof little local celebrity: his name used often to recur in the familyconversation, especially when old Jean Michel was alive, who, proud of hisgrandson, used to sing his praises to all of his acquaintance. Rosa hadseen the young musician once or twice at concerts. When she heard that hewas coming to live with them, she clapped her hands. She was sternlyrebuked for her breach of manners and became confused. She saw no harm init. In a life so monotonous as hers, a new lodger was a great distraction. She spent the last few days before his arrival in a fever of expectancy. She was fearful lest he should not like the house, and she tried hard tomake every room as attractive as possible. On the morning of his arrival, she even put a little bunch of flowers on the mantelpiece to bid himwelcome. As to herself, she took no care at all to look her best; and oneglance was enough to make Christophe decide that she was plain, andslovenly dressed. She did not think the same of him, though she had goodreason to do so: for Christophe, busy, exhausted, ill-kempt, was even moreugly than usual. But Rosa, who was incapable of thinking the least ill ofanybody, Rosa, who thought her grandfather, her father, and her mother, allperfectly beautiful, saw Christophe exactly as she had expected to see him, and admired him with all her heart. She was frightened at sitting next tohim at table; and unfortunately her shyness took the shape of a flood ofwords, which at once alienated Christophe's sympathies. She did not seethis, and that first evening remained a shining memory in her life. Whenshe was alone in her room, after, they had all gone upstairs, she heard thetread of the new lodgers as they walked over her head; and the sound of itran joyously through her; the house seemed to her to taken new life. 

The next morning for the first time in her life she looked at herself inthe mirror carefully and: uneasily, and without exactly knowing the extentof her misfortune she began to be conscious of it. She tried to decideabout her features, one by one; but she could not. She was filled withsadness and apprehension. She sighed deeply, and thought of introducingcertain changes in her toilet, but she only made herself look still moreplain. She conceived the unlucky idea of overwhelming Christophe with herkindness. In her naïve desire to be always seeing her new friends, anddoing them service, she was forever going up and down the stairs, bringingthem some utterly useless thing, insisting on helping them, and alwayslaughing and talking and shouting. Her zeal and her stream of talk couldonly be interrupted by her mother's impatient voice calling her. Christophelooked grim; but for his good resolutions he must have lost his temperquite twenty times. He restrained himself for two days; on the third, helocked his door. Rosa knocked, called, understood, went downstairs indismay, and did not try again. When he saw her he explained that he wasvery busy and could not be disturbed. She humbly begged his pardon. Shecould not deceive herself as to the failure of her innocent advances: theyhad accomplished the opposite of her intention: they had alienatedChristophe. He no longer took the trouble to conceal his ill-humor; he didnot listen when she talked, and did not disguise his impatience. She feltthat her chatter irritated him, and by force of will she succeeded inkeeping silent for a part of the evening: but the thing was stronger thanherself: suddenly she would break out again and her words would tumble overeach other more tumultuously than ever. Christophe would leave her in themiddle of a sentence. She was not angry with him. She was angry withherself. She thought herself stupid, tiresome, ridiculous: all her faultsassumed enormous proportions and she tried to wrestle with them: but shewas discouraged by the check upon her first attempts, and said to herselfthat she could not do it, that she was not strong enough. But she would tryagain. 

But there were other faults against which she was powerless: what could shedo against her plainness? There was no doubt about it. The certainty of hermisfortune had suddenly been revealed to her one day when she was lookingat herself in the mirror; it came like a thunderclap. Of course sheexaggerated the evil, and saw her nose as ten times larger than it was; itseemed to her to fill all her face; she dared not show herself; she wishedto die. But there is in youth such a power of hope that these fits ofdiscouragement never lasted long: she would end by pretending that she hadbeen mistaken; she would try to believe it, and for a moment or two wouldactually succeed in thinking her nose quite ordinary and almost shapely. Her instinct made her attempt, though very clumsily, certain childishtricks, a way of doing her hair so as not so much to show her forehead andso accentuate the disproportion of her face. And yet, there was no coquetryin her; no thought of love had crossed her mind, or she was unconscious ofit. She asked little: nothing but a little friendship: but Christophe didnot show any inclination to give her that little. It seemed to Rosa thatshe would have been perfectly happy had he only condescended to saygood-day when they met. A friendly good-evening with a little kindness. ButChristophe usually looked so hard and so cold! It chilled her. He neversaid anything disagreeable to her, but she would rather have had cruelreproaches than such cruel silence. 

One evening Christophe was playing his piano. He had taken up his quartersin a little attic at the top of the house so as not to be so much disturbedby the noise. Downstairs Rosa was listening to him, deeply moved. She lovedmusic though her taste was bad and unformed. While her mother was there, she stayed in a corner of the room and bent over her sewing, apparentlyabsorbed in her work; but her heart was with the sounds coming fromupstairs, and she wished to miss nothing. As soon as Amalia went out for awalk in the neighborhood, Rosa leaped to her feet, threw down her sewing, and went upstairs with her heart beating until she came to the attic door. She held her breath and laid her ear against the door. She stayed like thatuntil Amalia returned. She went on tiptoe, taking care to make no noise, but as she was not very sure-footed, and was always in a hurry, she wasalways tripping upon the stairs; and once while she was listening, leaningforward with her cheek glued to the keyhole, she lost her balance, andbanged her forehead against the door. She was so alarmed that she lost herbreath. The piano stopped dead: she could not escape. She was getting upwhen the door opened. Christophe saw her, glared at her furiously, and thenwithout a word, brushed her aside, walked angrily downstairs, and went out. He did not return until dinner time, paid no heed to the despairing lookswith which she asked his pardon, ignored her existence, and for severalweeks he never played at all. Rosa secretly shed many tears; no one noticedit, no one paid any attention to her. Ardently she prayed to God . . . Forwhat? She did not know. She had to confide her grief in some one. She wassure that Christophe detested her. 

And, in spite of all, she hoped. It was enough for her if Christophe seemedto show any sign of interest in her, if he appeared to listen to what shesaid, if he pressed her hand with a little more friendliness than usual. . . . 

A few imprudent words from her relations set her imagination off upon afalse road. 

 * * * * *

The whole family was filled with sympathy for Christophe. The big boy ofsixteen, serious and solitary, who had such lofty ideas of his duty, inspired a sort of respect in them all. His fits of ill-temper, hisobstinate silences, his gloomy air, his brusque manner, were not surprisingin such a house as that. Frau Vogel, herself, who regarded every artist asa loafer, dared not reproach him aggressively, as she would have liked todo, with the hours that he spent in star-gazing in the evening, leaning, motionless, out of the attic window overlooking the yard, until night fell;for she knew that during the rest of the day he was hard at work with hislessons; and she humored him--like the rest--for an ulterior motive whichno one expressed though everybody knew it. 

Rosa had seen her parents exchanging looks and mysterious whisperings whenshe was talking to Christophe. At first she took no notice of it. Then shewas puzzled and roused by it; she longed to know what they were saying, butdared not ask. 

One evening when she had climbed on to a garden seat to untie theclothes-line hung between two trees, she leaned on Christophe's shoulder tojump down. Just at that moment her eyes met her grandfather's and herfather's; they were sitting smoking their pipes, and leaning against thewall of the house. The two men winked at each other, and Justus Euler saidto Vogel:

"They will make a fine couple. "

Vogel nudged him, seeing that the girl was listening, and he covered hisremark very cleverly--(or so he thought)--with a loud "Hm! hm!" that couldhave been heard twenty yards away. Christophe, whose back was turned, sawnothing, but Rosa was so bowled over by it that she forgot that she wasjumping down, and sprained her foot. She would have fallen had notChristophe caught her, muttering curses on her clumsiness. She had hurtherself badly, but she did not show it; she hardly thought of it; shethought only of what she had just heard. She walked to her room; every stepwas agony to her; she stiffened herself against it so as not to let it beseen. A delicious, vague uneasiness surged through her. She fell into achair at the foot of her bed and hid her face in the coverlet. Her cheekswere burning; there were tears in her eyes, and she laughed. She wasashamed, she wished to sink into the depths of the earth, she could not fixher ideas; her blood beat in her temples, there were sharp pains in herankle; she was in a feverish stupor. Vaguely she heard sounds outside, children crying and playing in the street, and her grandfather's words wereringing in her ears; she was thrilled, she laughed softly, she blushed, with her face buried in the eiderdown: she prayed, gave thanks, desired, feared--she loved. 

Her mother called her. She tried to get up. At the first step she felt apain so unbearable that she almost fainted; her head swam. She thought shewas going to die, she wished to die, and at the same time she wished tolive with all the forces of her being, to live for the promised happiness. Her mother came at last, and the whole household was soon excited. She wasscolded as usual, her ankle was dressed, she was put to bed, and sank intothe sweet bewilderment of her physical pain and her inward joy. The nightwas sweet. . . . The smallest memory of that dear evening was hallowed forher. She did not think of Christophe, she knew not what she thought. Shewas happy. 

The next day, Christophe, who thought himself in some measure responsiblefor the accident, came to make inquiries, and for the first time he madesome show of affection for her. She was filled with gratitude, and blessedher sprained ankle. She would gladly have suffered all her life, if, allher life, she might have such joy. --She had to lie down for several daysand never move; she spent them in turning over and over her grandfather'swords, and considering them. Had he said:

"They will. . . . "

Or:

"They would . . . ?"

But it was possible that he had never said anything of this kind?--Yes. Hehad said it; she was certain of it. . . . What! Did they not see that she wasugly, and that Christophe could not bear her?. . . But it was so good tohope! She came to believe that perhaps she had been wrong, that she was notas ugly as she thought; she would sit up on her sofa to try and see herselfin the mirror on the wall opposite, above the mantelpiece; she did not knowwhat to think. After all, her father and her grandfather were better judgesthan herself; people cannot tell about themselves. . . . Oh! Heaven, if itwere possible!. . . If it could be . . . If, she never dared think it, if . . . If she were pretty!. . . Perhaps, also, she had exaggerated Christophe'santipathy. No doubt he was indifferent, and after the interest he had shownin her the day after the accident did not bother about her any more; heforgot to inquire; but Rosa made excuses for him, he was so busy! Howshould he think of her? An artist cannot be judged like other men. . . . 

And yet, resigned though she was, she could not help expecting with beatingheart a word of sympathy from him when he came near her. A word only, alook . . . Her imagination did the rest. In the beginning love needs solittle food! It is enough to see, to touch as you pass; such a power ofdreams flows from the soul in such moments, that almost of itself it cancreate its love: a trifle can plunge it into ecstasy that later, when it ismore satisfied, and in proportion more exacting, it will hardly find againwhen at last it does possess the object of its desire. --Rosa livedabsolutely, though no one knew it, in a romance of her own fashioning, pieced together by herself: Christophe loved her secretly, and was too shyto confess his love, or there was some stupid reason, fantastic orromantic, delightful to the imagination of the sentimental little ninny. She fashioned endless stories, and all perfectly absurd; she knew itherself, but tried not to know it; she lied to herself voluptuously fordays and days as she bent over her sewing. It made her forget to talk: herflood of words was turned inward, like a river which suddenly disappearsunderground. But then the river took its revenge. What a debauch ofspeeches, of unuttered conversations which no one heard but herself!Sometimes her lips would move as they do with people who have to spell outthe syllables to themselves as they read so as to understand them. 

When her dreams left her she was happy and sad. She knew that things werenot as she had just told herself: but she was left with a reflectedhappiness, and had greater confidence for her life. She did not despair ofwinning Christophe. 

She did not admit it to herself, but she set about doing it. With thesureness of instinct that great affection brings, the awkward, ignorantgirl contrived immediately to find the road by which she might reach herbeloved's heart. She did not turn directly to him. But as soon as she wasbetter and could once more walk about the house she approached Louisa. Thesmallest excuse served. She found a thousand little services to render her. When she went out she never failed to undertake various errands: she sparedher going to the market, arguments with tradespeople, she would fetch waterfor her from the pump in the yard; she cleaned the windows and polished thefloors in spite of Louisa's protestations, who was confused when she didnot do her work alone; but she was so weary that she had not the strengthto oppose anybody who came to help her. Christophe was out all day. Louisafelt that she was deserted, and the companionship of the affectionate, chattering girl was pleasant to her. Rosa took up her quarters in her room. She brought her sewing, and talked all the time. By clumsy devices shetried to bring conversation round to Christophe. Just to hear of him, evento hear his name, made her happy; her hands would tremble; she would sitwith downcast eyes. Louisa was delighted to talk of her beloved Christophe, and would tell little tales of his childhood, trivial and just a littleridiculous; but there was no fear of Rosa thinking them so: she took agreat joy, and there was a dear emotion for her in imagining Christophe asa child, and doing all the tricks and having all the darling ways ofchildren: in her the motherly tenderness which lies in the hearts of allwomen was mingled deliciously with that other tenderness: she would laughheartily and tears would come to her eyes. Louisa was touched by theinterest that Rosa took in her. She guessed dimly what was in the girl'sheart, but she never let it appear that she did so; but she was glad of it;for of all in the house she only knew the worth of the girl's heart. Sometimes she would stop talking to look at her. Rosa, surprised by hersilence, would raise her eyes from her work. Louisa would smile at her. Rosa would throw herself into her arms, suddenly, passionately, and wouldhide her face in Louisa's bosom. Then they would go on working and talking, as if nothing had happened. 

In the evening when Christophe came home, Louisa, grateful for Rosa'sattentions, and in pursuance of the little plan she had made, alwayspraised the girl to the skies. Christophe was touched by Rosa's kindness. He saw how much good she was doing his mother, in whose face there was moreserenity: and he would thank her effusively. Rosa would murmur, and escapeto conceal her embarrassment: so she appeared a thousand times moreintelligent and sympathetic to Christophe than if she had spoken. He lookedat her less with a prejudiced eye, and did not conceal his surprise atfinding unsuspected qualities in her. Rosa saw that; she marked theprogress that she made in his sympathy and thought that his sympathy wouldlead to love. She gave herself up more than ever to her dreams. She camenear to believing with the beautiful presumption of youth that what youdesire with all your being is always accomplished in the end. Besides, howwas her desire unreasonable? Should not Christophe have been more sensiblethan any other of her goodness and her affectionate need of self-devotion?

But Christophe gave no thought to her. He esteemed her; but she filled noroom in his thoughts. He was busied with far other things at the moment. Christophe was no longer Christophe. He did not know himself. He was in amighty travail that was like to sweep everything away, a complete upheaval. 

 * * * * *

Christophe was conscious of extreme weariness and great uneasiness. He wasfor no reason worn out; his head was heavy, his eyes, his ears, all hissenses were dumb and throbbing. He could not give his attention toanything. His mind leaped from one subject to another, and was in a feverthat sucked him dry. The perpetual fluttering of images in his mind madehim giddy. At first he attributed it to fatigue and the enervation of thefirst days of spring. But spring passed and his sickness only grew worse. 

It was what the poets who only touch lightly on things call the unease ofadolescence, the trouble of the cherubim, the waking of the desire of lovein the young body and soul. As if the fearful crisis of all a man's being, breaking up, dying, and coming to full rebirth, as if the cataclysm inwhich everything, faith, thought, action, all life, seems like to beblotted out, and then to be new-forged in the convulsions of sorrow andjoy, can be reduced to terms of a child's folly!

All his body and soul were in a ferment. He watched them, having nostrength to struggle, with a mixture of curiosity and disgust. He did notunderstand what was happening in himself. His whole being wasdisintegrated. He spent days together in absolute torpor. Work was tortureto him. At night he slept heavily and in snatches, dreaming monstrously, with gusts of desire; the soul of a beast was racing madly in him. Burning, bathed in sweat, he watched himself in horror; he tried to break free ofthe crazy and unclean thoughts that possessed him, and he wondered if hewere going mad. 

The day gave him no shelter from his brutish thoughts. In the depths of hissoul he felt that he was slipping down and down; there was no stay toclutch at; no barrier to keep back chaos. All his defenses, all hiscitadels, with the quadruple rampart that hemmed him in so proudly--hisGod, his art, his pride, his moral faith, all was crumbling away, fallingpiece by piece from him. He saw himself naked, bound, lying unable to move, like a corpse on which vermin swarm. He had spasms of revolt: where was hiswill, of which he was so proud? He called to it in vain: it was like theefforts that one makes in sleep, knowing that one is dreaming, and tryingto awake. Then one succeeds only in falling from one dream to another likea lump of lead, and in being more and more choked by the suffocation of thesoul in bondage. At last he found that it was less painful not to struggle. He decided not to do so, with, fatalistic apathy and despair. 

The even tenor of his life seemed to be broken up. Now he slipped down asubterranean crevasse and was like to disappear; now he bounded up againwith a violent jerk. The chain of his days was snapped. In the midst of theeven plain of the hours great gaping holes would open to engulf his soul. Christophe looked on at the spectacle as though it did not concern him. Everything, everybody, --and himself--were strange to him. He went about hisbusiness, did his work, automatically: it seemed to him that the machineryof his life might stop at any moment: the wheels were out of gear. Atdinner with his mother and the others, in the orchestra with the musiciansand the audience, suddenly there would be a void and emptiness in hisbrain; he would look stupidly at the grinning faces about him; and he couldnot understand. He would ask himself:

"What is there between these creatures and . . . ?"

He dared not even say:

". . . And me. "

For he knew not whether he existed. He would speak and his voice would seemto issue from another body. He would move, and he saw his movements fromafar, from above--from the top of a tower. He would pass his hand over hisface, and his eyes would wander. He was often near doing crazy things. 

It was especially when he was most in public that he had to keep guard onhimself. For example, on the evenings when he went to the Palace or wasplaying in public. Then he would suddenly be seized by a terrific desire tomake a face, or say something outrageous, to pull the Grand Duke's nose, orto take a running kick at one of the ladies. One whole evening while he wasconducting the orchestra, he struggled against an insensate desire toundress himself in public; and he was haunted by the idea from the momentwhen he tried to check it; he had to exert all his strength not to give wayto it. When he issued from the brute struggle he was dripping with sweatand his mind was blank. He was really mad. It was enough for him to thinkthat he must not do a thing for it to fasten on him with the maddeningtenacity of a fixed idea. 

So his life was spent in a series of unbridled outbreaks and of endlessfalls into emptiness. A furious wind in the desert. Whence came this wind?From what abyss came these desires that wrenched his body and mind? He waslike a bow stretched to breaking point by a strong hand, --to what endunknown?--which then springs back like a piece of dead wood. Of what forcewas he the prey? He dared not probe for it. He felt that he was beaten, humiliated, and he would not face his defeat. He was weary and broken inspirit. He understood now the people whom formerly he had despised: thosewho will not seek awkward truth. In the empty hours, when he rememberedthat time was passing, his work neglected, the future lost, he was frozenwith terror. But there was no reaction: and his cowardice found excuses indesperate affirmation of the void in which he lived: he took a bitterdelight in abandoning himself to it like a wreck on the waters. What wasthe good of fighting? There was nothing beautiful, nor good; neither God, nor life, nor being of any sort. In the street as he walked, suddenly theearth would sink away from him: there was neither ground, nor air, norlight, nor himself: there was nothing. He would fall, his head would draghim down, face forwards: he could hardly hold himself up; he was on thepoint of collapse. He thought he was going to die, suddenly, struck down. He thought he was dead. . . . 

Christophe was growing a new skin. Christophe was growing a new soul. Andseeing the worn out and rotten soul of his childhood falling away he neverdreamed that he was taking on a new one, young and stronger. As throughlife we change our bodies, so also do we change our souls: and themetamorphosis does not always take place slowly over many days; there aretimes of crisis when the whole is suddenly renewed. The adult changes hissoul. The old soul that is cast off dies. In those hours of anguish wethink that all is at an end. And the whole thing begins again. A life dies. Another life has already come into being. 

One night he was alone in his room, with his elbow on his desk under thelight of a candle. His back was turned to the window. He was not working. He had not been able to work for weeks. Everything was twisting and turningin his head. He had brought everything under scrutiny at once: religion, morals, art, the whole of life. And in the general dissolution of histhoughts was no method, no order: he had plunged into the reading of bookstaken haphazard from his grandfather's heterogeneous library or fromVogel's collection of books: books of theology, science, philosophy, an oddlot, of which he understood nothing, having everything to learn: he couldnot finish any of them, and in the middle of them went off on divagations, endless whimsies, which left him weary, empty, and in mortal sorrow. 

So, that evening, he was sunk in an exhausted torpor. The whole house wasasleep. His window was open. Not a breath came up from the yard. Thickclouds filled the sky. Christophe mechanically watched the candle burn awayat the bottom of the candlestick. He could not go to bed. He had no thoughtof anything. He felt the void growing, growing from moment to moment. Hetried not to see the abyss that drew him to its brink: and in spite ofhimself he leaned over and his eyes gazed into the depths of the night. Inthe void, chaos was stirring, and faint sounds came from the darkness. Agony filled him: a shiver ran down his spine: his skin tingled: heclutched the table so as not to fall. Convulsively he awaited namelessthings, a miracle, a God. . . . 

Suddenly, like an opened sluice, in the yard behind him, a deluge of water, a heavy rain, large drops, down pouring, fell. The still air quivered. Thedry, hard soil rang out like a bell. And the vast scent of the earth, burning, warm as that of an animal, the smell of the flowers, fruit, andamorous flesh rose in a spasm of fury and pleasure. Christophe, underillusion, at fullest stretch, shook. He trembled. . . . The veil was rent. Hewas blinded. By a flash of lightning, he saw, in the depths of the night, he saw--he was God. God was in himself; He burst the ceiling of the room, the walls of the house; He cracked the very bounds of existence. He filledthe sky, the universe, space. The world coursed through Him, like acataract. In the horror and ecstasy of that cataclysm, Christophe fell too, swept along by the whirlwind which brushed away and crushed like straws thelaws of nature. He was breathless: he was drunk with the swift hurtlingdown into God . . . God-abyss! God-gulf! Fire of Being! Hurricane of life!Madness of living, --aimless, uncontrolled, beyond reason, --for the fury ofliving!

 * * * * *

When the crisis was over, he fell into a deep sleep and slept as he had notdone for long enough. Next day when he awoke his head swam: he was asbroken as though he had been drunk. But in his inmost heart he had still abeam of that somber and great light that had struck him down the nightbefore. He tried to relight it. In vain. The more he pursued it, the moreit eluded him. From that time on, all his energy was directed towardsrecalling the vision of a moment. The endeavor was futile. Ecstasy does notanswer the bidding of the will. 

But that mystic exaltation was not the only experience that he had of it:it recurred several times, but never with the intensity of the first. Itcame always at moments when Christophe was least expecting it, for a secondonly, a time so short, so sudden, --no longer than a wink of an eye or araising of a hand--that the vision was gone before he could discover thatit was: and then he would wonder whether he had not dreamed it. After thatfiery bolt that had set the night aflame, it was a gleaming dust, sheddingfleeting sparks, which the eye could hardly see as they sped by. But theyreappeared more and more often: and in the end they surrounded Christophewith a halo of perpetual misty dreams, in which his spirit melted. Everything that distracted him in his state of semi-hallucination was anirritation to him. It was impossible to work; he gave up thinking about it. Society was odious to him; and more than any, that of his intimates, eventhat of his mother, because they arrogated to themselves more rights overhis soul. 

He left the house: he took to spending his days abroad, and never returneduntil nightfall. He sought the solitude of the fields, and deliveredhimself up to it, drank his fill of it, like a maniac who wishes not to bedisturbed by anything in the obsession of his fixed ideas. --But in thegreat sweet air, in contact with the earth, his obsession relaxed, hisideas ceased to appear like specters. His exaltation was no less: rather itwas heightened, but it was no longer a dangerous delirium of the mind but ahealthy intoxication of his whole being: body; and soul crazy in theirstrength. 

He rediscovered the world, as though he had never seen it. It was a newchildhood. It was as though a magic word had been uttered. An "OpenSesame!"--Nature flamed with gladness. The sun boiled. The liquid sky ranlike a clear river. The earth steamed and cried aloud in delight. Theplants, the trees, the insects, all the innumerable creatures were likedazzling tongues of flame in the fire of life writhing upwards. Everythingsang aloud in joy. 

And that joy was his own. That strength was his own. He was no longer cutoff from the rest of the world. Till then, even in the happy days ofchildhood, when he saw nature with ardent and delightful curiosity, allcreatures had seemed to him to be little worlds shut up, terrifying andgrotesque, unrelated to himself, and incomprehensible. He was not even surethat they had feeling and life. They were strange machines. And sometimesChristophe had even, with the unconscious cruelty of a child, dismemberedwretched insects without dreaming that they might suffer--for the pleasureof watching their queer contortions. His uncle Gottfried, usually so calm, had one day indignantly to snatch from his hands an unhappy fly that he wastorturing. The boy had tried to laugh at first: then he had burst intotears, moved by his uncle's emotion: he began to understand that his victimdid really exist, as well as himself, and that he had committed a crime. But if thereafter nothing would have induced him to do harm to the beasts, he never felt any sympathy for them: he used to pass them by without evertrying to feel what it was that worked their machinery: rather he wasafraid to think of it: it was something like a bad dream. --And noweverything was made plaint These humble, obscure creatures became in theirturn centers of light. 

Lying on his belly in the grass where creatures swarmed, in the shade ofthe trees that buzzed with insects, Christophe would watch the feveredmovements of the ants, the long-legged spiders, that seemed to dance asthey walked, the bounding grasshoppers, that leap aside, the heavy, bustling beetles, and the naked worms, pink and glabrous, mottled withwhite, or with his hands under his head and his eyes dosed he would listento the invisible orchestra, the roundelay of the frenzied insects circlingin a sunbeam about the scented pines, the trumpeting of the mosquitoes, theorgan, notes of the wasps, the brass of the wild bees humming like bells inthe tops of the trees, and the godlike whispering of the swaying trees, thesweet moaning of the wind in the branches, the soft whispering of thewaving grass, like a breath of wind rippling the limpid surface of a lake, like the rustling of a light dress and lovers footsteps coming near, andpassing, then lost upon the air. 

He heard all these sounds and cries within himself. Through all thesecreatures from the smallest to the greatest flowed the same river of life:and in it he too swam. So, he was one of them, he was of their blood, and, brotherly, he heard the echo of their sorrows and their joys: theirstrength was merged is his like a river fed with thousands of streams. Hesank into them. His lungs were like to burst with the wind, too freelyblowing, too strong, that burst the windows and forced its way, into theclosed house of his suffocating heart. The change was too abrupt: afterfinding everywhere a void, when he had been buried only in his ownexistence, and had felt it slipping from him and dissolving like rain, noweverywhere he found infinite and unmeasured Being, now that he longed toforget himself, to find rebirth in the universe. He seemed to have issuedfrom the grave. He swam voluptuously in life flowing free and full: andborne on by its current he thought that he was free. He did not know thathe was less free than ever, that no creature is ever free, that even thelaw that governs the universe is not free, that only death--perhaps--canbring deliverance. 

But the chrysalis issuing from its stifling sheath, joyously, stretched itslimbs in its new shape, and had no time as yet to mark the bounds of itsnew prison. 

 * * * * *

There began a new cycle of days. Days of gold and fever, mysterious, enchanted, like those of his childhood, when by one he discovered thingsfor the first time. From dawn to set of sun he lived in one long mirage. Hedeserted all his business. The conscientious boy, who for years had nevermissed a lesson, or an orchestra rehearsal, even when he was ill, wasforever finding paltry excuses for neglecting his work. He was not afraidto lie. He had no remorse about it. The stoic principles of life, to whichhe had hitherto delighted to bend his will, morality, duty, now seemed tohim to have no truth, nor reason. Their jealous despotism was smashedagainst Nature. Human nature, healthy, strong, free, that alone was virtue:to hell with all the rest! It provoked pitying laughter to see the littlepeddling rules of prudence and policy which the world adorns with the nameof morality, while it pretends to inclose all life within them. Apreposterous mole-hill, an ant-like people! Life sees to it that they arebrought to reason. Life does but pass, and all is swept away. . . . 

Bursting with energy Christophe had moments when he was consumed with adesire to destroy, to burn, to smash, to glut with actions blind anduncontrolled the force which choked him. These outbursts usually ended in asharp reaction: he would weep, and fling himself down on the ground, andkiss the earth, and try to dig into it with his teeth and hands, to feedhimself with it, to merge into it: he trembled then with fever and desire. 

One evening he was walking in the outskirts of a wood. His eyes wereswimming with the light, his head was whirling: he was in that state ofexaltation when all creatures and things were transfigured. To that wasadded the magic of the soft warm light of evening. Bays of purple and goldhovered in the trees. From the meadows seemed to come a phosphorescentglimmer. In a field near by a girl was making hay. In her blouse and shortskirt, with her arms and neck bare, she was raking the hay and heaping itup. She had a short nose, wide cheeks, a round face, a handkerchief thrownover her hair. The setting sun touched with red her sunburned skin, which, like a piece of pottery, seemed to absorb the last beams of the day. 

She fascinated Christophe. Leaning against a beech-tree he watched her cometowards the verge of the woods, eagerly, passionately. Everything else haddisappeared. She took no notice of him. For a moment she looked at himcautiously: he saw her eyes blue and hard in her brown face. She passed sonear to him that, when she leaned down to gather up the hay, through heropen blouse he saw a soft down on her shoulders and back. Suddenly thevague desire which was in him leaped forth. He hurled himself at her frombehind, seized her neck and waist, threw back her head and fastened hislips upon hers. He kissed her dry, cracked lips until he came against herteeth that bit him angrily. His hands ran over her rough arms, over herblouse wet with her sweat. She struggled. He held her tighter, he wished tostrangle her. She broke loose, cried out, spat, wiped her lips with herhand, and hurled insults at him. He let her go and fled across the fields. She threw stones at him and went on discharging after him a litany offilthy epithets. He blushed, less for anything that she might say or think, but for what he was thinking himself. The sudden unconscious act filled himwith terror. What had he done? What should he do? What he was able tounderstand of it all only filled him with disgust. And he was tempted byhis disgust. He fought against himself and knew not on which side was thereal Christophe. A blind force beset him: in vain did he fly from it: itwas only to fly from himself. What would she do about him? What should hedo to-morrow . . . In an hour . . . The time it took to cross the plowed fieldto reach the road?. . . Would he ever reach it? Should he not stop, and goback, and run back to the girl? And then?. . . He remembered that deliriousmoment when he had held her by the throat. Everything was possible. Allthings were worth while. A crime even. . . . Yes, even a crime. . . . The turmoilin his heart made him breathless. When he reached the road he stopped tobreathe. Over there the girl was talking to another girl who had beenattracted by her cries: and with arms akimbo, they were looking at eachother and shouting with laughter. 

II

SABINE

He went home. He shut himself up in his room and never stirred for severaldays. He only went out even into the town, when he was compelled. He wasfearful of ever going out beyond the gates and venturing forth into thefields: he was afraid of once more falling in with the soft, maddeningbreath that had blown upon him like a rushing wind during a calm in astorm. He thought that the walls of the town might preserve him from it. Henever dreamed that for the enemy to slip within there needed be only thesmallest crack in the closed shutters, no more than is needed for a peepout. 

In a wing of the house, on the other side of the yard, there lodged on theground floor a young woman of twenty, some months a widow, with a littlegirl. Frau Sabine Froehlich was also a tenant of old Euler's. She occupiedthe shop which opened on to the street, and she had as well two roomslooking on to the yard, together with a little patch of garden, marked offfrom the Eulers' by a wire fence up which ivy climbed. They did not oftensee her: the child used to play down in the garden from morning to nightmaking mud pies: and the garden was left to itself, to the great distressof old Justus, who loved tidy paths and neatness in the beds. He had triedto bring the matter to the attention of his tenant: but that was probablywhy she did not appear: and the garden was not improved by it. 

Frau Froehlich kept a little draper's shop which might have had customersenough, thanks to its position in a street of shops in the center of thetown: but she did not bother about it any more than about her garden. Instead of doing her housework herself, as, according to Frau Vogel, everyself-respecting woman ought to do--especially when she is in circumstanceswhich do not permit much less excuse idleness--she had hired a littleservant, a girl of fifteen, who came in for a few hours in the morning toclean the rooms and look after the shop, while the young woman lay in bedor dawdled over her toilet. 

Christophe used to see her sometimes, through his windows, walking abouther room, with bare feet, in her long nightgown, or sitting for hourstogether before her mirror: for she was so careless that she used to forgetto draw her curtains: and when she saw him, she was so lazy that she couldnot take the trouble, to go and lower them. Christophe, more modest thanshe, would leave the window so as not to incommode her: but the temptationwas great. He would blush a little and steal a glance at her bare arms, which were rather thin, as she drew them languidly around her flowing hair, and with her hands, clasped behind her head, lost herself in a dream, untilthey were numbed, and then she would let them fall. Christophe wouldpretend that he only saw these pleasant sights inadvertently as he happenedto pass the window, and that they did not disturb him in his musicalthoughts; but he liked it, and in the end he wasted as much time inwatching Frau Sabine, as she did over her toilet. Not that she was acoquette: she was rather careless, generally, and did not take anythinglike the meticulous care with her appearance that Amalia or Rosa did. Ifshe dawdled in front of her dressing table it was from pure laziness; everytime she put in a pin she had to rest from the effort of it, while she madelittle piteous faces at herself in the mirrors. She was never quiteproperly dressed at the end of the day. 

Often her servant used to go before Sabine was ready: and a customer wouldring the shop-bell. She would let him ring and call once or twice beforeshe could make up her mind to get up from her chair. She would go down, smiling, and never hurrying, --never hurrying would look for the articlerequired, --and if she could not find it after looking for some time, oreven (as happened sometimes) if she had to take too much trouble to reachit, as for instance, taking the ladder from one end of the shop to theother, --she would say calmly that she did not have it in stock: and as shenever bothered to put her stock in order, or to order more of the articlesof which she had run out, her customers used to lose patience and goelsewhere. But she never minded. How could you be angry with such apleasant creature who spoke so sweetly, and was never excited aboutanything! She did not mind what anybody said to her: and she made this soplain that those who began to complain never had the courage to go on: theyused to go, answering her charming smile with a smile: but they never cameback. She never bothered about it. She went on smiling. 

She was like a little Florentine figure. Her well marked eyebrows werearched: her gray eyes were half open behind the curtain of her lashes. Thelower eyelid was a little swollen, with a little crease below it. Herlittle, finely drawn nose turned up slightly at the end. Another littlecurve lay between it and her upper lip, which curled up above her half-openmouth, pouting in a weary smile. Her lower lip was a little thick: thelower part of her face was rounded, and had the serious expression of thelittle virgins of Filippo Lippi. Her complexion was a little muddy, herhair was light brown, always untidy, and done up in a slovenly chignon. Shewas slight of figure, small-boned. And her movements were lazy. Dressedcarelessly--a gaping bodice, buttons missing, ugly, worn shoes, alwayslooking a little slovenly--she charmed by her grace and youth, hergentleness, her instinctively coaxing ways. When she appeared to take theair at the door of her shop, the young men who passed used to look at herwith pleasure: and although she did not bother about them, she noticed itnone the less. Always then she wore that grateful and glad expression whichis in the eyes of all women when they know that they have been seen withsympathetic eyes. It seemed to say:

"Thank you!. . . Again! Look at me again!" But though it gave her pleasure toplease, her indifference would never let her make the smallest effort toplease. 

She was an object of scandal to the Euler-Vogels. Everything about heroffended them: her indolence, the untidiness of her house, the carelessnessof her dress, her polite indifference to their remarks, her perpetualsmile, the impertinent serenity with which she had accepted her husband'sdeath, her child's illnesses, her straitened circumstances, the great andannoyances of her daily life, while nothing could change one jot of herfavorite habits, or her eternal longing, --everything about her offendedthem: and the worst of all was that, as she was, she did give pleasure. Frau Vogel could not forgive her that. It was almost as though Sabine didit on purpose, on purpose, ironically, to set at naught by her conduct thegreat traditions, the true principles, the savorless duty, the pleasurelesslabor, the restlessness, the noise, the quarrels, the mooning ways, thehealthy pessimism which was the motive power of the Euler family, as it isthat of all respectable persons, and made their life a foretaste ofpurgatory. That a woman who did nothing but dawdle about all the blessedday should take upon herself to defy them with her calm insolence, whilethey bore their suffering in silence like galley-slaves, --and that peopleshould approve of her into the bargain--that was beyond the limit, that wasenough to turn you against respectability!. . . Fortunately, thank God, therewere still a few sensible people left in the world. Frau Vogel consoledherself with them. They exchanged remarks about the little widow, and spiedon her through her shutters. Such gossip was the joy of the family whenthey met at supper. Christophe would listen absently. He was so used tohearing the Vogels set themselves up as censors of their neighbors that henever took any notice of it. Besides he knew nothing of Frau Sabine excepther bare neck and arms, and though they were pleasing enough, they did notjustify his coming to a definite opinion about her. However, he wasconscious; of a kindly feeling towards her: and in a contradictory spirithe was especially grateful to her for displeasing Frau Vogel. 

 * * * * *

After dinner in the evening when it was very hot it was impossible to stayin the stifling yard, where the sun shone the whole afternoon. The onlyplace in the house where it was possible to breathe was the rooms lookinginto the street, Euler and his son-in-law used sometimes to go and sit onthe doorstep with Louisa. Frau Vogel and Rosa would only appear for amoment: they were kept by their housework: Frau Vogel took a pride inshowing that she had no time for dawdling: and she used to say, loudlyenough to be overheard, that all the people sitting there and yawning ontheir doorsteps, without doing a stitch of work, got on her nerves. As shecould not--(to her sorrow)--compel them to work, she would pretend not tosee them, and would go in and work furiously. Rosa thought she must dolikewise. Euler and Vogel would discover draughts everywhere, and fearfulof catching cold, would go up to their rooms: they used to go to bed early, and would have thought themselves ruined had they changed the least oftheir habits. After nine o'clock only Louisa and Christophe would be left. Louisa spent the day in her room: and, In the evening, Christophe used totake pains to be with her, whenever he could, to make her take the air. Ifshe were left alone she would never go out: the noise of the streetfrightened her. Children were always chasing each other with shrill cries. All the dogs of the neighborhood took it up and barked. The sound of apiano came up, a little farther off a clarinet, and in the next street acornet à piston. Voices chattered. People came and went and stood in groupsin front of their houses. Louisa would have lost her head if she had beenleft alone in all the uproar. But when her son was with her it gave herpleasure. The noise would gradually die down. The children and the dogswould go to bed first. The groups of people would break up. The air wouldbecome more pure. Silence would descend upon the street. Louisa would tellin her thin voice the little scraps of news that she had heard from Amaliaor Rosa. She was not greatly interested in them. But she never knew what totalk about to her son, and she felt the need of keeping in touch with him, of saying something to him. And Christophe, who felt her need, wouldpretend to be interested in everything she said: but he did not listen. Hewas off in vague dreams, turning over in his mind the doings of the day. One evening when they were sitting there--while his mother Was talking hesaw the door of the draper's shop open. A woman came out silently and satin the street. Her chair was only a few yards from Louisa. She was sittingin the darkest shadow. Christophe could not see her face: but he recognizedher. His dreams vanished. The air seemed sweeter to him. Louisa had notnoticed Sabine's presence, and went on with her chatter in a low voice. Christophe paid more attention to her, and, he felt impelled to throw out aremark here and there, to talk, perhaps to be heard. The slight figure satthere without stirring, a little limp, with her legs lightly crossed andher hands lying crossed in her lap. She was looking straight in front ofher, and seemed to hear nothing. Louisa was overcome with drowsiness. Shewent in. Christophe said he would stay a little longer. 

It was nearly ten. The street was empty. The people were going indoors. Thesound of the shops being shut was heard. The lighted windows winked andthen were dark again. One or two were still lit: then they were blottedout. Silence. . . . They were alone, they did not look at each other, theyheld their breath, they seemed not to be aware of each other. From thedistant fields came the smell of the new-mown hay, and from a balcony in ahouse near by the scent of a pot of cloves. No wind stirred. Above theirheads was the Milky Way. To their right red Jupiter. Above a chimneyCharles' Wain bent its axles: in the pale green sky its stars flowered likedaisies. From the bells of the parish church eleven o'clock rang out andwas caught up by all the other churches, with their voices clear ormuffled, and, from the houses, by the dim chiming of the clock or huskycuckoos. 

They awoke suddenly from their dreams, and got up at the same moment. Andjust as they were going indoors they both bowed without speaking. Christophe went up to his room. He lighted his candle, and sat down by hisdesk with his head in his hands, and stayed so for a long time without athought. Then he sighed and went to bed. 

Next day when he got up, mechanically he went to his window to look downinto Sabine's room. But the curtains were drawn. They were drawn the wholemorning. They were drawn ever after. 

 * * * * *

Next evening Christophe proposed to his mother that they should go again tosit by the door. He did so regularly. Louisa was glad of it: she did notlike his shutting himself up in his room immediately after dinner with thewindow and shutters closed. --The little silent shadow never failed to comeand sit in its usual place. They gave each other a quick nod, which Louisanever noticed. Christophe would talk to his mother. Sabine would smile ather little girl, playing in the street: about nine she would go and put herto bed and would then return noiselessly. If she stayed a little Christophewould begin to be afraid that she would not come back. He would listen forsounds in the house, the laughter of the little girl who would not go tosleep: he would hear the rustling of Sabine's dress before she appeared onthe threshold of the shop. Then he would look away and talk to his mothermore eagerly. Sometimes he would feel that Sabine was looking at him. Inturn he would furtively look at her. But their eyes would never meet. 

The child was a bond between them. She would run about in the street withother children. They would find amusement in teasing a good-tempered dogsleeping there with his nose in his paws: he would cock a red eye and atlast would emit a growl of boredom: then they would fly this way and thatscreaming in terror and happiness. The little girl would give piercingshrieks, and look behind her as though she were being pursued; she wouldthrow herself into Louisa's lap, and Louisa would smile fondly. She wouldkeep the child and question her: and so she would enter into conversationwith Sabine. Christophe never joined in. He never spoke to Sabine. Sabinenever spoke to him. By tacit agreement they pretended to ignore each other. But he never lost a word of what they said as they talked over him. Hissilence seemed unfriendly to Louisa. Sabine never thought it so: but itwould make her shy, and she would grow confused in her remarks. Then shewould find some excuse for going in. 

For a whole week Louisa kept indoors for a cold. Christophe and Sabine wereleft alone. The first time they were frightened by it. Sabine, to seem ather ease, took her little girl on her knees and loaded her with caresses. Christophe was embarrassed and did not know whether he ought to go onignoring what was happening at his side. It became difficult: although theyhad not spoken a single word to each other, they did know each other, thanks to Louisa. He tried to begin several times: but the words stuck inhis throat. Once more the little girl extricated them from theirdifficulty. She played hide-and-seek, and went round Christophe's chair. Hecaught her as she passed and kissed her. He was not very fond of children:but it was curiously pleasant to him to kiss the little girl. She struggledto be free, for she was busy with her game. He teased her, she bit hishands: he let her fall. Sabine laughed. They looked at the child andexchanged a few trivial words. Then Christophe tried--(he thought hemust)--to enter into conversation: but he had nothing very much to go upon:and Sabine did not make his task any the easier: she only repeated what hesaid:

"It is a fine evening. "

"Yes. It is a very fine evening. "

"Impossible to breathe in the yard. "

"Yes. The yard was stifling. "

Conversation became very difficult. Sabine discovered that it was time totake the little girl in, and went in herself: and she did not appear again. 

Christophe was afraid she would do the same on the evenings that followedand that she would avoid being left alone with him, as long as Louisa wasnot there. But on the contrary, the next evening Sabine tried to resumetheir conversation. She did so deliberately rather than for pleasure: shewas obviously taking a great deal of trouble to find subjects ofconversation, and bored with the questions she put: questions and answerscame between heartbreaking silences. Christophe remembered his firstinterviews with Otto: but with Sabine their subjects were even more limitedthan then, and she had not Otto's patience. When she saw the small successof her endeavors she did not try any more: she had to give herself too muchtrouble, and she lost interest in it. She said no more, and he followed herlead. 

And then there was sweet peace again. The night was calm once more, andthey returned to their inward thoughts. Sabine rocked slowly in her chair, dreaming. Christophe also was dreaming. They said nothing. After half anhour Christophe began to talk to himself, and in a low voice cried out withpleasure in the delicious scent brought by the soft wind that came from acart of strawberries. Sabine said a word or two in reply. Again they weresilent. They were enjoying the charm of these indefinite silences, andtrivial words. Their dreams were the same, they had but one thought: theydid not know what it was: they did not admit it to themselves. At eleventhey smiled and parted. 

Next day they did not even try to talk: they resumed their sweet silence. At long intervals a word or two let them know that they were thinking ofthe same things. 

Sabine began to laugh. 

"How much better it is, " she said, "not to try to talk! One thinks onemust, and it is so tiresome!"

"Ah!" said Christophe with conviction, "if only everybody thought thesame. "

They both laughed. They were thinking of Frau Vogel. 

"Poor woman!" said Sabine; "how exhausting she is!"

"She is never exhausted, " replied Christophe gloomily. 

She was tickled by his manner and his jest. 

"You think it amusing?" he asked. "That is easy for you. You aresheltered. "

"So I am, " said Sabine. "I lock myself in. " She had a little soft laughthat hardly sounded. Christophe heard it with delight in the calm of theevening. He snuffed the fresh air luxuriously. 

"Ah! It is good to be silent!" he said, stretching his limbs. 

"And talking is no use!" said she. 

"Yes, " returned Christophe, "we understand each other so well!"

They relapsed into silence. In the darkness they could not see each other. They were both smiling. 

And yet, though they felt the same, when they were together--or imaginedthat they did--in reality they knew nothing of each other. Sabine did notbother about it. Christophe was more curious. One evening he asked her:

"Do you like music?"

"No, " she said simply. "It bores me, I don't understand it. "

Her frankness charmed him. He was sick of the lies of people who said thatthey were mad about music, and were bored to death when they heard it: andit seemed to him almost a virtue not to like it and to say so. He asked ifSabine read. 

"So. She had no books. "

He offered to lend her his. 

"Serious books?" she asked uneasily. 

"Not serious books if she did not want them. Poetry. "

"But those are serious books. "

"Novels, then. "

She pouted. 

"They don't interest you?"

"Yes. She was interested in them: but they were always too long: she neverhad the patience to finish them. She forgot the beginning: skipped chaptersand then lost the thread. And then she threw the book away. "

"Fine interest you take!"

"Bah! Enough for a story that is not true. She kept her interest for betterthings than books. "

"For the theater, then?"

"No. . . . No. "

"Didn't she go to the theater?"

"No. It was too hot. There were too many people. So much better at home. The lights tired her eyes. And the actors were so ugly!"

He agreed with her in that. But there were other things in the theater: theplay, for instance. 

"Yes, " she said absently. "But I have no time. "

"What do you do all day?"

She smiled. 

"There is so much to do. "

"True, " said he. "There is your shop. "

"Oh!" she said calmly. "That does not take much time. "

"Your little girl takes up your time then?"

"Oh! no, poor child! She is very good and plays by herself. "

"Then?"

He begged pardon for his indiscretion. But she was amused by it. 

"There are so many things. "

"What things?"

"She could not say. All sorts of things. Getting up, dressing, thinking ofdinner, cooking dinner, eating dinner, thinking of supper, cleaning herroom. . . . And then the day was over. . . . And besides you must have a littletime for doing nothing!"

"And you are not bored?"

"Never. "

"Even when you are doing nothing?"

"Especially when I am doing nothing. It is much worse doing something: thatbores me. "

They looked at each other and laughed. 

"You are very happy!" said Christophe. "I can't do nothing. "

"It seems to me that you know how. "

"I have been learning lately. "

"Ah! well, you'll learn. "

When he left off talking to her he was at his ease and comfortable. It wasenough for him to see her. He was rid of his anxieties, and irritations, and the nervous trouble that made him sick at heart. When he was talking toher he was beyond care: and so when he thought of her. He dared not admitit to himself: but as soon as he was in her presence, he was filled with adelicious soft emotion that brought him almost to unconsciousness. At nighthe slept as he had never done. 

 * * * * *

When he came back from his work he would look into this shop. It was notoften that he did not see Sabine. They bowed and smiled. Sometimes she wasat the door and then they would exchange a few words: and he would open thedoor and call the little girl and hand her a packet of sweets. 

One day he decided to go in. He pretended that he wanted some waistcoatbuttons. She began to look for them: but she could not find them. All thebuttons were mixed up: it was impossible to pick them out. She was a littleput out that he should see her untidiness. He laughed at it and bent overthe better to see it. 

"No, " she said, trying to hide the drawers with her hands. "Don't look! Itis a dreadful muddle. . . . "

She went on looking. But Christophe embarrassed her. She was cross, and asshe pushed the drawer back she said:

"I can't find any. Go to Lisi, in the next street. She is sure to havethem. She has everything that people want. "

He laughed at her way of doing business. 

"Do you send all your customers away like that?"

"Well. You are not the first, " said Sabine warmly. 

And yet she was a little ashamed:

"It is too much trouble to tidy up, " she said. "I put off doing it from dayto day. . . . But I shall certainly do it to-morrow. "

"Shall I help you?" asked Christophe. 

She refused. She would gladly have accepted: but she dared not, for fear ofgossip. And besides it humiliated her. 

They went on talking. 

"And your buttons?" she said to Christophe a moment later. "Aren't yougoing to Lisi?"

"Never, " said Christophe. "I shall wait until you have tidied up. "

"Oh!" said Sabine, who had already forgotten what she had just said, "don'twait all that time!"

Her frankness delighted them both. 

Christophe went to the drawer that she had shut. 

"Let me look. "

She ran to prevent his doing so. 

"No, now please. I am sure I haven't any. "

"I bet you have. "

At once he found the button he wanted, and was triumphant. He wantedothers. He wanted to go on rummaging; but she snatched the box from hishands, and, hurt in her vanity, she began to look herself. 

The light was fading. She went to the window. Christophe sat a little awayfrom her: the little girl clambered on to his knees. He pretended to listento her chatter and answered her absently. He was looking at Sabine and sheknew that he was looking at her. She bent over the box. He could see herneck and a little of her cheek. --And as he looked he saw that she wasblushing. And he blushed too. 

The child went on talking. No one answered her. Sabine did not move. Christophe could not see what she was doing, he was sure she was doingnothing: she was not even looking at the box in her hands. The silence wenton and on. The little girl grew uneasy and slipped down from Christophe'sknees. 

"Why don't you say anything?"

Sabine turned sharply and took her in her arms. The box was spilled on thefloor: the little girl shouted with glee and ran on hands and knees afterthe buttons rolling under the furniture. Sabine went to the window againand laid her cheek against the pane. She seemed to be absorbed in what shesaw outside. 

"Good-night!" said Christophe, ill at ease. She did not turn her head, andsaid in a low voice:

"Good-night. "

 * * * * *

On Sundays the house was empty during the afternoon. The whole family wentto church for Vespers. Sabine did not go. Christophe jokingly reproachedher with it once when he saw her sitting at her door in the little garden, while the lovely bells were bawling themselves hoarse summoning her. Shereplied in the same tone that only Mass was compulsory: not Vespers: it wasthen no use, and perhaps a little indiscreet to be too zealous: and sheliked to think that God would be rather pleased than angry with her. 

"You have made God in your own image, " said Christophe. 

"I should be so bored if I were in His place, " replied she with conviction. 

"You would not bother much about the world if you were in His place. "

"All that I should ask of it would be that it should not bother itselfabout me. "

"Perhaps it would be none the worse for that, " said Christophe. 

"Tssh!" cried Sabine, "we are being irreligious. "

"I don't see anything irreligious in saying that God is like you. I am sureHe is flattered. "

"Will you be silent!" said Sabine, half laughing, half angry. She wasbeginning to be afraid that God would be scandalized. She quickly turnedthe conversation. 

"Besides, " she said, "it is the only time in the week when one can enjoythe garden in peace. "

"Yes, " said Christophe. "They are gone. " They looked at each other. 

"How silent it is, " muttered Sabine. "We are not used to it. One hardlyknows where one is. . . . "

"Oh!" cried Christophe suddenly and angrily. 

"There are days when I would like to strangle her!" There was no need toask of whom he was speaking. 

"And the others?" asked Sabine gaily. 

"True, " said Christophe, a little abashed. "There is Rosa. "

"Poor child!" said Sabine. 

They were silent. 

"If only it were always as it is now!" sighed Christophe. 

She raised her laughing eyes to his, and then dropped them. He saw that shewas working. 

"What are you doing?" he asked. 

(The fence of ivy that separated the two gardens was between them. )

"Look!" she said, lifting a basin that she was holding in heir lap. "I amshelling peas. "

She sighed. 

"But that is not unpleasant, " he raid, laughing. 

"Oh!" she replied, "it is disgusting, always having to think of dinner. "

"I bet that if it were possible, " he said, "you would go without yourdinner rather than haw the trouble of cooking it. "

"That's true, " cried she. 

"Wait! I'll come and help you. "

He climbed over the fence and came to her. 

She was sitting in a chair in the door. He sat on a step at her feet. Hedipped into her lap for handfuls of green pods; and he poured the littleround peas into the basin that Sabine held between her knees. He lookeddown. He saw Sabine's black stockings clinging to her ankles and feet--oneof her feet was half out of its shoe. He dared not raise his eyes to lookat her. 

The air was heavy. The sky was dull and clouds hung low: There was no wind. No leaf stirred. The garden was inclosed within high walls: there was noworld beyond them. 

The child had gone out with one of the neighbors. They were alone. Theysaid nothing. They could say nothing. Without looking he went on takinghandfuls of peas from Sabine's lap: his fingers trembled as he touched her:among the fresh smooth pods they met Sabine's fingers, and they trembledtoo. They could not go on. They sat still, not looking at each other: sheleaned back in her chair with her lips half-open and her arms hanging: hesat at her feet leaning against her: along his shoulder and arm he couldfeel the warmth of Sabine's leg. They were breathless. Christophe laid hishands against the stones to cool them: one of his hands touched Sabine'sfoot, that she had thrust out of her shoe, and he left it there, could notmove it. They shivered. Almost they lost control. Christophe's hand closedon the slender toes of Sabine's little foot. Sabine turned cold, the sweatbroke out on her brow, she leaned towards Christophe. . . . 

Familiar voices broke the spell. They trembled. Christophe leaped to hisfeet and crossed the fence again. Sabine picked up the shells in her lapand went in. In the yard he turned. She was at her door. They looked ateach other. Drops of rain were beginning to patter on the leaves of thetrees. . . . She closed her door. Frau Vogel and Rosa came in. . . . He went upto his room. . . . 

In the yellow light of the waning day drowned in the torrents of rain, hegot up from his desk in response to an irresistible impulse: he ran to hiswindow and held out his arms to the opposite window. At the same momentthrough the opposite window in the half-darkness of the room he saw--hethought he saw--Sabine holding out her arms to him. 

He rushed from his room. He went downstairs. He ran to the garden fence. Atthe risk of being seen he was about to clear it. But when he looked at thewindow at which she had appeared, he saw that the shutters were closed. Thehouse seemed to be asleep. He stopped. Old Euler, going to his cellar, sawhim and called him. He retraced his footsteps. He thought he must have beendreaming. 

It was not long before Rosa began to see what was happening. She had nodiffidence and she did not yet know what jealousy was. She was ready togive wholly and to ask nothing in return. But if she was sorrowfullyresigned to not being loved by Christophe, she had never considered thepossibility of Christophe loving another. 

One evening, after dinner, she had just finished a piece of embroidery atwhich she had been working for months. She was happy, and wanted for oncein a way to leave her work and go and talk to Christophe. She waited untilher mother's back was turned and then slipped from the room. She crept fromthe house like a truant. She wanted to go and confound Christophe, who hadvowed scornfully that she would never finish her work. She thought it wouldbe a good joke to go and take them by surprise in the street. It was no usethe poor child knowing how Christophe felt towards her: she was alwaysinclined to measure the pleasure which others should have at seeing her bythat which she had herself in meeting them. 

She went out. Christophe and Sabine were sitting as usual in front of thehouse. There was a catch at Rosa's heart. And yet she did not stop for theirrational idea that was in her: and she chaffed Christophe warmly. Thesound of her shrill voice in the silence of the night struck on Christophelike a false note. He started in his chair, and frowned angrily. Rosa wavedher embroidery in his face triumphantly. Christophe snubbed herimpatiently. 

"It is finished--finished!" insisted Rosa. 

"Oh! well--go and begin another, " said Christophe curtly. 

Rosa was crestfallen. All her delight vanished. Christophe went on crossly:

"And when you have done thirty, when you are very old, you will at least beable to say to yourself that your life has not been wasted!"

Rosa was near weeping. 

"How cross you are, Christophe!" she said. 

Christophe was ashamed and spoke kindly to her. She was satisfied with solittle that she regained confidence: and she began once more to chatternoisily: she could not speak low, she shouted deafeningly, like everybodyin the house. In spite of himself Christophe could not conceal hisill-humor. At first he answered her with a few irritated monosyllables:then he said nothing at all, turned his back on her, fidgeted in his chair, and ground his teeth as she rattled on. Rosa saw that he was losing histemper and knew that she ought to stop: but she went on louder than ever. Sabine, a few yards away, in the dark, said nothing, watched the scene withironic impassivity. Then she was weary and, feeling that the evening waswasted, she got up and went in. Christophe only noticed her departure aftershe had gone. He got up at once and without ceremony went away with a curt"Good-evening. "

Rosa was left alone in the street, and looked in bewilderment at the doorby which he had just gone in. Tears came to her eyes. She rushed in, wentup to her room without a sound, so as not to have to talk to her mother, undressed hurriedly, and when she was in her bed, buried under the clothes, sobbed and sobbed. She made no attempt to think over what had passed: shedid not ask herself whether Christophe loved Sabine, or whether Christopheand Sabine could not bear her: she knew only that all was lost, that lifewas useless, that there was nothing left to her but death. 

Next morning thought came to her once more with eternal illusive hope. Sherecalled the events of the evening and told herself that she was wrong toattach so much importance to them. No doubt Christophe did not love her:she was resigned to that, though in her heart she thought, though she didnot admit the thought, that in the end she would win his love by her lovefor him. But what reason had she for thinking that there was anythingbetween Sabine and him? How could he, so clever as he was, love a littlecreature whose insignificance and mediocrity were patent? She wasreassured, --but for that she did not watch Christophe any the less closely. She saw nothing all day, because there was nothing to see: but Christopheseeing her prowling about him all day long without any sort of explanationwas peculiarly irritated by it. She set the crown on her efforts in theevening when she appeared again and sat with them in the street. The sceneof the previous evening was repeated. Rosa talked alone. But Sabine did notwait so long before she went indoors: and Christophe followed her example. Rosa could no longer pretend that her presence was not unwelcome: but theunhappy girl tried to deceive herself. She did not perceive that she couldhave done nothing worse than to try so to impose on herself: and with herusual clumsiness she went on through the succeeding days. 

Next day with Rosa sitting by his side Christophe waited is vain for Sabineto appear. 

The day after Rosa was alone. They had given up the struggle. But shegained nothing by it save resentment from Christophe, who was furious atbeing robbed of his beloved evenings, his only happiness. He was the lessinclined to forgive her, for being absorbed with his own feelings, he hadno suspicion of Rosa's. 

Sabine had known them for some time: she knew that Rosa was jealous evenbefore she knew that she herself was in love: but she said nothing aboutit: and, with the natural cruelty of a pretty woman, who is certain of hervictory, in quizzical silence she watched the futile efforts of her awkwardrival. 

 * * * * *

Left mistress of the field of battle Rosa gazed piteously upon the resultsof her tactics. The best thing she could have done would have been not topersist, and to leave Christophe alone, at least for the time being: butthat was not what she did: and as the worst thing she could have done wasto talk to him; about Sabine, that was precisely what she did. 

With a fluttering at her heart, by way of sounding him, she said timidlythat Sabine was pretty. Christophe replied curtly; that she was verypretty. And although Rosa might have foreseen the reply she would provoke, her heart thumped when she heard him. She knew that Sabine was pretty: butshe had never particularly remarked it: now she saw her for the first timewith the eyes of Christophe: she saw her delicate features, her short nose, her fine mouth, her slender figure, her graceful movements. . . . Ah! howsad!. . . What would not she have given to possess Sabine's body, and live init! She did not go closely into why it should be preferred to her own!. . . Her own!. . . What had she done to possess such a body? What a burden it wasupon her. How ugly it seemed to her! It was odious to her. And to thinkthat nothing but death could ever free her from it!. . . She was at once tooproud and too humble to complain that she was not loved: she had no rightto do so: and she tried even more to humble herself. But her instinctrevolted. . . . No. It was not just!. . . Why should she have such a body, she, and not Sabine?. . . And why should Sabine be loved? What had she done to beloved?. . . Rosa saw her with no kindly eye, lazy, careless, egoistic, indifferent towards everybody, not looking after her house, or her child, or anybody, loving only herself, living only for sleeping, dawdling, anddoing nothing. . . . And it was such a woman who pleased . . . Who pleasedChristophe. . . . Christophe who was so severe, Christophe who was sodiscerning, Christophe whom she esteemed and admired more than anybody!. . . How could Christophe be blind to it?--She could not help from time to timedropping an unkind remark about Sabine in his hearing. She did not wish todo so: but the impulse was stronger than herself. She was always sorry forit, for she was a kind creature and disliked speaking ill of anybody. Butshe was the more sorry because she drew down on herself such cruel repliesas showed how much Christophe was in love. He did not mince matters. Hurtin his love, he tried to hurt in return: and succeeded. Rosa would make noreply and go out with her head bowed, and her lips tight pressed to keepfrom crying. She thought that it was her own fault, that she deserved itfor having hurt Christophe by attacking the object of his love. 

Her mother was less patient. Frau Vogel, who saw everything, and old Euler, also, had not been slow to notice Christophe's interviews with their youngneighbor: it was not difficult to guess their romance. Their secretprojects of one day marrying Rosa to Christophe were set at naught by it:and that seemed to them a personal affront of Christophe, although he wasnot supposed to know that they had disposed of him without consulting hiswishes. But Amalia's despotism did not admit of ideas contrary to her own:and it seemed scandalous to her that Christophe should have disregarded thecontemptuous opinion she had often expressed of Sabine. 

She did not hesitate to repeat it for his benefit. Whenever he was presentshe found some excuse for talking about her neighbor: she cast about forthe most injurious things to say of her, things which might stingChristophe most cruelly: and with the crudity of her point of view andlanguage she had no difficulty in finding them. The ferocious instinct of awoman, so superior to that of a man in the art of doing evil, as well as ofdoing good, made her insist less on Sabine's laziness and moral failingsthan on her uncleanliness. Her indiscreet and prying eye had watchedthrough the window for proofs of it in the secret processes of Sabine'stoilet: and she exposed them with coarse complacency. When from decency shecould not say everything she left the more to be understood. 

Christophe would go pale with shame and anger: he would go white as a sheetand his lips would quiver. Rosa, foreseeing what must happen, would imploreher mother to have done: she would even try to defend Sabine. But she onlysucceeded in making Amalia more aggressive. 

And suddenly Christophe would leap from his chair. He would thump on thetable and begin to shout that it was monstrous to speak of a woman, to spyupon her, to expose her misfortunes; only an evil mind could so persecute acreature who was good, charming, quiet, keeping herself to herself, anddoing no harm to anybody, and speaking no ill of anybody. But they weremaking a great mistake if they thought they could do her harm; they onlymade him more sympathetic and made her kindness shine forth only the moreclearly. 

Amalia would feel then that she had gone too far: but she was hurt byfeeling it; and, shifting her ground, she would say that it was only tooeasy to talk of kindness: that the word was called in as an excuse foreverything. Heavens! It was easy enough to be thought kind when you neverbothered about anything or anybody, and never did your duty!

To which Christophe would reply that the first duty of all was to make lifepleasant for others, but that there were people for whom duty meant onlyugliness, unpleasantness, tiresomeness, and everything that interferes withthe liberty of others and annoys and injures their neighbors, theirservants, their families, and themselves. God save us from such people, andsuch a notion of duty, as from the plague!. . . 

They would grow venomous. Amalia would be very bitter. Christophe would notbudge an inch. --And the result of it all was that henceforth Christophemade a point of being seen continually with Sabine. He would go and knockat her door. He would talk gaily and laugh with her. He would choosemoments when Amalia and Rosa could see him. Amalia would avenge herselfwith angry words. But the innocent Rosa's heart was rent and torn by thisrefinement of cruelty: she felt that he detested them and wished to avengehimself: and she wept bitterly. 

 * * * * *

So, Christophe, who had suffered so much from injustice, learned unjustlyto inflict suffering. 

Some time after that Sabine's brother, a miller at Landegg, a little town afew miles away, was to celebrate the christening of a child. Sabine was tobe godmother. She invited Christophe. He had no liking for these functions:but for the pleasure of annoying the Vogels and of being with Sabine heaccepted eagerly. 

Sabine gave herself the malicious satisfaction of inviting Amalia and Rosaalso, being quite sure that they would refuse. They did. Rosa was longingto accept. She did not dislike Sabine: sometimes even her heart was filledwith tenderness for her because Christophe loved her: sometimes she longedto tell her so and to throw her arms about her neck. But there was hermother and her mother's example. She stiffened herself in her pride andrefused. Then, when they had gone, and she thought of them together, happytogether, driving in the country on the lovely July day, while she wasleft shut up in her room, with a pile of linen to mend, with her mothergrumbling by her side, she thought she must choke: and she cursed herpride. Oh! if there were still time!. . . Alas! if it were all to do again, she would have done the same. . . . 

The miller had sent his wagonette to fetch Christophe and Sabine. They tookup several guests from the town and the farms on the road. . It was freshdry weather. The bright sun made the red berries of the brown trees by theroad and the wild cherry trees in the fields shine. Sabine was smiling. Herpale face was rosy under the keen wind. Christophe had her little girl onhis knees. They did not try to talk to each other: they talked to theirneighbors without caring to whom or of what: they were glad to hear eachother's voices: they were glad to be driving in the same carriage. Theylooked at each other in childish glee as they pointed out to each other ahouse, a tree, a passerby. Sabine loved the country: but she hardly everwent into it: her incurable laziness made excursions impossible: it wasalmost a year since she had been outside the town: and so she delighted inthe smallest things she saw. They were not new to Christophe: but he lovedSabine, and like all lovers he saw everything through her eyes, and feltall her thrills of pleasure, and all and more than the emotion that was inher: for, merging himself with his beloved, he endowed her with all that hewas himself. 

When they came to the mill they found in the yard all the people of thefarm and the other guests, who received them with a deafening noise. Thefowls, the ducks, and the dogs joined in. The miller, Bertold, a greatfair-haired fellow, square of head and shoulders, as big and tall as Sabinewas slight, took his little sister in his arms and put her down gently asthough he were afraid of breaking her. It was not long before Christophesaw that the little sister, as usual, did just as she liked with the giant, and that while he made heavy fun of her whims, and her laziness, and herthousand and one failings, he was at her feet, her slave. She was used toit, and thought it natural. She did nothing to win love: it seemed to herright that she should be loved: and if she were not, did not care: that iswhy everybody loved her. 

Christophe made another discovery not so pleasing. For a christening agodfather is necessary as well as a godmother, and the godfather hascertain rights over the godmother, rights which he does not often renounce, especially when she is young and pretty. He learned this suddenly when hesaw a farmer, with fair curly hair, and rings in his ears, go up to Sabinelaughing and kiss her on both cheeks. Instead of telling himself that hewas an ass to have forgotten this privilege, and more than an ass to behuffy about it, he was cross with Sabine, as though she had deliberatelydrawn him into the snare. His crossness grew worse when he found himselfseparated from her during the ceremony. Sabine turned round every now andthen as the procession wound across the fields and threw him a friendlyglance. He pretended not to see it. She felt that he was annoyed, andguessed why: but it did not trouble her: it amused her. If she had had areal squabble with some one she loved, in spite of all the pain it mighthave caused her, she would never have made the least effort to break downany misunderstanding: it would have been too much trouble. Everything wouldcome right if it were only left alone. 

At dinner, sitting between the miller's wife and a fat girl with red cheekswhom he had escorted to the service without ever paying any attention toher, it occurred to Christophe to turn and look at his neighbor: and, finding her comely, out of revenge, he flirted desperately with her withthe idea of catching Sabine's attention. He succeeded: but Sabine was notthe sort of woman to be jealous of anybody or anything: so long as shewas loved, she did not care whether her lover did or did not pay court toothers: and instead of being angry, she was delighted to see Christopheamusing himself. From the other end of the table she gave him her mostcharming smile. Christophe was disgruntled: there was no doubt then thatSabine was indifferent to him: and he relapsed into his sulky mood fromwhich nothing could draw him, neither the soft eyes of his neighbor, northe wine that he drank. Finally, when he was half asleep, he asked himselfangrily what on earth he was doing at such an interminable orgy, and didnot hear the miller propose a trip on the water to take certain of theguests home. Nor did he see Sabine beckoning him to come with her so thatthey should be in the same boat. When it occurred to him, there was no roomfor him: and he had to go in another boat. This fresh mishap was not likelyto make him more amiable until he discovered that he was to be rid ofalmost all his companions on the way. Then he relaxed and was pleasant. Besides the pleasant afternoon on the water, the pleasure of rowing, themerriment of these good people, rid him of his ill-humor. As Sabine was nolonger there he lost his self-consciousness, and had no scruple about beingfrankly amused like the others. 

They were in their boats. They followed each other closely, and tried topass each other. They threw laughing insults at each other. When the boatsbumped Christophe saw Sabine's smiling face: and he could not help smilingtoo: they felt that peace was made. He knew that very soon they wouldreturn together. 

They began to sing part songs. Each voice took up a line in time and therefrain was taken up in chorus. The people in the different boats, someway from each other, now echoed each other. The notes skimmed over thewater like birds. From time to time a boat would go in to the bank: a fewpeasants would climb out: they would stand there and wave to the boats asthey went further and further away. Little by little they were disbanded. One by one voices left the chorus. At last they were alone, Christophe, Sabine, and the miller. 

They came back in the same boat, floating down the river. Christophe andBertold held the oars, but they did not row. Sabine sat in the stern facingChristophe, and talked to her brother and looked at Christophe. Talking so, they were able to look at each other undisturbedly. They could never havedone so had the words ceased to flow. The deceitful words seemed to say:"It is not you that I see. " But their eyes said to each other: "Who areyou? Who are you? You that I love!. . . You that I love, whoever you be!. . . "

The sky was clouded, mists rose from the fields, the river steamed, the sunwent down behind the clouds. Sabine shivered and wrapped her little blackshawl round her head and shoulders. She seemed to be tired. As the boat, hugging the bank, passed under the spreading branches of the willows, she closed her eyes: her thin face was pale: her lips were sorrowful:she did not stir, she seemed to suffer, --to have suffered, --to be dead. Christophe's heart ached. He leaned over to her. She opened her eyes againand saw Christophe's uneasy eyes upon her and she smiled into them. It waslike a ray of sunlight to him. He asked in a whisper:

"Are you ill?"

She shook her head and said:

"I am cold. "

The two men put their overcoats about her, wrapped up her feet, her legs, her knees, like a child being tucked up in bed. She suffered it aridthanked them with her eyes. A fine, cold rain was beginning to fall. Theytook the oars and went quietly home. Heavy clouds hung in the sky. Theriver was inky black. Lights showed in the windows of the houses here andthere in the fields. When they reached the mill the rain was pouring downand Sabine was numbed. 

They lit a large fire in the kitchen and waited until the deluge should heover. But it only grew worse, and the wind rose. They had to drive threemiles to get back to the town. The miller declared that he would not letSabine go in such weather: and he proposed that they should both spend thenight in the farmhouse. Christophe was reluctant to accept: he looked atSabine for counsel: but her eyes were fixed on the fire on the hearth: itwas as though they were afraid of influencing Christophe's decision. Butwhen Christophe had said "Yes, " she turned to him and she was blushing--(orwas it the reflection of the fire?)--and he saw that she was pleased. 

A jolly evening. . . . The rain stormed outside. In the black chimney the firedarted jets of golden sparks. They spun round and round. Their fantasticshapes were marked against the wall. The miller showed Sabine's littlegirl how to make shadows with her hands. The child laughed and wasnot altogether at her ease. Sabine leaned over the fire and poked itmechanically with a heavy pair of tongs: she was a little weary, and smileddreamily, while, without listening, she nodded to her sister-in-law'schatter of her domestic affairs. Christophe sat in the shadow by themiller's side and watched Sabine smiling. He knew that she was smilingat him. They never had an opportunity of being alone all evening, or oflooking at each other: they sought none. 

 * * * * *

They parted early. Their rooms were adjoining, and communicated by a door. Christophe examined the door and found that the lock was on Sabine's side. He went to bed and tried to sleep. The rain was pattering against thewindows. The wind howled in the chimney. On the floor above him a door wasbanging. Outside the window a poplar bent and groaned under the tempest. Christophe could not close his eyes. He was thinking that he was underthe same roof, near her. A wall only divided them. He heard no sound inSabine's room. But he thought he could see her. He sat up in his bed andcalled to her in a low voice through the wall: tender, passionate wordshe said: he held out his arms to her. And it seemed to him that she washolding out her arms to him. In his heart he heard the beloved voiceanswering him, repeating his words, calling low to him: and he did not knowwhether it was he who asked and answered all the questions, or whether itwas really she who spoke. The voice came louder, the call to him: he couldnot resist: he leaped from his bed: he groped his way to the door: he didnot wish to open it: he was reassured by the closed door. And when he laidhis hand once more on the handle he found that the door was opening. . . . 

He stopped dead. He closed it softly: he opened it once more: he closed itagain. Was it not closed just now? Yes. He was sure it was. Who had openedit?. . . His heart beat so that he choked. He leaned over his bed, and satdown to breathe again. He was overwhelmed by his passion. It robbed him ofthe power to see or hear or move: his whole body shook. He was in terror ofthis unknown joy for which for months he had been craving, which was withhim now, near him, so that nothing could keep it from him. Suddenly theviolent boy filled with love was afraid of these desires newly realized andrevolted from them. He was ashamed of them, ashamed of what he wished todo. He was too much in love to dare to enjoy what he loved: he was afraid:he would have done anything to escape his happiness. Is it only possible tolove, to love, at the cost of the profanation of the beloved?. . . 

He went to the door again: and trembling with love and fear, with his handon the latch he could not bring himself to open it. 

And on the other side of the door, standing barefooted on the tiled floor, shivering with cold, was Sabine. 

So they stayed . . . For how long? Minutes? Hours?. . . They did not know thatthey were there: and yet they did know. They held out their arms to eachother, --he was overwhelmed by a love so great that he had not the courageto enter, --she called to him, waited for him, trembled lest he shouldenter. . . . And when at last he made up his mind to enter, she had just madeup her mind to turn the lock again. 

Then he cursed himself for a fool. He leaned against the door with all hisstrength. With his lips to the lock he implored her:

"Open. "

He called to Sabine in a whisper: she could hear his heated breathing. Shestayed motionless near the door: she was frozen: her teeth were chattering:she had no strength either to open the door or to go to bed again. . . . 

The storm made the trees crack and the doors in the house bang. . . . Theyturned away and went to their beds, worn out, sad and sick at heart. The cocks crowed huskily. The first light of dawn crept through the wetwindows, a wretched, pale dawn, drowned in the persistent rain. . . . 

Christophe got up as soon as he could: he went down to the kitchen andtalked to the people there. He was in a hurry to be gone and was afraidof being left alone with Sabine again. He was almost relieved when themiller's wife said that Sabine was unwell, and had caught cold during thedrive and would not be going that morning. 

His journey home was melancholy. He refused to drive, and walked throughthe soaking fields, in the yellow mist that covered the earth, the trees, the houses, with a shroud. Like the light, life seemed to be blotted out. Everything loomed like a specter. He was like a specter himself. 

 * * * * *

At home he found angry faces. They were all scandalized at his havingpassed the night God knows where with Sabine. He shut himself up in hisroom and applied himself to his work. Sabine returned the next day and shutherself up also. They avoided meeting each other. The weather was stillwet and cold: neither of them went out. They saw each other through theirclosed windows. Sabine was wrapped up by her fire, dreaming. Christophewas buried in his papers. They bowed to each other a little coldly andreservedly and then pretended to be absorbed again. They did not takestock of what they were feeling: they were angry with each other, withthemselves, with things generally. The night at the farmhouse had beenthrust aside in their memories: they were ashamed of it, and did not knowwhether they were more ashamed of their folly or of not having yielded toit. It was painful to them to see each other: for that made them rememberthings from which they wished to escape: and by joint agreement theyretired into the depths of their rooms so as utterly to forget eachother. But that was impossible, and they suffered keenly under the secrethostility which they felt was between them. Christophe was haunted by theexpression of dumb rancor which he had once seen in Sabine's cold eyes. From such thoughts her suffering was not less: in vain did she struggleagainst them, and even deny them: she could not rid herself of them. Theywere augmented by her shame that Christophe should have guessed what washappening within her: and the shame of having offered herself . . . The shameof having offered herself without having given. 

Christophe gladly accepted an opportunity which cropped up to go to Cologneand Düsseldorf for some concerts. He was glad to spend two or three weeksaway from home. Preparation for the concerts and the composition of a newwork that he wished to play at them took up all his time and he succeededin forgetting his obstinate memories. They disappeared from Sabine's mindtoo, and she fell back into the torpor of her usual life. They came tothink of each other with indifference. Had they really loved each other?They doubted it. Christophe was on the point of leaving for Cologne withoutsaying good-bye to Sabine. 

On the evening before his departure they were brought together again bysome imperceptible influence. It was one of the Sunday afternoons wheneverybody was at church. Christophe had gone out too to make his finalpreparations for the journey. Sabine was sitting in her tiny garden warmingherself in the last rays of the sun. Christophe came home: he was in ahurry and his first inclination when he saw her was; to bow and pass on. But something held him back as he was passing: was it Sabine's paleness, orsome indefinable feeling: remorse, fear, tenderness?. . . He stopped, turnedto Sabine, and, leaning over the fence, he bade her good-evening. Withoutreplying she held out her hand. Her smile was all kindness, --such kindnessas he had never seen in her. Her gesture seemed to say: "Peace betweenus. . . . " He took her hand over the fence, bent over it, and kissed it. Shemade no attempt to withdraw it. He longed to go down on his knees and say, "I love you. ". . . They looked at each other in silence. But they offered noexplanation. After a moment she removed her hand and turned her head. Heturned too to hide his emotion. Then they looked at each other again withuntroubled eyes. The sun was setting. Subtle shades of color, violet, orange, and mauve, chased across the cold clear sky. She shivered and drewher shawl closer about her shoulders with a movement that he knew well. Heasked:

"How are you?"

She made a little grimace, as if the question were not worth answering. They went on looking at each other and were happy. It was as though theyhad lost, and had just found each other again. . . . 

At last he broke the silence and said:

"I am going away to-morrow. "

There was alarm in Sabine's eyes. 

"Going away?" she said. 

He added quickly:

"Oh! only for two or three weeks. "

"Two or three weeks, " she said in dismay. 

He explained that he was engaged for the concerts, but that when he cameback he would not stir all winter. 

"Winter, " she said. "That is a long time off. . . . "

"Oh! no. It will soon be here. "

She saddened and did not look at him. 

"When shall we meet again?" she asked a moment later. 

He did not understand the question: he had already answered it. 

"As soon as I come back: in a fortnight, or three weeks at most. "

She still looked dismayed. He tried to tease her:

"It won't be long for you, " he said. "You will sleep. "

"Yes, " said Sabine. 

She looked down, she tried to smile: but her eyes trembled. 

"Christophe!. . . " she said suddenly, turning towards him. 

There was a note of distress in her voice. She seemed to say:

"Stay! Don't go!. . . "

He took her hand, looked at her, did not understand the importance sheattached to his fortnight's absence: but he was only waiting for a wordfrom her to say:

"I will stay. . . . "

And just as she was going to speak, the front door was opened and Rosaappeared. Sabine withdrew her hand from Christophe's and went hurriedlyinto her house. At the door she turned and looked at him once more--anddisappeared. 

 * * * * *

Christophe thought he should see her again in the evening. But he waswatched by the Vogels, and followed everywhere by his mother: as usual, hewas behindhand with his preparations for his journey and could not findtime to leave the house for a moment. 

Next day he left very early. As he passed Sabine's door he longed to go in, to tap at the window: it hurt him to leave her without saying good-bye:for he had been interrupted by Rosa before he had had time to do so. Buthe thought she must be asleep and would be cross with him if he woke herup. And then, what could he say to her? It was too late now to abandon hisjourney: and what if she were to ask him to do so?. . . He did not admit tohimself that he was not averse to exercising his power over her, --if needbe, causing her a little pain. . . . He did not take seriously the grief thathis departure brought Sabine: and he thought that his short absence wouldincrease the tenderness which, perhaps, she had for him. 

He ran to the station. In spite of everything he was a little remorseful. But as soon as the train had started it was all forgotten. There was youthin his heart. Gaily he saluted the old town with its roofs and towers rosyunder the sun: and with the carelessness of those who are departing he saidgood-bye to those whom he was leaving, and thought no more of them. 

The whole time that he was at Düsseldorf and Cologne Sabine never oncerecurred to his mind. Taken up from morning till night with rehearsals andconcerts, dinners and talk, busied with a thousand and one new things andthe pride and satisfaction of his success he had no time for recollection. Once only, on the fifth night after he left home, he woke suddenly after adream and knew that he had been thinking of _her_ in his sleep and that thethought of _her_ had wakened him up: but he could not remember how he hadbeen thinking of her. He was unhappy and feverish. It was not surprising:he had been playing at a concert that evening, and when he left the hallhe had been dragged off to a supper at which he had drunk several glassesof champagne. He could not sleep and got up. He was obsessed by a musicalidea. He pretended that it was that which had broken in upon his sleep andhe wrote it down. As he read through it he was astonished to see how sadit was. There was no sadness in him when he wrote: at least, so he thought. But he remembered that on other occasions when he had been sad he had onlybeen able to write joyous music, so gay that it offended his mood. He gaveno more thought to it. He was used to the surprises of his mind worldwithout ever being able to understand them. He went to sleep at once, andknew no more until the next morning. 

He extended his stay by three or four days. It pleased him to prolong it, knowing he could return whenever he liked: he was in no hurry to go home. It was only when he was on the way, in the train, that the thought ofSabine came back to him. He had not written to her. He was even carelessenough never to have taken the trouble to ask at the post-office for anyletters that might have been written to him. He took a secret delight inhis silence: he knew that at home he was expected, that he was loved. . . . Loved? She had never told him so: he had never told her so. No doubt theyknew it and had no need to tell it. And yet there was nothing so preciousas the certainty of such an avowal. Why had they waited so long to makeit? When they had been on the point of speaking always something--somemischance, shyness, embarrassment, --had hindered them. Why? Why? How muchtime they had lost!. . . He longed to hear the dear words from the lips ofthe beloved. He longed to say them to her: he said them aloud in the emptycarriage. As he neared the town he was torn with impatience, a sort ofagony. . . . Faster! Faster! Oh! To think that in an hour he would see heragain!. . . 

 * * * * *

It was half-past six in the morning when he reached home. Nobody was upyet. Sabine's windows were closed. He went into the yard on tiptoe sothat she should not hear him. He chuckled at the thought of taking her bysurprise. He went up to his room. His mother was asleep. He washed andbrushed his hair without making any noise. He was hungry: but he wasafraid of waking Louisa by rummaging in the pantry. He heard footsteps inthe yard: he opened his window softly and saw Rosa, first up as usual, beginning to sweep. He called her gently. She started in glad surprise whenshe saw him: then she looked solemn. He thought she was still offended withhim: but for the moment he was in a very good temper. He went down to her. 

"Rosa, Rosa, " he said gaily, "give me something to eat or I shall eat you!I am dying of hunger!"

Rosa smiled and took him to the kitchen on the ground floor. She poured himout a bowl of milk and then could not refrain from plying him with a stringof questions about his travels and his concerts. But although he was quiteready to answer them, --(in the happiness of his return he was almost gladto hear Rosa's chatter once more)--Rosa stopped suddenly in the middle ofher cross-examination, her face fell, her eyes turned away, and she becamesorrowful. Then her chatter broke out again: but soon it seemed that shethought it out of place and once more she stopped short. And he noticed itthen and said:

"What is the matter, Rosa? Are you cross with me?"

She shook her head violently in denial, and turning towards him with herusual suddenness took his arm with both hands:

"Oh! Christophe!. . . " she said. 

He was alarmed. He let his piece of bread fall from his hands. 

"What! What is the matter?" he stammered. 

She said again:

"Oh! Christophe!. . . Such an awful thing has happened!"

He thrust away from the table. He stuttered:

"H--here?"

She pointed to the house on the other side of the yard. 

He cried:

"Sabine!"

She wept:

"She is dead. "

Christophe saw nothing. He got up: he almost fell: he clung to the table, upset the things on it: he wished to cry out. He suffered fearful agony. Heturned sick. 

Rosa hastened to his side: she was frightened: she held his head and wept. 

As soon as he could speak he said;

"It is not true!"

He knew that it was true. But he wanted to deny it, he wanted to pretendthat it could not be. When he saw Rosa's face wet with tears he could doubtno more and he sobbed aloud. 

Rosa raised her head:

"Christophe!" she said. 

He hid his face in his hands. She leaned towards him. 

"Christophe!. . . Mamma is coming!. . . "

Christophe got up. 

"No, no, " he said. "She must not see me. "

She took his hand and led him, stumbling and blinded by his tears, to alittle woodshed which opened on to the yard. She closed the door. They werein darkness. He sat on a block of wood used for chopping sticks. She sat onthe fagots. Sounds from without were deadened and distant. There he couldweep without fear of being heard. He let himself go and sobbed furiously. Rosa had never seen him weep: she had even thought that he could not weep:she knew only her own girlish tears and such despair in a man filled herwith terror and pity. She was filled with a passionate love for Christophe. It was an absolutely unselfish love: an immense need of sacrifice, amaternal self-denial, a hunger to suffer for him, to take his sorrow uponherself. She put her arm round his shoulders. 

"Dear Christophe, " she said, "do not cry!"

Christophe turned from her. 

"I wish to die!"

Rosa clasped her hands. 

"Don't say that, Christophe!"

"I wish to die. I cannot . . . Cannot live now. . . . What is the good ofliving?"

"Christophe, dear Christophe! You are not alone. You are loved. . . . "

"What is that to me? I love nothing now. It is nothing to me whethereverything else live or die. I love nothing: I loved only her. I loved onlyher!"

He sobbed louder than ever with his face buried in his hands. Rosa couldfind nothing to say. The egoism of Christophe's passion stabbed her tothe heart. Now when she thought herself most near to him, she felt moreisolated and more miserable than ever. Grief instead of bringing themtogether thrust them only the more widely apart. She wept bitterly. 

After some time, Christophe stopped weeping and asked:

"How?. . . How?. . . "

Rosa understood. 

"She fell ill of influenza on the evening you left. And she was takensuddenly. . . . "

He groaned. 

"Dear God!. . . Why did you not write to me?"

She said:

"I did write. I did not know your address: you did not give us any. I wentand asked at the theater. Nobody knew it. "

He knew how timid she was, and how much it must have cost her. He asked:

"Did she . . . Did she tell you to do that?"

She shook her head:

"No. But I thought . . . "

He thanked her with a look. Rosa's heart melted. 

"My poor . . . Poor Christophe!" she said. 

She flung her arms round his neck and wept. Christophe felt the worth ofsuch pure tenderness. He had so much need of consolation! He kissed her:

"How kind you are, " he said. "You loved her too?"

She broke away from him, she threw him a passionate look, did not reply, and began to weep again. 

That look was a revelation to him. It meant:

"It was not she whom I loved. . . . "

Christophe saw at last what he had not known--what for months he had notwished to see. He saw that she loved him. 

"'Ssh, " she said. "They are calling me. " They heard Amalia's voice. 

Rosa asked:

"Do you want to go back to your room?"

He said:

"No. I could not yet: I could not bear to talk to my mother. . . . Lateron. . . . "

She said:

"Stay here. I will come back soon. "

He stayed in the dark woodshed to which only a thread of light penetratedthrough a small airhole filled with cobwebs. From the street there came upthe cry of a hawker, against the wall a horse in a stable next door wassnorting and kicking. The revelation that had just come to Christophe gavehim no pleasure; but it held his attention for a moment. It made plain manythings that he had not understood. A multitude of little things that hehad disregarded occurred to him and were explained. He was surprised tofind himself thinking of it; he was ashamed to be turned aside even for amoment from his misery. But that misery was so frightful, so irrepressiblethat the mistrust of self-preservation, stronger than his will, than hiscourage, than his love, forced him to turn away from it, seized on thisnew idea, as the suicide drowning seizes in spite of himself on the firstobject which can help him, not to save himself, but to keep himself for amoment longer above the water. And it was because he was suffering thathe was able to feel what another was suffering--suffering through him. Heunderstood the tears that he had brought to her eyes. He was filled withpity for Rosa. He thought how cruel he had been to her--how cruel he muststill be. For he did not love her. What good was it for her to love him?Poor girl!. . . In vain did he tell himself that she was good (she had justproved it). What was her goodness to him? What was her life to him?. . . 

He thought:

"Why is it not she who is dead, and the other who is alive?"

He thought:

"She is alive: she loves me: she can tell me that to-day, to-morrow, all mylife: and the other, the woman I love, she is dead and never told me thatshe loved me: I never have told her that I loved her: I shall never hearher say it: she will never know it. . . . "

And suddenly he remembered that last evening: he remembered that they werejust going to talk when Rosa came and prevented it. And he hated Rosa. . . . 

The door of the woodshed was opened. Rosa called Christophe softly, andgroped towards him. She took his hand. He felt an aversion in her nearpresence: in vain did he reproach himself for it: it was stronger thanhimself. 

Rosa was silent: her great pity had taught her silence. Christophe wasgrateful to her for not breaking in upon his grief with useless words. Andyet he wished to know . . . She was the only creature who could talk to himof _her_. He asked in a whisper:

"When did she. . . "

(He dared not say: die. )

She replied:

"Last Saturday week. "

Dimly he remembered. He said:

"At night?"

Rosa looked at him in astonishment and said:

"Yes. At night. Between two and three. "

The sorrowful melody came back to him. He asked, trembling:

"Did she suffer much?"

"No, no. God be thanked, dear Christophe: she hardly suffered at all. Shewas so weak. She did not struggle against it. Suddenly they saw that shewas lost. . . . "

"And she . . . Did she know it?"

"I don't know. I think . . . "

"Did she say anything?"

"No. Nothing. She was sorry for herself like a child. "

"You were there?"

"Yes. For the first two days I was there alone, before her brother came. "

He pressed her hand in gratitude. 

"Thank you. "

She felt the blood rush to her heart. 

After a silence he said, he murmured the question which was choking him:

"Did she say anything . . . For me?"

Rosa shook her head sadly. She would have given much to be able to let himhave the answer he expected: she was almost sorry that she could not lieabout it. She tried to console him:

"She was not conscious. "

"But she did speak?"

"One could not make out what she said. It was in a very low voice. "

"Where is the child?"

"Her brother took her away with him to the country. "

"And _she_?"

"She is there too. She was taken away last Monday week. "

They began to weep again. 

Frau Vogel's voice called Rosa once more. Christophe, left alone again, lived through those days of death. A week, already a week ago. . . . O God!What had become of her? How it had rained that week!. . . And all that timehe was laughing, he was happy!

In his pocket he felt a little parcel wrapped up in soft paper: they weresilver buckles that he had brought her for her shoes. He remembered theevening when he had placed his hand on the little stockinged foot. Herlittle feet: where were they now? How cold they must be!. . . He thought thememory of that warm contact was the only one that he had of the belovedcreature. He had never dared to touch her, to take her in his arms, to holdher to his breast. She was gone forever, and he had never known her. Heknew nothing of her, neither soul nor body. He had no memory of her body, of her life, of her love. . . . Her love?. . . What proof had he of that?. . . Hehad not even a letter, a token, --nothing. Where could he seek to hold her, in himself, or outside himself?. . . Oh! Nothing! There was nothing left himbut the love he had for her, nothing left him but himself. --And in spiteof all, his desperate desire to snatch her from destruction, his need ofdenying death, made him cling to the last piece of wreckage, in an act ofblind faith:

". . . _he son gia morto: e ben, c'albergo cangi resto in te vivo. C'or mivedi e piangi, se l'un nell' altro amante si trasforma_. "

". . . I am not dead: I have changed my dwelling. I live still in thee whoart faithful to me. The soul of the beloved is merged in the soul of thelover. "

He had never read these sublime words: but they were in him. Each one of usin turn climbs the Calvary of the age. Each one of us finds anew the agony, each one of us finds anew the desperate hope and folly of the ages. Eachone of us follows in the footsteps of those who were, of those before uswho struggled with death, denied death--and are dead. 

 * * * * *

He shut himself up in his room. His shutters were closed all day so as notto see the windows of the house opposite. He avoided the Vogels: they wereodious to his sight. He had nothing to reproach them with: they were toohonest, and too pious not to have thrust back their feelings in the face ofdeath. They knew Christophe's grief and respected it, whatever they mightthink of it: they never uttered Sabine's name in his presence. But they hadbeen her enemies when she was alive: that was enough to make him theirenemy now that she was dead. 

Besides they had not altered their noisy habits: and in spite of thesincere though passing pity that they had felt, it was obvious that atbottom they were untouched by the misfortune--(it was too natural)--perhapseven they were secretly relieved by it. Christophe imagined so at least. Now that the Vogels' intentions with regard to himself were made plainhe exaggerated them in his own mind. In reality they attached littleimportance to him: he set too great store by himself. But he had no doubtthat the death of Sabine, by removing the greatest obstacle in the way ofhis landlords' plans, did seem to them to leave the field clear for Rosa. So he detested her. That they--(the Vogels, Louisa, and even Rosa)--shouldhave tacitly disposed of him, without consulting him, was enough in anycase to make him lose all affection for the person whom he was destined tolove. He shied whenever he thought an attempt was made upon his umbrageoussense of liberty. But now it was not only a question of himself. The rightswhich these others had assumed over him did not only infringe upon hisown rights but upon those of the dead woman to whom his heart was given. So he defended them doggedly, although no one was for attacking them. Hesuspected Rosa's goodness. She suffered in seeing him suffer and wouldoften come and knock at his door to console him and talk to him about theother. He did not drive her away: he needed to talk of Sabine with someone who had known her: he wanted to know the smallest of what had happenedduring her illness. But he was not grateful to Rosa: he attributed ulteriormotives to her. Was it not plain that her family, even Amalia, permittedthese visits and long colloquies which she would never have allowed if theyhad not fallen in with her wishes? Was not Rosa in league with her family?He could not believe that her pity was absolutely sincere and free ofpersonal thoughts. 

And, no doubt, it was not. Rosa pitied Christophe with all her heart. Shetried hard to see Sabine through Christophe's eyes, and through him to loveher: she was angry with herself for all the unkind feelings that she hadever had towards her, and asked her pardon in her prayers at night. Butcould she forget that she was alive, that she was seeing Christophe everymoment of the day, that she loved him, that she was no longer afraid of theother, that the other was gone, that her memory would also fade away in itsturn, that she was left alone, that one day perhaps . . . ? In the midst ofher sorrow, and the sorrow of her friend more hers than her own, could sherepress a glad impulse, an unreasoning hope? For that too she was angrywith herself. It was only a flash. It was enough. He saw it. He threw her aglance which froze her heart: she read in it hateful thoughts: he hated herfor being alive while the other was dead. 

The miller brought his cart for Sabine's little furniture. Coming back froma lesson Christophe saw heaped up before the door in the street the bed, the cupboard, the mattress, the linen, all that she had possessed, all thatwas left of her. It was a dreadful sight to him. He rushed past it. In thedoorway he bumped into Bertold, who stopped him. 

"Ah! my dear sir, " he said, shaking his hand effusively. "Ah! who wouldhave thought it when we were together? How happy we were! And yet it wasbecause of that day, because of that cursed row on the water, that she fellill. Oh well. It is no use complaining! She is dead. It will be our turnnext. That is life. . . . And how are you? I'm very well, thank God!"

He was red in the face, sweating, and smelled of wine. The idea that he washer brother, that he had rights in her memory, hurt Christophe. It offendedhim to hear this man talking of his beloved. The miller on the contrarywas glad, to find a friend with whom he could talk of Sabine: he did notunderstand Christophe's coldness. He had no idea of all the sorrow thathis presence, the sudden calling to mind of the day at his farm, the happymemories that he recalled so blunderingly, the poor relics of Sabine, heaped upon the ground, which he kicked as he talked, set stirring inChristophe's soul. He made some excuse for stopping Bertold's tongue. Hewent up the steps: but the other clung to him, stopped him, and went onwith his harangue. At last when the miller took to telling him of Sabine'sillness, with that strange pleasure which certain people, and especiallythe common people, take in talking of illness, with a plethora of painfuldetails, Christophe could bear it no longer--(he took a tight hold ofhimself so as not to cry out in his sorrow). He cut him short:

"Pardon, " he said curtly and icily. "I must leave you. "

He left him without another word. 

His insensibility revolted the miller. He had guessed the secret affectionof his sister and Christophe. And that Christophe should now show suchindifference seemed monstrous to him: he thought he had no heart. 

Christophe had fled to his room: he was choking. Until the removal wasover he never left his room. He vowed that he would never look out of thewindow, but he could not help doing so: and hiding in a corner behind thecurtain he followed the departure of the goods and chattels of the belovedeagerly and with profound sorrow. When he saw them disappearing forever heall but ran down to the street to cry: "No! no! Leave them to me! Do nottake them from me!" He longed to beg at least for some little thing, onlyone little thing, so that she should not be altogether taken from him. Buthow could he ask such a thing of the miller? It was nothing to him. Sheherself had not known his love: how dared he then reveal it to another? Andbesides, if he had tried to say a word he would have burst out crying. . . . No. No. He had to say nothing, to watch all go, without being able--withoutdaring to save one fragment from the wreck. . . . 

And when it was all over, when the house was empty, when the yard gate wasclosed after the miller, when the wheels of his cart moved on, shaking thewindows, when they were out of hearing, he threw himself on the floor--nota tear left in him, not a thought of suffering, of struggling, frozen, andlike one dead. 

There was a knock at the door. He did not move. Another knock. He hadforgotten to lock the door. Rosa came in. She cried out on seeing himstretched on the floor and stopped in terror. He raised his head angrily:

"What? What do you want? Leave me!"

She did not go: she stayed, hesitating, leaning against the floor, and saidagain:

"Christophe. . . . "

He got up in silence: he was ashamed of having been seen so. He dustedhimself with his hand and asked harshly:

"Well. What do you want?"

Rosa said shyly:

"Forgive me . . . Christophe . . . I came in . . . I was bringing you. . . . "

He saw that she had something in her hand. 

"See, " she said, holding it out to him. "I asked Bertold to give me alittle token of her. I thought you would like it. . . . "

It was a little silver mirror, the pocket mirror in which she used to lookat herself for hours, not so much from coquetry as from want of occupation. Christophe took it, took also the hand which held it. 

"Oh! Rosa!. . . " he said. 

He was filled with her kindness and the knowledge of his own injustice. Ona passionate impulse he knelt to her and kissed her hand. 

"Forgive . . . Forgive . . . " he said. 

Rosa did not understand at first: then she understood only too well: sheblushed, she trembled, she began to weep. She understood that he meant:

"Forgive me if I am unjust. . . . Forgive me if I do not love you. . . . Forgiveme if I cannot . . . If I cannot love you, if I can never love you!. . . "

She did not withdraw her hand from him: she knew that it was not herselfthat he was kissing. And with his cheek against Rosa's hand, he wept hottears, knowing that she was reading through him: there was sorrow andbitterness in being unable to love her and making her suffer. 

They stayed so, both weeping, in the dim light of the room. 

At last she withdrew her hand. He went on murmuring;

"Forgive!. . . "

She laid her hand gently on his hand. He rose to his feet. They kissed insilence: they felt on their lips the bitter savor of their tears. 

"We shall always be friends, " he said softly. She bowed her head and lefthim, too sad to speak. 

They thought that the world is ill made. The lover is unloved. The beloveddoes not love. The lover who is loved is sooner or later torn from hislove. . . . There is suffering. There is the bringing of suffering. And themost wretched is not always the one who suffers. 

 * * * * *

Once more Christophe took to avoiding the house. He could not bear it. Hecould not bear to see the curtainless windows, the empty rooms. 

A worse sorrow awaited him. Old Euler lost no time in reletting the groundfloor. One day Christophe saw strange faces in Sabine's room. New livesblotted out the traces of the life that was gone. 

It became impossible for him to stay in his rooms. He passed wholedays outside, not coming back until nightfall, when it was too dark tosee anything. Once more he took to making expeditions in the country. Irresistibly he was drawn to Bertold's farm. But he never went in, darednot go near it, wandered about it at a distance. He discovered a place ona hill from which he could see the house, the plain, the river: it wasthither that his steps usually turned. From thence he could follow with hiseyes the meanderings of the water down to the willow clump under which hehad seen the shadow of death pass across Sabine's face. From thence hecould pick out the two windows of the rooms in which they had waited, side by side, so near, so far, separated by a door--the door to eternity. From thence he could survey the cemetery. He had never been able to bringhimself to enter it: from childhood he had had a horror of those fieldsof decay and corruption, and refused to think of those whom he loved inconnection with them. But from a distance and seen from above, the littlegraveyard never looked grim, it was calm, it slept with the sun. . . . Sleep!. . . She loved to sleep! Nothing would disturb her there. The crowingcocks answered each other across the plains. From the homestead rosethe roaring of the mill, the clucking of the poultry yard, the cries ofchildren playing. He could make out Sabine's little girl, he could see herrunning, he could mark her laughter. Once he lay in wait for her near thegate of the farmyard, in a turn of the sunk road made by the walls: heseized her as she passed and kissed her. The child was afraid and began, tocry. She had almost forgotten him already. He asked her:

"Are you happy here?"

"Yes. It is fun. . . . "

"You don't want to come back?"

"No!"

He let her go. The child's indifference plunged him in sorrow. PoorSabine!. . . And yet it was she, something of her. . . . So little! The childwas hardly at all like her mother: had lived in her, but was not she: inthat mysterious passage through her being the child had hardly retainedmore than the faintest perfume of the creature who was gone: inflections ofher voice, a pursing of the lips, a trick of bending the head. The rest ofher was another being altogether: and that being mingled with the being ofSabine was repulsive to Christophe though he never admitted it to himself. 

It was only in himself that Christophe could find the image of Sabine. It followed him everywhere, hovering above him; but he only felt himselfreally to be with her when he was alone. Nowhere was she nearer to him thanin this refuge, on the hill, far from strange eyes, in the midst of thecountry that was so full of the memory of her. He would go miles to it, climbing at a run, his heart beating as though he were going to a meetingwith her: and so it was indeed. When he reached it he would lie on theground--the same earth in which _her_ body was laid: he would close hiseyes: and _she_ would come to him. He could not see her face: he couldnot hear her voice; he had no need: she entered into him, held him, hepossessed her utterly. In this state of passionate hallucination he wouldlose the power of thought, he would be unconscious of what was happening:he was unconscious of everything save that he was with her. 

That state of things did not last long. --To tell the truth he was onlyonce altogether sincere. From the day following, his will had its share inthe proceedings. And from that time on Christophe tried in vain to bringit back to life. It was only then that he thought of evoking in himselfthe face and form of Sabine: until then he had never thought of it. Hesucceeded spasmodically and he was fired by it. But it was only at the costof hours of waiting and of darkness. 

"Poor Sabine!" he would think. "They have all forgotten you. There is onlyI who love you, who keep your memory alive forever. Oh, my treasure, myprecious! I have you, I hold you, I will never let you go!. . . "

He spoke these words because already she was escaping him: she was slippingfrom his thoughts like water through his fingers. He would return again andagain, faithful to the tryst. He wished to think of her and he would closehis eyes. But after half an hour, or an hour, or sometimes two hours, hewould begin to see that he had been thinking of nothing. The sounds of thevalley, the roar of the wind, the little bells of the two goats browsing onthe hill, the noise of the wind in the little slender trees under which helay, were sucked up by his thoughts soft and porous like a sponge. He wasangry with his thoughts: they tried to obey him, and to fix the vanishedimage to which he was striving to attach his life: but his thoughts fellback weary and chastened and once more with a sigh of comfort abandonedthemselves to the listless stream of sensations. 

He shook off his torpor. He strode through the country hither and thitherseeking Sabine. He sought her in the mirror that once had held her smile. He sought her by the river bank where her hands had dipped in the water. But the mirror and the water gave him only the reflection of himself. Theexcitement of walking, the fresh air, the beating of his own healthy bloodawoke music in him once more. He wished to find change. 

"Oh! Sabine!. . . " he sighed. 

He dedicated his songs to her: he strove to call her to life in his music, his love, and his sorrow. . . . In vain: love and sorrow came to life surely:but poor Sabine had no share in them. Love and sorrow looked towards thefuture, not towards the past. Christophe was powerless against his youth. The sap of life swelled up again in him with new vigor. His grief, hisregrets, his chaste and ardent love, his baffled desires, heightened thefever that was in him. In spite of his sorrow, his heart beat in lively, sturdy rhythm: wild songs leaped forth in mad, intoxicated strains:everything in him hymned life and even sadness took on a festival shape. Christophe was too frank to persist in self-deception: and he despisedhimself. But life swept him headlong: and in his sadness, with death in hisheart, and life in all his limbs, he abandoned himself to the forcesnewborn in him, to the absurd, delicious joy of living, which grief, pity, despair, the aching wound of an irreparable loss, all the torment of death, can only sharpen and kindle into being in the strong, as they rowel theirsides with furious spur. 

And Christophe knew that, in himself, in the secret hidden depths of hissoul, he had an inaccessible and inviolable sanctuary where lay the shadowof Sabine. That the flood of life could not bear away. . . . Each of us bearsin his soul as it were a little graveyard of those whom he has loved. Theysleep there, through the years, untroubled. But a day cometh, --this weknow, --when the graves shall reopen. The dead issue from the tomb and smilewith their pale lips--loving, always--on the beloved, and the lover, inwhose breast their memory dwells, like the child sleeping in the mother'swomb. 

III

ADA

After the wet summer the autumn was radiant. In the orchards the trees wereweighed down with fruit The red apples shone like billiard balls. Alreadysome of the trees were taking on their brilliant garb of the falling year:flame color, fruit color, color of ripe melon, of oranges and lemons, ofgood cooking, and fried dishes. Misty lights glowed through the woods: andfrom the meadows there rose the little pink flames of the saffron. 

He was going down a hill. It was a Sunday afternoon. He was striding, almost running, gaining speed down the slope. He was singing a phrase, therhythm of which had been obsessing him all through his walk. He was red, disheveled: he was walking, swinging his arms, and rolling his eyes like amadman, when as he turned a bend in the road he came suddenly on a fairgirl perched on a wall tugging with all her might at a branch of a treefrom which she was greedily plucking and eating purple plums. Theirastonishment was mutual. She looked at him, stared, with her mouth full. Then she burst out laughing. So did he. She was good to see, with her roundface framed in fair curly hair, which was like a sunlit cloud about her, her full pink cheeks, her wide blue eyes, her rather large nose, impertinently turned up, her little red mouth showing white teeth--thecanine little, strong, and projecting--her plump chin, and her full figure, large and plump, well built, solidly put together. He called out:

"Good eating!" And was for going on his road. But she called to him:

"Sir! Sir! Will you be very nice? Help me to get down. I can't. . . . "

He returned and asked her how she had climbed up. 

"With my hands and feet. . . . It is easy enough to get up. . . . "

"Especially when there are tempting plums hanging above your head. . . . "

"Yes. . . . But when you have eaten your courage goes. You can't find the wayto get down. "

He looked at her on her perch. He said:

"You are all right there. Stay there quietly. I'll come and see youto-morrow. Good-night!"

But he did not budge, and stood beneath her. She pretended to be afraid, and begged him with little glances not to leave her. They stayed looking ateach other and laughing. She showed him the branch to which she wasclinging and asked:

"Would you like some?"

Respect for property had not developed in Christophe since the days of hisexpeditions with Otto: he accepted without hesitation. She amused herselfwith pelting him with plums. When he had eaten she said:

"Now!. . . "

He took a wicked pleasure in keeping her waiting. She grew impatient on herwall. At last he said:

"Come, then!" and held his hand up to her. 

But just as she was about to jump down she thought a moment. 

"Wait! We must make provision first!"

She gathered the finest plums within reach and filled the front of herblouse with them. 

"Carefully! Don't crush them!"

He felt almost inclined to do so. 

She lowered herself from the wall and jumped into his arms. Although he wassturdy he bent under her weight and all but dragged her down. They were ofthe same height. Their faces came together. He kissed her lips, moist andsweet with the juice of the plums: and she returned his kiss without moreceremony. 

"Where are you going?" he asked. 

"I don't know. "

"Are you out alone?"

"No. I am with friends. But I have lost them. . . . Hi! Hi!" she calledsuddenly as loudly as she could. 

No answer. 

She did not bother about it any more. They began to walk, at random, following their noses. 

"And you . . . Where are you going?" said she. 

"I don't know, either. "

"Good. We'll go together. "

She took some plums from her gaping blouse and began to munch them. 

"You'll make yourself sick, " he said. 

"Not I! I've been eating them all day. "

Through the gap in her blouse he saw the white of her chemise. 

"They are all warm now, " she said. 

"Let me see!"

She held him one and laughed. He ate it. She watched him out of the cornerof her eye as she sucked at the fruit like a child. He did not know how theadventure would end. It is probable that she at least had some suspicion. She waited. 

"Hi! Hi!" Voices in the woods. 

"Hi! Hi!" she answered. "Ah! There they are!" she said to Christophe. "Nota bad thing, either!"

But on the contrary she was thinking that it was rather a pity. But speechwas not given to woman for her to say what she is thinking. . . . Thank God!for there would be an end of morality on earth. . . . 

The voices came near. Her friends were near the road. She leaped the ditch, climbed the hedge, and hid behind the trees. He watched her in amazement. She signed to him imperiously to come to her. He followed her. She plungedinto the depths of the wood. 

"Hi! Hi!" she called once more when they had gone some distance. "You see, they must look for me!" she explained to Christophe. 

Her friends had stopped on the road and were listening for her voice tomark where it came from. They answered her and in their turn entered thewoods. But she did not wait for them. She turned about on right and onleft. They bawled loudly after her. She let them, and then went and calledin the opposite direction. At last they wearied of it, and, making surethat the best way of making her come was to give up seeking her, theycalled:

"Good-bye!" and went off singing. 

She was furious that they should not have bothered about her any more thanthat. She had tried to be rid of them: but she had not counted on theirgoing off so easily. Christophe looked rather foolish: this game ofhide-and-seek with a girl whom he did not know did not exactly enthrallhim: and he had no thought of taking advantage of their solitude. Nor didshe think of it: in her annoyance she forgot Christophe. 

"Oh! It's too much, " she said, thumping her hands together. "They have leftme. "

"But, " said Christophe, "you wanted them to. "

"Not at all. "

"You ran away. "

"If I ran away from them that is my affair, not theirs. They ought to lookfor me. What if I were lost?. . . "

Already she was beginning to be sorry for herself because if what mighthave happened if . . . If the opposite of what actually had occurred had comeabout. 

"Oh!" she said. "I'll shake them!" She turned back and strode off. 

As she went she remembered Christophe and looked at him once more. --But itwas too late. She began to laugh. The little demon which had been in herthe moment before was gone. While she was waiting for another to come shesaw Christophe with the eyes of indifference. And then, she was hungry. Herstomach was reminding her that it was supper-time: she was in a hurry torejoin her friends at the inn. She took Christophe's arm, leaned on it withall her weight, groaned, and said that she was exhausted. That did not keepher from dragging Christophe down a slope, running, and shouting, andlaughing like a mad thing. 

They talked. She learned who he was: she did not know his name, and seemednot to be greatly impressed by his title of musician. He learned that shewas a shop-girl from a dress-maker's in the _Kaiserstrasse_ (the mostfashionable street in the town): her name was Adelheid--to friends, Ada. Her companions on the excursion were one of her friends, who worked at thesame place as herself, and two nice young men, a clerk at Weiller's bank, and a clerk from a big linen-draper's. They were turning their Sunday toaccount: they had decided to dine at the Brochet inn, from which there is afine view over the Rhine, and then to return by boat. 

The others had already established themselves at the inn when they arrived. Ada made a scene with her friends: she complained of their cowardlydesertion and presented Christophe as her savior. They did not listen toher complaints: but they knew Christophe, the bank-clerk by reputation, theclerk from having heard some of his compositions--(he thought it a goodidea to hum an air from one of them immediately afterwards)--and therespect which they showed him made an impression on Ada, the more so asMyrrha, the other young woman--(her real name was Hansi or Johanna)--abrunette with blinking eyes, bumpy forehead, hair screwed back, Chineseface, a little too animated, but clever and not without charm, in spite ofher goat-like head and her oily golden-yellow complexion, --at once began tomake advances to their _Hof Musicus_. They begged him to be so good as tohonor their repast with his presence. 

Never had he been in such high feather: for he was overwhelmed withattentions, and the two women, like good friends as they were, tried eachto rob the other of him. Both courted him: Myrrha with ceremonious manners, sly looks, as she rubbed her leg against his under the table--Ada, openlymaking play with her fine eyes, her pretty mouth, and all the seductiveresources at her command. Such coquetry in its almost coarseness incommodedand distressed Christophe. These two bold young women were a change fromthe unkindly faces he was accustomed to at home. Myrrha interested him, heguessed her to be more intelligent than Ada: but her obsequious manners andher ambiguous smile were curiously attractive and repulsive to him at thesame time. She could do nothing against Ada's radiance of life andpleasure: and she was aware of it. When she saw that she had lost the bout, she abandoned the effort, turned in upon herself, went on smiling, andpatiently waited for her day to come. Ada, seeing herself mistress of thefield, did not seek to push forward the advantage she had gained: what shehad done had been mainly to despite her friend: she had succeeded, she wassatisfied. But she had been caught in her own game. She felt as she lookedinto Christophe's eyes the passion that she had kindled in him: and thatsame passion began to awake in her. She was silent: she left her vulgarteasing: they looked at each other in silence: on their lips they had thesavor of their kiss. From time to time by fits and starts they joinedvociferously in the jokes of the others: then they relapsed into silence, stealing glances at each other. At last they did not even look at eachother, as though they were afraid of betraying themselves. Absorbed inthemselves they brooded over their desire. 

When the meal was over they got ready to go. They had to go a mile and ahalf through the woods to reach the pier. Ada got up first: Christophefollowed her. They waited on the steps until the others were ready: withoutspeaking, side by side, in the thick mist that was hardly at all lit up bythe single lamp hanging by the inn door. --Myrrha was dawdling by themirror. 

Ada took Christophe's hand and led him along the house towards the gardeninto the darkness. Under a balcony from which hung a curtain of vines theyhid. All about them was dense darkness. They could not even see each other. The wind stirred the tops of the pines. He felt Ada's warm fingers entwinedin his and the sweet scent of a heliotrope flower that she had at herbreast. 

Suddenly she dragged him to her: Christophe's lips found Ada's hair, wetwith the mist, and kissed her eyes, her eyebrows, her nose, her cheeks, thecorners of her mouth, seeking her lips, and finding them, staying pressedto them. 

The others had gone. They called:

"Ada!. . . "

They did not stir, they hardly breathed, pressed close to each other, lipsand bodies. 

They heard Myrrha:

"They have gone on. "

The footsteps of their companions died away in the night. They held eachother closer, in silence, stifling on their lips a passionate murmuring. 

In the distance a village clock rang out. They broke apart. They had to runto the pier. Without a word they set out, arms and hands entwined, keepingstep--a little quick, firm step, like hers. The road was deserted: nocreature was abroad: they could not see ten yards ahead of them: they went, serene and sure, into the beloved night. They never stumbled over thepebbles on the road. As they were late they took a short cut. The path ledfor some way down through vines and then began to ascend and wind up theside of the hill. Through the mist they could hear the roar of the riverand the heavy paddles of the steamer approaching. They left the road andran across the fields. At last they found themselves on the bank of theRhine but still far from the pier. Their serenity was not disturbed. Adahad forgotten her fatigue of the evening. It seemed to them that they couldhave walked all night like that, on the silent grass, in the hoveringmists, that grew wetter and more dense along the river that was wrapped ina whiteness as of the moon. The steamer's siren hooted: the invisiblemonster plunged heavily away and away. They said, laughing:

"We will take the next. "

By the edge of the river soft lapping waves broke at their feet. At thelanding stage they were told:

"The last boat has just gone. "

Christophe's heart thumped. Ada's hand grasped his arm more tightly. 

"But, " she said, "there will be another one to-morrow. "

A few yards away in a halo of mist was the flickering light of a lamp hungon a post on a terrace by the river. A little farther on were a few lightedwindows--a little inn. 

They went into the tiny garden. The sand ground under their feet. Theygroped their way to the steps. When they entered, the lights were being putout. Ada, on Christophe's arm, asked for a room. The room to which theywere led opened on to the little garden. Christophe leaned out of thewindow and saw the phosphorescent flow of the river, and the shade of thelamp on the glass of which were crushed mosquitoes with large wings. Thedoor was closed. Ada was standing by the bed and smiling. He dared not lookat her. She did not look at him: but through her lashes she followedChristophe's every movement. The floor creaked with every step. They couldhear the least noise in the house. They sat on the bed and embraced insilence. 

 * * * * *

The flickering light of the garden is dead. All is dead. . . . Night. . . . Theabyss. . . . Neither light nor consciousness. . . . Being. The obscure, devouringforces of Being. Joy all-powerful. Joy rending. Joy which sucks down thehuman creature as the void a stone. The sprout of desire sucking upthought. The absurd delicious law of the blind intoxicated worlds whichroll at night. . . . 

. . . A night which is many nights, hours that are centuries, records whichare death. . . . Dreams shared, words spoken with eyes closed, tears andlaughter, the happiness of loving in the voice, of sharing the nothingnessof sleep, the swiftly passing images flouting in the brain, thehallucinations of the roaring night. . . . The Rhine laps in a little creek bythe house; in the distance his waters over the dams and breakwaters make asound as of a gentle rain falling on sand. The hull of the boat cracks andgroans under the weight of water. The chain by which it is tied sags andgrows taut with a rusty clattering. The voice of the river rises: it fillsthe room. The bed is like a boat. They are swept along side by side by agiddy current--hung in mid-air like a soaring bird. The night grows evermore dark, the void more empty. Ada weeps, Christophe loses consciousness:both are swept down under the flowing waters of the night. . . . 

Night. . . . Death. . . . Why wake to life again?. . . 

The light of the dawning day peeps through the dripping panes. The spark oflife glows once more in their languorous bodies. He awakes, Ada's eyes arelooking at him. A whole life passes in a few moments: days of sin, greatness, and peace. . . . 

"Where am I? And am I two? Do I still exist? I am no longer conscious ofbeing. All about me is the infinite: I have the soul of a statue, withlarge tranquil eyes, filled with Olympian peace. . . . "

They fall back into the world of sleep. And the familiar sounds of thedawn, the distant bells, a passing boat, oars dripping water, footsteps onthe road, all caress without disturbing their happy sleep, reminding themthat they are alive, and making them delight in the savor of theirhappiness. . . . 

 * * * * *

The puffing of the steamer outside the window brought Christophe from historpor. They had agreed to leave at seven so as to return to the town intime for their usual occupations. He whispered:

"Do you hear?"

She did not open her eyes; she smiled, she put out her lips, she tried tokiss him and then let her head fall back on his shoulder. . . . Through thewindow panes he saw the funnel of the steamer slip by against the sky, hesaw the empty deck, and clouds of smoke. Once more he slipped intodreaminess. . . . 

An hour passed without his knowing it. He heard it strike and started inastonishment. 

"Ada!. . . " he whispered to the girl. "Ada!" he said again. "It's eighto'clock. "

Her eyes were still closed: she frowned and pouted pettishly. 

"Oh! let me sleep!" she said. 

She sighed wearily and turned her back on him and went to sleep once more. 

He began to dream. His blood ran bravely, calmly through him. His limpidsenses received the smallest impressions simply and freshly. He rejoiced inhis strength and youth. Unwittingly he was proud of being a man. He smiledin his happiness, and felt himself alone: alone as he had always been, morelonely even but without sadness, in a divine solitude. No more fever. "Nomore shadows. Nature could freely cast her reflection upon his soul in itsserenity. Lying on his back, facing the window, his eyes gazing deep intothe dazzling air with its luminous mists, he smiled:

"How good it is to live!. . . "

To live!. . . A boat passed. . . . The thought suddenly of those who were nolonger alive, of a boat gone by on which they were together: he--she. . . . She?. . . Not that one, sleeping by his side. --She, the only she, thebeloved, the poor little woman who was dead. --But is it that one? How cameshe there? How did they come to this room? He looks at her, he does notknow her: she is a stranger to him: yesterday morning she did not exist forhim. What does he know of her?--He knows that she is not clever. He knowsthat she is not good. He knows that she is not even beautiful with her facespiritless and bloated with sleep, her low forehead, her mouth open inbreathing, her swollen dried lips pouting like a fish. He knows that hedoes not love her. And he is filled with a bitter sorrow when he thinksthat he kissed those strange lips, in the first moment with her, that hehas taken this beautiful body for which he cares nothing on the first nightof their meeting, --and that she whom he loved, he watched her live and dieby his side and never dared touch her hair with his lips, that he willnever know the perfume of her being. Nothing more. All is crumbled away. The earth has taken all from him. And he never defended what was his. . . . 

And while he leaned over the innocent sleeper and scanned her face, andlooked at her with eyes of unkindness, she felt his eyes upon her. Uneasyunder his scrutiny she made a great effort to raise her heavy lids and tosmile: and she said, stammering a little like a waking child:

"Don't look at me. I'm ugly. . . . "

She fell back at once, weighed down with sleep, smiled once more, murmured. 

"Oh! I'm so . . . So sleepy!. . . " and went off again into her dreams. 

He could not help laughing: he kissed her childish lips more tenderly. Hewatched the girl sleeping for a moment longer, and got up quietly. She gavea comfortable sigh when he was gone. He tried not to wake her as hedressed, though there was no danger of that: and when he had done he sat inthe chair near the window and watched the steaming smoking river whichlooked as though it were covered with ice: and he fell into a brown studyin which there hovered music, pastoral, melancholy. 

From time to time she half opened her eyes and looked at him vaguely, tooka second or two, smiled at him, and passed from one sleep to another. Sheasked him the time. 

"A quarter to nine. "

Half asleep she pondered:

"What! Can it be a quarter to nine?"

At half-past nine she stretched, sighed, and said that she was going to getup. 

It was ten o'clock before she stirred. She was petulant. 

"Striking again!. . . The clock is fast!. . . " He laughed and went and sat onthe bed by her side. She put her arms round his neck and told him herdreams. He did not listen very attentively and interrupted her with littlelove words. But she made him be silent and went on very seriously, asthough she were telling something of the highest importance:

"She was at dinner: the Grand Duke was there: Myrrha was a Newfoundlanddog. . . . No, a frizzy sheep who waited at table. . . . Ada had discovered amethod of rising from the earth, of walking, dancing, and lying down in theair. You see it was quite simple: you had only to do . . . Thus . . . Thus . . . And it was done. . . . "

Christophe laughed at her. She laughed too, though a little ruffled at hislaughing. She shrugged her shoulders. 

"Ah! you don't understand!. . . "

They breakfasted on the bed from the same cup, with the same spoon. 

At last she got up: she threw off the bedclothes and slipped down from thebed. Then she sat down to recover her breath and looked at her feet. Finally she clapped her hands and told him to go out: and as he was in nohurry about it she took him by the shoulders and thrust him out of the doorand then locked it. 

After she had dawdled, looked over and stretched each of her handsomelimbs, she sang, as she washed, a sentimental _Lied_ in fourteen couplets, threw water at Christophe's face--he was outside drumming on thewindow--and as they left she plucked the last rose in the garden and thenthey took the steamer. The mist was not yet gone: but the sun shone throughit: they floated through a creamy light. Ada sat at the stern withChristophe: she was sleepy and a little sulky: she grumbled about the lightin her eyes, and said that she would have a headache all day. And asChristophe did not take her complaints seriously enough she returned intomorose silence. Her eyes were hardly opened and in them was the funnygravity of children who have just woke up. But at the next landing-stage anelegant lady came and sat not far from her, and she grew lively at once:she talked eagerly to Christophe about things sentimental anddistinguished. She had resumed with him the ceremonious _Sie_. 

Christophe was thinking about what she could say to her employer by way ofexcuse for her lateness. She was hardly at all concerned about it. 

"Bah! It's not the first time. "

"The first time that . . . What?"

"That I have been late, " she said, put out by the question. 

He dared not ask her what had caused her lateness. 

"What will you tell her?"

"That my mother is ill, dead . . . How do I know?"

He was hurt by her talking so lightly. 

"I don't want you to lie. "

She took offense:

"First of all, I never lie. . . . And then, I cannot very well tell her. . . . "

He asked her half in jest, half in earnest:

"Why not?"

She laughed, shrugged, and said that he was coarse and ill-bred, and thatshe had already asked him not to use the _Du_ to her. 

"Haven't I the right?"

"Certainly not. "

"After what has happened?"

"Nothing has happened. "

She looked at him a little defiantly and laughed: and although she wasjoking, he felt most strongly that it would not have cost her much to sayit seriously and almost to believe it. But some pleasant memory tickledher: for she burst out laughing and looked at Christophe and kissed himloudly without any concern for the people about, who did not seem to be inthe least surprised by it. 

 * * * * *

Now on all his excursions he was accompanied by shop-girls and clerks: hedid not like their vulgarity, and used to try to lose them: but Ada out ofcontrariness was no longer disposed for wandering in the woods. When itrained or for some other reason they did not leave the town he would takeher to the theater, or the museum, or the _Thiergarten_: for she insistedon being seen with him. She even wanted him to go to church with her; buthe was so absurdly sincere that he would not set foot inside a church sincehe had lost his belief--(on some other excuse he had resigned his positionas organist)--and at the same time, unknown to himself, remained much tooreligious not to think Ada's proposal sacrilegious. 

He used to go to her rooms in the evening. Myrrha would be there, for shelived in the same house. Myrrha was not at all resentful against him: shewould hold out her soft hand, caressingly, and talk of trivial and improperthings and then dip away discreetly. The two women had never seemed to besuch friends as since they had had small reason for being so: they werealways together. Ada had no secrets from Myrrha: she told her everything:Myrrha listened to everything: they seemed to be equally pleased with itall. 

Christophe was ill at ease in the company of the two women. Theirfriendship, their strange conversations, their freedom of manner, the crudeway in which Myrrha especially viewed and spoke of things--(not so much inhis presence, however, as when he was not there, but Ada used to repeat hersayings to him)--their indiscreet and impertinent curiosity, which wasforever turned upon subjects that were silly or basely sensual, the wholeequivocal and rather animal atmosphere oppressed him terribly, though itinterested him: for he knew nothing like it. He was at sea in theconversations of the two little beasts, who talked of dress, and made sillyjokes, and laughed in an inept way with their eyes shining with delightwhen they were off on the track of some spicy story. He was more at easewhen Myrrha left them. When the two women were together it was like beingin a foreign country without knowing the language. It was impossible tomake himself understood: they did not even listen: they poked fun at theforeigner. 

When he was alone with Ada they went on speaking different languages: butat least they did make some attempt to understand each other. To tell thetruth, the more he understood her, the less he understood her. She was thefirst woman he had known. For if poor Sabine was a woman he had known, hehad known nothing of her: she had always remained for him a phantom of hisheart. Ada took upon herself to make him make up for lost time. In his turnhe tried to solve the riddle of woman; an enigma which perhaps is no enigmaexcept for those who seek some meaning in it. 

Ada was without intelligence: that was the least of her faults. Christophewould have commended her for it, if she had approved it herself. Butalthough she was occupied only with stupidities, she claimed to have someknowledge of the things of the spirit: and she judged everything withcomplete assurance. She would talk about music, and explain to Christophethings which he knew perfectly, and would pronounce absolute judgment andsentence. It was useless to try to convince her she had pretensions andsusceptibilities in everything; she gave herself airs, she was obstinate, vain: she would not--she could not understand anything. Why would she notaccept that she could understand nothing? He loved her so much better whenshe was content with being just what she was, simply, with her ownqualities and failings, instead of trying to impose on others and herself!

In fact, she was little concerned with thought. She was concerned witheating, drinking, singing, dancing, crying, laughing, sleeping: she wantedto be happy: and that would have been all right if she had succeeded. Butalthough she had every gift for it: she was greedy, lazy, sensual, andfrankly egoistic in a way that revolted and amused Christophe: although shehad almost all the vices which make life pleasant for their fortunatepossessor, if not for their friends--(and even then does not a happy face, at least if it be pretty, shed happiness on all those who come nearit?)--in spite of so many reasons for being satisfied with life and herselfAda was not even clever enough for that. The pretty, robust girl, fresh, hearty, healthy-looking, endowed with abundant spirits and fierceappetites, was anxious about her health. She bemoaned her weakness, whileshe ate enough for four. She was always sorry for herself: she could notdrag herself along, she could not breathe, she had a headache, feet-ache, her eyes ached, her stomach ached, her soul ached. She was afraid ofeverything, and madly superstitious, and saw omens everywhere: at meals thecrossing of knives and forks, the number of the guests, the upsetting of asalt-cellar: then there must be a whole ritual to turn aside misfortune. Out walking she would count the crows, and never failed to watch which sidethey flew to: she would anxiously watch the road at her feet, and when aspider crossed her path in the morning she would cry out aloud: then shewould wish to go home and there would be no other means of not interruptingthe walk than to persuade her that it was after twelve, and so the omen wasone of hope rather than of evil. She was afraid of her dreams: she wouldrecount them at length to Christophe; for hours she would try to recollectsome detail that she had forgotten; she never spared him one; absurditiespiled one on the other, strange marriages, deaths, dressmakers' prices, burlesque, and sometimes, obscene things. He had to listen to her and giveher his advice. Often she would be for a whole day under the obsession ofher inept fancies. She would find life ill-ordered, she would see thingsand people rawly and overwhelm Christophe with her jeremiads; and it seemedhardly worth while to have broken away from the gloomy middle-class peoplewith whom he lived to find once more the eternal enemy: the _"traurigerungriechischer Hypochondrist_. "

But suddenly in the midst of her sulks and grumblings, she would becomegay, noisy, exaggerated: there was no more dealing with her gaiety thanwith her moroseness: she would burst out laughing for no reason and seem asthough she were never going to stop: she would rush across the fields, playmad tricks and childish pranks, take a delight in doing silly things, inmixing with the earth, and dirty things, and the beasts, and the spiders, and worms, in teasing them, and hurting them, and making them eat eachother: the cats eat the birds, the fowls the worms, the ants the spiders, not from any wickedness, or perhaps from an altogether unconscious instinctfor evil, from curiosity, or from having nothing better to do. She seemedto be driven always to say stupid things, to repeat senseless words againand again, to irritate Christophe, to exasperate him, set his nerves onedge, and make him almost beside himself. And her coquetry as soon asanybody--no matter who--appeared on the road!. . . Then she would talkexcitedly, laugh noisily, make faces, draw attention to herself: she wouldassume an affected mincing gait. Christophe would have a horriblepresentiment that she was going to plunge into serious discussion. --And, indeed, she would do so. She would become sentimental, uncontrolledly, justas she did everything: she would unbosom herself in a loud voice. Christophe would suffer and long to beat her. Least of all could he forgiveher her lack of sincerity. He did not yet know that sincerity is a gift asrare as intelligence or beauty and that it cannot justly be expected ofeverybody. He could not bear a lie: and Ada gave him lies in full measure. She was always lying, quite calmly, in spite of evidence to the contrary. She had that astounding faculty for forgetting what is displeasing tothem--or even what has been pleasing to them--which those women possess wholive from moment to moment. 

And, in spite of everything, they loved each other with all their hearts. Ada was as sincere as Christophe in her love. Their love was none the lesstrue for not being based on intellectual sympathy: it had nothing in commonwith base passion. It was the beautiful love of youth: it was sensual, butnot vulgar, because it was altogether youthful: it was naïve, almostchaste, purged by the ingenuous ardor of pleasure. Although Ada was not, bya long way, so ignorant as Christophe, yet she had still the divineprivilege of youth of soul and body, that freshness of the senses, limpidand vivid as a running stream, which almost gives the illusion of purityand through life is never replaced. Egoistic, commonplace, insincere in herordinary life, --love made her simple, true, almost good: she understood inlove the joy that is to be found in self-forgetfulness. Christophe saw thiswith delight: and he would gladly have died for her. Who can tell all theabsurd and touching illusions that a loving heart brings to its love! Andthe natural illusion of the lover was magnified an hundredfold inChristophe by the power of illusion which is born in the artist. Ada'ssmile held profound meanings for him: an affectionate word was the proof ofthe goodness of her heart. He loved in her all that is good and beautifulin the universe. He called her his own, his soul, his life. They wepttogether over their love. 

Pleasure was not the only bond between them: there was an indefinablepoetry of memories and dreams, --their own? or those of the men and womenwho had loved before them, who had been before them, --in them?. . . Without aword, perhaps without knowing it, they preserved the fascination of thefirst moments of their meeting in the woods, the first days, the firstnights together: those hours of sleep in each other's arms, still, unthinking, sinking down into a flood of love and silent joy. Swiftfancies, visions, dumb thoughts, titillating, and making them go pale, andtheir hearts sink under their desire, bringing all about them a buzzing asof bees. A fine light, and tender. . . . Their hearts sink and beat no more, borne down in excess of sweetness. Silence, languor, and fever, themysterious weary smile of the earth quivering under the first sunlight ofspring. . . . So fresh a love in two young creatures is like an April morning. Like April it must pass. Youth of the heart is like an early feast ofsunshine. 

 * * * * *

Nothing could have brought Christophe closer to Ada in his love than theway in which he was judged by others. 

The day after their first meeting it was known all over the town. Ada madeno attempt to cover up the adventure, and rather plumed herself on herconquest. Christophe would have liked more discretion: but he felt that thecuriosity of the people was upon him: and as he did not wish to seem to flyfrom it, he threw in his lot with Ada. The little town buzzed with tattle. Christophe's colleagues in the orchestra paid him sly compliments to whichhe did not reply, because he would not allow any meddling with his affairs. The respectable people of the town judged his conduct very severely. Helost his music lessons with certain families. With others, the mothersthought that they must now be present at the daughters' lessons, watchingwith suspicious eyes, as though Christophe were intending to carry off theprecious darlings. The young ladies were supposed to know nothing. Naturally they knew everything: and while they were cold towards Christophefor his lack of taste, they were longing to have further details. It wasonly among the small tradespeople, and the shop people, that Christophe waspopular: but not for long: he was just as annoyed by their approval as bythe condemnation of the rest: and being unable to do anything against thatcondemnation, he took steps not to keep their approval: there was nodifficulty about that. He was furious with the general indiscretion. 

The most indignant of all with him were Justus Euler and the Vogels. Theytook Christophe's misconduct as a personal outrage. They had not made anyserious plans concerning him: they distrusted--especially Frau Vogel--theseartistic temperaments. But as they were naturally discontented and alwaysinclined to think themselves persecuted by fate, they persuaded themselvesthat they had counted on the marriage of Christophe and Rosa; as soon asthey were quite certain that such a marriage would never come to pass, theysaw in it the mark of the usual ill luck. Logically, if fate wereresponsible for their miscalculation, Christophe could not be: but theVogels' logic was that which gave them the greatest opportunity for findingreasons for being sorry for themselves. So they decided that if Christophehad misconducted himself it was not so much for his own pleasure as to giveoffense to them. They were scandalized. Very religious, moral, and oozingdomestic virtue, they were of those to whom the sins of the flesh are themost shameful, the most serious, almost the only sins, because they are theonly dreadful sins--(it is obvious that respectable people are never likelyto be tempted to steal or murder). --And so Christophe seemed to themabsolutely wicked, and they changed their demeanor towards him. They wereicy towards him and turned away as they passed him. Christophe, who was inno particular need of their conversation, shrugged his shoulders at all thefuss. He pretended not to notice Amalia's insolence: who, while sheaffected contemptuously to avoid him, did all that she could to make himfall in with her so that she might tell him all that was rankling in her. 

Christophe was only touched by Rosa's attitude. The girl condemned him moreharshly even than his family. Not that this new love of Christophe's seemedto her to destroy her last chances of being loved by him: she knew that shehad no chance left--(although perhaps she went on hoping: she alwayshoped). --But she had made an idol of Christophe: and that idol had crumbledaway. It was the worst sorrow for her . . . Yes, a sorrow more cruel to theinnocence and honesty of her heart, than being disdained and forgotten byhim. Brought up puritanically, with a narrow code of morality, in which shebelieved passionately, what she had heard about Christophe had not onlybrought her to despair but had broken her heart. She had suffered alreadywhen he was in love with Sabine: she had begun then to lose some of herillusions about her hero. That Christophe could love so commonplace acreature seemed to her inexplicable and inglorious. But at least that lovewas pure, and Sabine was not unworthy of it. And in the end death hadpassed over it and sanctified it. . . . But that at once Christophe shouldlove another woman, --and such a woman!--was base, and odious! She took uponherself the defense of the dead woman against him. She could not forgivehim for having forgotten her. . . . Alas! He was thinking of her more thanshe: but she never thought that in a passionate heart there might be roomfor two sentiments at once: she thought it impossible to be faithful to thepast without sacrifice of the present. Pure and cold, she had no idea oflife or of Christophe: everything in her eyes was pure, narrow, submissiveto duty, like herself. Modest of soul, modest of herself, she had only onesource of pride: purity: she demanded it of herself and of others. Shecould not forgive Christophe for having so lowered himself, and she wouldnever forgive him. 

Christophe tried to talk to her, though not to explain himself--(what couldhe say to her? what could he say to a little puritanical and naïvegirl?). --He would have liked to assure her that he was her friend, that hewished for her esteem, and had still the right to it He wished to preventher absurdly estranging herself from him. --But Rosa avoided him in sternsilence: he felt that she despised him. 

He was both sorry and angry. He felt that he did not deserve such contempt;and yet in the end he was bowled over by it: and thought himself guilty. Ofall the reproaches cast against him the most bitter came from himself whenhe thought of Sabine. He tormented himself. 

"Oh! God, how is it possible? What sort of creature am I?. . . "

But he could not resist the stream that bore him on. He thought that lifeis criminal: and he closed his eyes so as to live without seeing it. He hadso great a need to live, and be happy, and love, and believe!. . . No: therewas nothing despicable in his love! He knew that it was impossible to bevery wise, or intelligent, or even very happy in his love for Ada: but whatwas there in it that could be called vile? Suppose--(he forced the idea onhimself)--that Ada were not a woman of any great moral worth, how was thelove that he had for her the less pure for that? Love is in the lover, notin the beloved. Everything is worthy of the lover, everything is worthy oflove. To the pure all is pure. All is pure in the strong and the healthy ofmind. Love, which adorns certain birds with their loveliest colors, callsforth from the souls that are true all that is most noble in them. Thedesire to show to the beloved only what is worthy makes the lover takepleasure only in those thoughts and actions which are in harmony with thebeautiful image fashioned by love. And the waters of youth in which thesoul is bathed, the blessed radiance of strength and joy, are beautiful andhealth-giving, making the heart great. 

That his friends misunderstood him filled him with bitterness. But theworst trial of all was that his mother was beginning to be unhappy aboutit. 

The good creature was far from sharing the narrow views of the Vogels. Shehad seen real sorrows too near ever to try to invent others. Humble, brokenby life, having received little joy from it, and having asked even less, resigned to everything that happened, without even trying to understand it, she was careful not to judge or censure others: she thought she had noright. She thought herself too stupid to pretend that they were wrong whenthey did not think as she did: it would have seemed ridiculous to try toimpose on others the inflexible rules of her morality and belief. Besidesthat, her morality and her belief were purely instinctive: pious and purein herself she closed her eyes to the conduct of others, with theindulgence of her class for certain faults and certain weaknesses. That hadbeen one of the complaints that her father-in-law, Jean Michel, had lodgedagainst her: she did not sufficiently distinguish between those who werehonorable and those who were not: she was not afraid of stopping in thestreet or the market-place to shake hands and talk with young women, notorious in the neighborhood, whom a respectable woman ought to pretend toignore. She left it to God to distinguish between good and evil, to punishor to forgive. From others she asked only a little of that affectionatesympathy which is so necessary to soften the ways of life. If people wereonly kind she asked no more. 

But since she had lived with the Vogels a change had come about in her. Thedisparaging temper of the family had found her an easier prey because shewas crushed and had no strength to resist. Amalia had taken her in hand:and from morning to night when they were working together alone, and Amaliadid all the talking, Louisa, broken and passive, unconsciously assumed thehabit of judging and criticising everything. Frau Vogel did not fail totell her what she thought of Christophe's conduct. Louisa's calmnessirritated her. She thought it indecent of Louisa to be so little concernedabout what put him beyond the pale: she was not satisfied until she hadupset her altogether. Christophe saw it. Louisa dared not reproach him: butevery day she made little timid remarks, uneasy, insistent: and when helost patience and replied sharply, she said no more: but still he could seethe trouble in her eyes: and when he came home sometimes he could see thatshe had been weeping. He knew his mother too well not to be absolutelycertain that her uneasiness did not come from herself. --And he knew wellwhence it came. 

He determined to make an end of it. One evening when Louisa was unable tohold back her tears and had got up from the table in the middle of supperwithout Christophe being able to discover what was the matter, he rusheddownstairs four steps at a time and knocked at the Vogels' door. He wasboiling with rage. He was not only angry about Frau Vogel's treatment ofhis mother: he had to avenge himself for her having turned Rosa againsthim, for her bickering against Sabine, for all that he had had to put upwith at her hands for months. For months he had borne his pent-up feelingsagainst her and now made haste to let them loose. 

He burst in on Frau Vogel and in a voice that he tried to keep calm, thoughit was trembling with fury, he asked her what she had told his mother tobring her to such a state. 

Amalia took it very badly: she replied that she would say what she pleased, and was responsible to no one for her actions--to him least of all. Andseizing the opportunity to deliver the speech which she had prepared, sheadded that if Louisa was unhappy he had to go no further for the cause ofit than his own conduct, which was a shame to himself and a scandal toeverybody else. 

Christophe was only waiting for her onslaught to strike out, He shoutedangrily that his conduct was his own affair, that he did not care a rapwhether it pleased Frau Vogel or not, that if she wished to complain of itshe must do so to him, and that she could say to him whatever she liked:that rested with her, but he _forbade_ her--(did she hear?)--_forbade_ herto say anything to his mother: it was cowardly and mean so to attack a poorsick old woman. 

Frau Vogel cried loudly. Never had any one dared to speak to her in such amanner. She said that she was not to be lectured fey a rapscallion, --and inher own house, too!--And she treated him with abuse. 

The others came running up on the noise of the quarrel, --except Vogel, whofled from anything that might upset, his health. Old Euler was called towitness by the indignant Amalia and sternly bade Christophe in future torefrain from speaking to or visiting them. He said that they did not needhim to tell them what they ought to do, that they did their duty and wouldalways do it. 

Christophe declared that he would go and would never again set foot intheir house. However, he did not go until he had relieved his feelings bytelling them what he had still to say about their famous Duty, which hadbecome to him a personal enemy. He said that their Duty was the sort ofthing to make him love vice. It was people like them who discouraged good, by insisting on making it unpleasant. It was their fault that so many finddelight by contrast among those who are dishonest, but amiable andlaughter-loving. It was a profanation of the name of duty to apply it toeverything, to the most stupid tasks, to trivial things, with a stiff andarrogant severity which ends by darkening and poisoning life. Duty, hesaid, was exceptional: it should be kept for moments of real sacrifice, andnot used to lend the lover of its name to ill-humor and the desire to bedisagreeable to others. There was no reason, because they were stupidenough or ungracious enough to be sad, to want everybody else to be so tooand to impose on everybody their decrepit way of living. . . . The first ofall virtues is joy. Virtue must be happy, free, and unconstrained. He whodoes good must give pleasure to himself. But this perpetual upstart Duty, this pedagogic tyranny, this peevishness, this futile discussion, thisacrid, puerile quibbling, this ungraciousness, this charmless life, withoutpoliteness, without silence, this mean-spirited pessimism, which lets slipnothing that can make existence poorer than it is, this vaingloriousunintelligence, which finds it easier to despise others than to understandthem, all this middle-class morality, without greatness, without largeness, without happiness, without beauty, all these things are odious and hurtful:they make vice appear more human than virtue. 

So thought Christophe: and in his desire to hurt those who had wounded him, he did not see that he was being as unjust as those of whom he spoke. 

No doubt these unfortunate people were, almost as he saw them. But it wasnot their fault: it was the fault of their ungracious life, which had madetheir faces, their doings, and their thoughts ungracious. They had sufferedthe deformation of misery--not that great misery which swoops down andslays or forges anew--but the misery of ever recurring ill-fortune, thatsmall misery which trickles down drop by drop from the first day to thelast. . . . Sad, indeed! For beneath these rough exteriors what treasures inreserve are there, of uprightness, of kindness, of silent heroism!. . . Thewhole strength of a people, all the sap of the future. 

Christophe was not wrong in thinking duty exceptional. But love is so noless. Everything is exceptional. Everything that is of worth has no worseenemy--not the evil (the vices are of worth)--but the habitual. The mortalenemy of the soul is the daily wear and tear. 

Ada was beginning to weary of it. She was not clever enough to find newfood for her love in an abundant nature like that of Christophe. Her sensesand her vanity had extracted from it all the pleasure they could find init. There was left her only the pleasure of destroying it. She had thatsecret instinct common to so many women, even good women, to so many men, even clever men, who are not creative either of art, or of children, or ofpure action, --no matter what: of life--and yet have too much life in apathyand resignation to bear with their uselessness. They desire others to be asuseless as themselves and do their best to make them so. Sometimes they doso in spite of themselves: and when they become aware of their criminaldesire they hotly thrust it back. But often they hug it to themselves: andthey set themselves according to their strength--some modestly in their ownintimate circle--others largely with vast audiences--to destroy everythingthat has life, everything that loves life, everything that deserves life. The critic who takes upon himself to diminish the stature of great men andgreat thoughts--and the girl who amuses herself with dragging down herlovers, are both mischievous beasts of the same kind. --But the second isthe pleasanter of the two. 

Ada then would have liked to corrupt Christophe a little, to humiliate him. In truth, she was not strong enough. More intelligence was needed, even incorruption. She felt that: and it was not the least of her ranklingfeelings against Christophe that her love could do him no harm. She did notadmit the desire that was in her to do him harm: perhaps she would havedone him none if she had been able. But it annoyed her that she could notdo it. It is to fail in love for a woman not to leave her the illusion ofher power for good or evil over her lover: to do that must inevitably be toimpel her irresistibly to the test of it. Christophe paid no attention toit. When Ada asked him jokingly:

"Would you leave your music for me?"

(Although she had no wish for him to do so. )

He replied frankly:

"No, my dear: neither you nor anybody else can do anything against that. Ishall always make music. "

"And you say you love?" cried she, put out. 

She hated his music--the more so because she did not understand it, and itwas impossible for her to find a means of coming to grips with thisinvisible enemy and so to wound Christophe in his passion. If she tried totalk of it contemptuously, or scornfully to judge Christophe'scompositions, he would shout with laughter; and in spite of herexasperation Ada would relapse into silence: for she saw that she was beingridiculous. 

But if there was nothing to be done in that direction, she had discoveredanother weak spot in Christophe, one more easy of access: his moral faith. In spite of his squabble with the Vogels, and in spite of the intoxicationof his adolescence, Christophe had preserved an instinctive modesty, a needof purity, of which he was entirely unconscious. At first it struck Ada, attracted and charmed her, then made her impatient and irritable, andfinally, being the woman she was, she detested it. She did not make afrontal attack. She would ask insidiously:

"Do you love me?"

"Of course!"

"How much do you love me?"

"As much as it is possible to love. "

"That is not much . . . After all!. . . What would you do for me?"

"Whatever you like. "

"Would you do something dishonest. "

"That would be a queer way of loving. "

"That is not what I asked. Would you?"

"It is not necessary. "

"But if I wished it?"

"You would be wrong. "

"Perhaps. . . . Would you do it?"

He tried to kiss her. But she thrust him away. 

"Would you do it? Yes or no?"

"No, my dear. "

She turned her back on him and was furious. 

"You do not love me. You do not know what love is. "

"That is quite possible, " he said good-humoredly. He knew that, likeanybody else, he was capable in a moment of passion of committing somefolly, perhaps something dishonest, and--who knows?--even more: but hewould have thought shame of himself if he had boasted of it in cold blood, and certainly it would be dangerous to confess it to Ada. Some instinctwarmed him that the beloved foe was lying in ambush, and taking stock ofhis smallest remark; he would not give her any weapon against him. 

She would return to the charge again, and ask him:

"Do you love me because you love me, or because I love you?"

"Because I love you. "

"Then if I did not love you, you would still love me?"

"Yes. "

"And if I loved some one else you would still love me?"

"Ah! I don't know about that. . . . I don't think so. . . . In any case you wouldbe the last person to whom I should say so. "

"How would it be changed?"

"Many things would be changed. Myself, perhaps. You, certainly. "

"And if I changed, what would it matter?"

"All the difference in the world. I love you as you are. If you becomeanother creature I can't promise to love you. "

"You do not love, you do not love! What is the use of all this quibbling?You love or you do not love. If you love me you ought to love me just as Iam, whatever I do, always. "

"That would be to love you like an animal. "

"I want to be loved like that. "

"Then you have made a mistake, " said he jokingly. "I am not the sort of manyou want. I would like to be, but I cannot. And I will not. "

"You are very proud of your intelligence! You love your intelligence morethan you do me. "

"But I love you, you wretch, more than you love yourself. The morebeautiful and the more good you are, the more I love you. "

"You are a schoolmaster, " she said with asperity. 

"What would you? I love what is beautiful. Anything ugly disgusts me. "

"Even in me?"

"Especially in you. "

She drummed angrily with her foot. 

"I will not be judged. "

"Then complain of what I judge you to be, and of what I love in you, " saidhe tenderly to appease her. 

She let him take her in his arms, and deigned to smile, and let him kissher. But in a moment when he thought she had forgotten she asked uneasily:

"What do you think ugly in me?"

He would not tell her: he replied cowardly:

"I don't think anything ugly in you. "

She thought for a moment, smiled, and said:

"Just a moment, Christli: you say that you do not like lying?"

"I despise it. "

"You are right, " she said. "I despise it too. I am of a good conscience. Inever lie. "

He stared at her: she was sincere. Her unconsciousness disarmed him. 

"Then, " she went on, putting her arms about his neck, "why would you becross with me if I loved some one else and told you so?"

"Don't tease me. "

"I'm not teasing: I am not saying that I do love some one else: I am sayingthat I do not. . . . But if I did love some one later on. . . . "

"Well, don't let us think of it. "

"But I want to think of it. . . . You would not be angry, with me? You couldnot be angry with me?"

"I should not be angry with you. I should leave you. That is all. "

"Leave me? Why? If I still loved you . . . ?"

"While you loved some one else?"

"Of course. It happens sometimes. "

"Well, it will not happen with us. "

"Why?"

"Because as soon as you love some one else, I shall love you no longer, mydear, never, never again. "

"But just now you said perhaps. . . . Ah! you see you do not love me!"

"Well then: all the better for you. "

"Because . . . ?"

"Because if I loved you when you loved some one else it might turn outbadly for you, me, and him. "

"Then!. . . Now you are mad. Then I am condemned to stay with you all mylife?"

"Be calm. You are free. You shall leave me when you like. Only it will notbe _au revoir_: it will be good-bye. "

"But if I still love you?"

"When people love, they sacrifice themselves to each other. "

"Well, then . . . Sacrifice yourself!"

He could not help laughing at her egoism: and she laughed too. 

"The sacrifice of one only, " he said, "means the love of one only. "

"Not at all. It means the love of both. I shall not love you much longer ifyou do not sacrifice yourself for me. And think, Christli, how much youwill love me, when you have sacrificed yourself, and how happy you willbe. "

They laughed and were glad to have a change from the seriousness of thedisagreement. 

He laughed and looked at her. At heart, as she said, she had no desire toleave Christophe at present: if he irritated her and often bored her sheknew the worth of such devotion as his: and she loved no one else. Shetalked so for fun, partly because she knew he disliked it, partly becauseshe took pleasure in playing with equivocal and unclean thoughts like achild which delights to mess about with dirty water. He knew this. He didnot mind. But he was tired of these unwholesome discussions, of the silentstruggle against this uncertain and uneasy creature whom he loved, whoperhaps loved him: he was tired from the effort that he had to make todeceive himself about her, sometimes tired almost to tears. He would think:"Why, why is she like this? Why are people like this? How second-rate lifeis!". . . At the same time he would smile as he saw her pretty face abovehim, her blue eyes, her flower-like complexion, her laughing, chatteringlips, foolish a little, half open to reveal the brilliance of her tongueand her white teeth. Their lips would almost touch: and he would look ather as from a distance, a great distance, as from another world: he wouldsee her going farther and farther from him, vanishing in a mist. . . . Andthen he would lose sight of her. He could hear her no more. He would fallinto a sort of smiling oblivion, in which he thought of his music, hisdreams, a thousand things foreign, to Ada. . . . Ah! beautiful music!. . . Sosad, so mortally sad! and yet kind, loving. . . . Ah! how good it is!. . . It isthat, it is that. . . . Nothing else is true. . . . 

She would shake his arm. A voice would cry:

"Eh, what's the matter with you? You are mad, quite mad. Why do you look atme like that? Why don't you answer?"

Once more he would see the eyes looking at him. Who was it?. . . Ah! yes. . . . He would sigh. 

She would watch him. She would try to discover what he was thinking of. Shedid not understand: but she felt that it was useless: that she could notkeep hold of him, that there was always a door by which he could escape. She would conceal her irritation. 

"Why are you crying?" she asked him once as he returned from one of hisstrange journeys into another life. 

He drew his hands across his eyes. He felt that they were wet. 

"I do not know, " he said. 

"Why don't you answer? Three times you have said the same thing. "

"What do you want?" he asked gently. 

She went back to her absurd discussions. He waved his hand wearily. 

"Yes, " she said. "I've done. Only a word more!" And off she started again. 

Christophe shook himself angrily. 

"Will you keep your dirtiness to yourself!"

"I was only joking. "

"Find cleaner subjects, then!"

"Tell me why, then. Tell me why you don't like it. "

"Why? You can't argue as to why a dump-heap smells. It does smell, and thatis all! I hold my nose and go away. "

He went away, furious: and he strode along taking in great breaths of thecold air. 

But she would begin again, once, twice, ten times. She would bring forwardevery possible subject that could shock him and offend his conscience. 

He thought it was only a morbid jest of a neurasthenic girl, amusingherself by annoying him. He would shrug his shoulders or pretend not tohear her: he would not take her seriously. But sometimes he would long tothrow her out of the window: for neurasthenia and the neurasthenics werevery little to his taste. . . . 

But ten minutes away from her were enough to make him forget everythingthat had annoyed him. He would return to Ada with a fresh store of hopesand new illusions. He loved her. Love is a perpetual act of faith. WhetherGod exist or no is a small matter: we believe, because we believe. We lovebecause we love; there is no need of reasons!. . . 

 * * * * *

After Christophe's quarrel with the Vogels it became impossible for them tostay in the house, and Louisa had to seek another lodging for herself andher son. 

One day Christophe's younger brother Ernest, of whom they had not heard fora long time, suddenly turned up. He was out of work, having been dismissedin turn from all the situations he had procured; his purse was empty andhis health ruined; and so he had thought it would be as well tore-establish himself in his mother's house. 

Ernest was not on bad terms with either of his brothers: they thought verylittle of him and he knew it: but he did not bear any grudge against them, for he did not care. They had no ill-feeling against him. It was not worththe trouble. Everything they said to him slipped off his back withoutleaving a mark. He just smiled with his sly eyes, tried to look contrite, thought of something else, agreed, thanked them, and in the end alwaysmanaged to extort money from one or other of them. In spite of himselfChristophe was fond of the pleasant mortal who, like himself, and more thanhimself, resembled their father Melchior in feature. Tall and strong likeChristophe, he had regular features, a frank expression, a straight nose, alaughing mouth, fine teeth, and endearing manners. When even Christophe sawhim he was disarmed and could not deliver half the reproaches that he hadprepared: in his heart he had a sort of motherly indulgence for thehandsome boy who was of his blood, and physically at all events did himcredit. He did not believe him to be bad: and Ernest was not a fool. Without culture, he was not without brains: he was even not incapable oftaking an interest in the things of the mind. He enjoyed listening tomusic: and without understanding his brother's compositions he would listento them with interest. Christophe, who did not receive too much sympathyfrom his family, had been glad to see him at some of his concerts. 

But Ernest's chief talent was the knowledge that he possessed of thecharacter of his two brothers, and his skill in making use of hisknowledge. It was no use Christophe knowing Ernest's egoism andindifference: it was no use his seeing that Ernest never thought of hismother or himself except when he had need of them: he was always taken inby his affectionate ways and very rarely did he refuse him anything. Hemuch preferred him to his other brother Rodolphe, who was orderly andcorrect, assiduous in his business, strictly moral, never asked for money, and never gave any either, visited his mother regularly every Sunday, stayed an hour, and only talked about himself, boasting about himself, hisfirm, and everything that concerned him, never asking about the others, andtaking mo interest in them, and going away when the hour was up, quitesatisfied with having done his duty. Christophe could not bear him. Healways arranged to be out when Rodolphe came. Rodolphe was jealous of him:he despised artists, and Christophe's success really hurt him, though hedid not fail to turn his small fame to account in the commercial circles inwhich he moved: but he never said a word about it either to his mother orto Christophe: he pretended to ignore it. On the other hand, he neverignored the least of the unpleasant things that happened to Christophe. Christophe despised such pettiness, and pretended not to notice it: but itwould really have hurt him to know, though he never thought about it, thatmuch of the unpleasant information that Rodolphe had about him came fromErnest. The young rascal fed the differences between Christophe andRodolphe: no doubt he recognized Christophe's superiority and perhaps evensympathized a little ironically with his candor. But he took good care toturn it to account: and while he despised Rodolphe's ill-feeling heexploited it shamefully. He flattered his vanity and jealousy, accepted hisrebukes deferentially and kept him primed with the scandalous gossip of thetown, especially with everything concerning Christophe, --of which he wasalways marvelously informed. So he attained his ends, and Rodolphe, inspite of his avarice, allowed Ernest to despoil him just as Christophe did. 

So Ernest made use and a mock of them both, impartially. And so both ofthem loved him. 

In spite of his tricks Ernest was in a pitiful condition when he turned upat his mother's house. He had come from Munich, where he had found and, asusual, almost immediately lost a situation. He had had to travel the bestpart of the way on foot, through storms of rain, sleeping God knows where. He was covered with mud, ragged, looking like a beggar, and coughingmiserably. Louisa was upset and Christophe ran to him in alarm when theysaw him come in. Ernest, whose tears flowed easily, did not fail to makeuse of the effect he had produced: and there was a general reconciliation:all three wept in each other's arms. 

Christophe gave up his room: they warmed the bed, and laid the invalid init, who seemed to be on the point of death. Louisa and Christophe sat byhis bedside and took it in turns to watch by him. They called in a doctor, procured medicines, made a good fire in the room, and gave him specialfood. 

Then they had to clothe him from head to foot: linen, shoes, clothes, everything new. Ernest left himself in their hands. Louisa and Christophesweated to squeeze the money from their expenditure. They were verystraitened at the moment: the removal, the new lodgings, which were dearerthough just as uncomfortable, fewer lessons for Christophe and moreexpenses. They could just make both ends meet. They managed somehow. Nodoubt Christophe could have applied to Rodolphe, who was more in a positionto help Ernest, but he would not: he made it a point of honor to help hisbrother alone. He thought himself obliged to do so as the eldest, --andbecause he was Christophe. Hot with shame he had to accept, to declare hiswillingness to accept an offer which he had indignantly rejected afortnight before, --a proposal from an agent of an unknown wealthy amateurwho wanted to buy a musical composition for publication under his own name. Louisa took work out, mending linen. They hid their sacrifice from eachother: they lied about the money they brought home. 

When Ernest was convalescent and sitting huddled up by the fire, heconfessed one day between his fits of coughing that he had a fewdebts. --They were paid. No one reproached him. That would not have beenkind to an invalid and a prodigal son who had repented and returned home. For Ernest seemed to have been changed by adversity and sickness. Withtears in his eyes he spoke of his past misdeeds: and Louisa kissed him andtold him to think no more of them. He was fond: he had always been able toget round his mother by his demonstrations of affection: Christophe hadonce been a little jealous of him. Now he thought it natural that theyoungest and the weakest son should be the most loved. In spite of thesmall difference in their ages he regarded him almost as a son rather thanas a brother. Ernest showed great respect for him: sometimes he wouldallude to the burdens that Christophe was taking upon himself, and to hissacrifice of money: but Christophe would not let him go on, and Ernestwould content himself with showing his gratitude in his eyes humbly andaffectionately. He would argue with the advice that Christophe gave him:and he would seem disposed to change his way of living and to workseriously as soon as he was well again. 

He recovered: but had a long convalescence. The doctor declared that hishealth, which he had abused, needed to be fostered. So he stayed on in hismother's house, sharing Christophe's bed, eating heartily the bread thathis brother earned, and the little dainty dishes that Louisa prepared, forhim. He never spoke of going. Louisa and Christophe never mentioned iteither. They were too happy to have found again the son and the brotherthey loved. 

Little by little in the long evenings that he spent with Ernest Christophebegan to talk intimately to him. He needed to confide in somebody. Ernestwas clever: he had a quick mind and understood--or seemed to understand--ona hint only. There was pleasure in talking to him. And yet Christophe darednot tell him about what lay nearest to his heart: his love. He was keptback by a sort of modesty. Ernest, who knew all about it, never let itappear that he knew. 

One day when Ernest was quite well again he went in the sunny afternoon andlounged along the Rhine. As he passed a noisy inn a little way out of thetown, where there were drinking and dancing on Sundays, he saw Christophesitting with Ada and Myrrha, who were making a great noise. Christophe sawhim too, and blushed. Ernest was discreet and passed on withoutacknowledging him. 

Christophe was much embarrassed by the encounter: it made him more keenlyconscious of the company in which he was: it hurt him that his brothershould have seen him then: not only because it made him lose the right ofjudging Ernest's conduct, but because he had a very lofty, very naïve, andrather archaic notion of his duties as an elder brother which would haveseemed absurd to many people: he thought that in failing in that duty, ashe was doing, he was lowered in his own eyes. 

In the evening when they were together in their room, he waited for Ernestto allude to what had happened. But Ernest prudently said nothing andwaited also. Then while they were undressing Christophe decided to speakabout his love. He was so ill at ease that he dared not look at Ernest: andin his shyness he assumed a gruff way of speaking. Ernest did not help himout: he was silent and did not look at him, though he watched him all thesame: and he missed none of the humor of Christophe's awkwardness andclumsy words. Christophe hardly dared pronounce Ada's name: and theportrait that he drew of her would have done just as well for any woman whowas loved. But he spoke of his love: little by little he was carried awayby the flood of tenderness that filled his heart: he said how good it wasto love, how wretched he had been before he had found that light in thedarkness, and that life was nothing without a dear, deep-seated love. Hisbrother listened gravely: he replied tactfully, and asked no questions: buta warm handshake showed that he was of Christophe's way of thinking. Theyexchanged ideas concerning love and life. Christophe was happy at being sowell understood. They exchanged a brotherly embrace before they went tosleep. 

Christophe grew accustomed to confiding his love to Ernest, though alwaysshyly and reservedly. Ernest's discretion reassured him. He let him knowhis uneasiness about Ada: but he never blamed her: he blamed himself: andwith tears in his eyes he would declare that he could not live if he wereto lose her. 

He did not forget to tell Ada about Ernest: he praised his wit and his goodlooks. 

Ernest never approached Christophe with a request to be introduced to Ada:but he would shut himself up in his room and sadly refuse to go out, sayingthat he did not know anybody. Christophe would think ill of himself onSundays for going on his excursions with Ada, while his brother stayed athome. And yet he hated not to be alone with his beloved: he accused himselfof selfishness and proposed that Ernest should come with them. 

The introduction took place at Ada's door, on the landing. Ernest and Adabowed politely. Ada came out, followed by her inseparable Myrrha, who whenshe saw Ernest gave a little cry of surprise. Ernest smiled, went up toMyrrha, and kissed her: she seemed to take it as a matter of course. 

"What! You know each other?" asked Christophe in astonishment. 

"Why, yes!" said Myrrha, laughing. 

"Since when?"

"Oh, a long time!"

"And you knew?" asked Christophe, turning to Ada. "Why, did you not tellme?"

"Do you think I know all Myrrha's lovers?" said Ada, shrugging hershoulders. 

Myrrha took up the word and pretended in fun to be angry. Christophe couldnot find out any more about it. He was depressed. It seemed to him thatErnest and Myrrha and Ada had been lacking in honesty, although indeed hecould not have brought any lie up against them: but it was difficult tobelieve that Myrrha, who had no secrets from Ada, had made a mystery ofthis, and that Ernest and Ada were not already acquainted with each other. He watched them. But they only exchanged a few trivial words and Ernestonly paid attention to Myrrha all the rest of the day. Ada only spoke toChristophe: and she was much more amiable to him than usual. 

From that time on Ernest always joined them. Christophe could have donewithout him: but he dared not say so. He had no other motive for wanting toleave his brother out than his shame in having him for boon companion. Hehad no suspicion of him. Ernest gave him no cause for it: he seemed to bein love with Myrrha and was always reserved and polite with Ada, and evenaffected to avoid her in a way that was a little out of place: it was asthough he wished to show his brother's mistress a little of the respect heshowed to himself. Ada was not surprised by it and was none the lesscareful. 

They went on long excursions together. The two brothers would walk on infront. Ada and Myrrha, laughing and whispering, would follow a few yardsbehind. They would stop in the middle of the road and talk. Christophe andErnest would stop and wait for them. Christophe would lose patience and goon: but soon he would turn back annoyed and irritated, by hearing Ernesttalking and laughing with the two young women. He would want to know whatthey were saying: but when they came up with him their conversation wouldstop. 

"What are you three always plotting together?" he would ask. 

They would reply with some joke. They had a secret understanding likethieves at a fair. 

 * * * * *

Christophe had a sharp quarrel with Ada. They had been cross with eachother all day. Strange to say, Ada had not assumed her air of offendeddignity, to which she usually resorted in such cases, so as to avengeherself, by making herself as intolerably tiresome as usual. Now she simplypretended to ignore Christophe's existence and she was in excellent spiritswith the other two. It was as though in her heart she was not put out atall by the quarrel. 

Christophe, on the other hand, longed to make peace: he was more in lovethan ever. His tenderness was now mingled with a feeling of gratitude forall the good things love had brought him, and regret for the hours he hadwasted in stupid argument and angry thoughts--and the unreasoning fear, themysterious idea that their love was nearing its end. Sadly he looked atAda's pretty face and she pretended not to see him while she was laughingwith the others: and the sight of her woke in him so many dear memories, ofgreat love, of sincere intimacy. --Her face had sometimes--it had now--somuch goodness in it, a smile so pure, that Christophe asked himself whythings were not better between them, why they spoiled their happiness withtheir whimsies, why she would insist on forgetting their bright hours, anddenying and combating all that was good and honest in her--what strangesatisfaction she could find in spoiling, and smudging, if only in thought, the purity of their love. He was conscious of an immense need of believingin the object of his love, and he tried once more to bring back hisillusions. He accused himself of injustice: he was remorseful for thethoughts that he attributed to her, and of his lack of charity. 

He went to, her and tried to talk to her; she answered him with a few curtwords: she had no desire for a reconciliation with him. He insisted: hebegged her to listen to him for a moment away from the others. She followedhim ungraciously. When they were a few yards away so that neither Myrrhanor Ernest could see them, he took her hands and begged her pardon, andknelt at her feet in the dead leaves of the wood. He told her that he couldnot go on living so at loggerheads with her: that he found no pleasure inthe walk, or the fine day: that he could enjoy nothing, and could not evenbreathe, knowing that she detested him: he needed her love. Yes: he wasoften unjust, violent, disagreeable: he begged her to forgive him: it wasthe fault of his love, he could not bear anything second-rate in her, nothing that was altogether unworthy of her and their memories of theirdear past. He reminded her of it all, of their first meeting, their firstdays together: he said that he loved her just as much, that he would alwayslove her, that she should not go away from him! She was everything tohim. . . . 

Ada listened to him, smiling, uneasy, almost softened. She looked at himwith kind eyes, eyes that said that they loved each other, and that shewas no longer angry. They kissed, and holding each other close they wentinto the leafless woods. She thought Christophe good and gentle, and wasgrateful to him for his tender words: but she did not relinquish thenaughty whims that were in her mind. But she hesitated, she did not clingto them so tightly: and yet she did not abandon what she had planned to do. Why? Who can say?. . . Because she had vowed what she would do?--Who knows?Perhaps she thought it more entertaining to deceive her lover that day, toprove to him, to prove to herself her freedom. She had no thought of losinghim: she did not wish for that. She thought herself more sure of him thanever. 

They reached a clearing in the forest. There were two paths. Christophetook one. Ernest declared that the other led more quickly to the top of thehill whither they were going. Ada agreed with him. Christophe, who knew theway, having often been there, maintained that they were wrong. They did notyield. Then they agreed to try it: and each wagered that he would arrivefirst. Ada went with Ernest. Myrrha accompanied Christophe: she pretendedthat she was sure that he was right: and she added, "As usual. " Christophehad taken the game seriously: and as he never liked to lose, he walkedquickly, too quickly for Myrrha's liking, for she was in much less of ahurry than he. 

"Don't be in a hurry, my friend, " she said, in her quiet, ironic voice, "weshall get there first. "

He was a little sorry. 

"True, " he said, "I am going a little too fast: there is no need. "

He slackened his pace. 

"But I know them, " he went on. "I am sure they will run so as to be therebefore us. "

Myrrha burst out laughing. 

"Oh! no, " she said. "Oh! no: don't you worry about that. "

She hung on his arm and pressed close to him. She was a little shorterthan Christophe, and as they walked she raised her soft eyes to his. Shewas really pretty and alluring. He hardly recognized her: the change wasextraordinary. Usually her face was rather pale and puffy: but the smallestexcitement, a merry thought, or the desire to please, was enough to makeher worn expression vanish, and her cheeks go pink, and the little wrinklesin her eyelids round and below her eyes disappear, and her eyes flash, andher whole face take on a youth, a life, a spiritual quality that never wasin Ada's. Christophe was surprised by this metamorphosis, and turned hiseyes away from hers: he was a little uneasy at being alone with her. Sheembarrassed him and prevented him from dreaming as he pleased: he did notlisten to what she said, he did not answer her, or if he did it was only atrandom: he was thinking--he wished to think only of Ada. He thought of thekindness in her eyes, her smile, her kiss: and his heart was filled withlove. Myrrha wanted to make him admire the beauty of the trees with theirlittle branches against the clear sky. . . . Yes: it was all beautiful: theclouds were gone, Ada had returned to him, he had succeeded in breaking theice that lay between them: they loved once more: near or far, they wereone. He sighed with relief: how light the air was! Ada had come back to him. . . Everything brought her to mind. . . . It was a little damp: would she notbe cold?. . . The lovely trees were powdered with hoar-frost: what a pity sheshould not see them!. . . But he remembered the wager, and hurried on: he wasconcerned only with not losing the way. He shouted joyfully as they reachedthe goal:

"We are first!"

He waved his hat gleefully. Myrrha watched him and smiled. 

The place where they stood was a high, steep rock in the middle of thewoods. From this flat summit with its fringe of nut-trees and littlestunted oaks they could see, over the wooded slopes, the tops of the pinesbathed in a purple mist, and the long ribbon of the Rhine in the bluevalley. Not a bird called. Not a voice. Not a breath of air. A still, calmwinter's day, its chilliness faintly warmed by the pale beams of a mistysun. Now and then in the distance there came the sharp whistle of a trainin the valley. Christophe stood at the edge of the rock and looked down atthe countryside. Myrrha watched Christophe. 

He turned to her amiably:

"Well! The lazy things. I told them so!. . . Well: we must wait for them. . . . "

He lay stretched out in the sun on the cracked earth. 

"Yes. Let us wait. . . . " said Myrrha, taking off her hat. 

In her voice there was something so quizzical that he raised his head andlooked at her. 

"What is it?" she asked quietly. 

"What did you say?"

"I said: Let us wait. It was no use making me run so fast. "

"True. "

They waited lying on the rough ground. Myrrha hummed a tune. Christophetook it up for a few phrases. But he stopped every now and then to listen. 

"I think I can hear them. "

Myrrha went on singing. 

"Do stop for a moment. "

Myrrha stopped. 

"No. It is nothing. "

She went on with her song. 

Christophe could not stay still. 

"Perhaps they have lost their way. "

"Lost? They could not. Ernest knows all the paths. "

A fantastic idea passed through Christophe's mind. 

"Perhaps they arrived first, and went away before we came!"

Myrrha was lying on her back and looking at the sun. She was seized witha wild burst of laughter in the middle of her song and all but choked. Christophe insisted. He wanted to go down to the station, saying that theirfriends would be there already. Myrrha at last made up her mind to move. 

"You would be certain to lose them!. . . There was never any talk about thestation. We were to meet here. "

He sat down by her side. She was amused by his eagerness. He was consciousof the irony in her gaze as she looked at him. He began to be seriouslytroubled--to be anxious about them: he did not suspect them. He got up oncemore. He spoke of going down into the woods again and looking for them, calling to them. Myrrha gave a little chuckle: she took from her pocket aneedle, scissors, and thread: and she calmly undid and sewed in again thefeathers in her hat: she seemed to have established herself for the day. 

"No, no, silly, " she said. "If they wanted to come do you think they wouldnot come of their own accord?"

There was a catch at his heart. He turned towards her: she did not look athim: she was busy with her work. He went up to her. 

"Myrrha!" he said. 

"Eh?" she replied without stopping. He knelt now to look more nearly ather. 

"Myrrha!" he repeated. 

"Well?" she asked, raising her eyes from her work and looking at him with asmile. "What is it?"

She had a mocking expression as she saw his downcast face. 

"Myrrha!" he asked, choking, "tell me what you think. . . . "

She shrugged her shoulders, smiled, and went on working. 

He caught her hands and took away the hat at which she was sewing. 

"Leave off, leave off, and tell me. . . . "

She looked squarely at him and waited. She saw that Christophe's lips weretrembling. 

"You think, " he said in a low voice, "that Ernest and Ada . . . ?"

She smiled. 

"Oh! well!"

He started back angrily. 

"No! No! It is impossible! You don't think that!. . . No! No!"

She put her hands on his shoulders and rocked with laughter. 

"How dense you are, how dense, my dear!"

He shook her violently. 

"Don't laugh! Why do you laugh? You would not laugh if it were true. Youlove Ernest. . . . "

She went on laughing and drew him to her and kissed him. In spite ofhimself he returned her kiss. But when he felt her lips on his, her lips, still warm with his brother's kisses, he flung her away from him and heldher face away from his own: he asked:

"You knew it? It was arranged between you?"

She said "Yes, " and laughed. 

Christophe did not cry out, he made no movement of anger. He opened hismouth as though he could not breathe: he closed his eyes and clutched athis breast with his hands: his heart was bursting. Then he lay down on theground with his face buried in his hands and he was shaken by a crisis ofdisgust and despair like a child. 

Myrrha, who was not very soft-hearted, was sorry for him: involuntarilyshe was filled with motherly compassion, and leaned over him, and spokeaffectionately to him, and tried to make him sniff at her smelling-bottle. But he thrust her away in horror and got up so sharply that she was afraid. He had neither strength nor desire for revenge. He looked at her with hisface twisted with grief. 

"You drab, " he said in despair. "You do not know the harm you havedone. . . . "

She tried to hold him back. He fled through the woods, spitting out hisdisgust with such ignominy, with such muddy hearts, with such incestuoussharing as that to which they had tried to bring him. He wept, he trembled:he sobbed with disgust. He was filled with horror, of them all, of himself, of his body and soul. A storm of contempt broke loose in him: it had longbeen brewing: sooner or later there had to come the reaction against thebase thoughts, the degrading compromises, the stale and pestilentialatmosphere in which he had been living for months: but the need of loving, of deceiving himself about the woman he loved, had postponed the crisis aslong as possible. Suddenly it burst upon him: and it was better so. Therewas a great gust of wind of a biting purity, an icy breeze which swept awaythe miasma. Disgust in one swoop had killed his love for Ada. 

If Ada thought more firmly to establish her domination over Christophe bysuch an act, that proved once more her gross inappreciation of her lover. Jealousy which binds souls that are besmirched could only revolt a naturelike Christophe's, young, proud, and pure. But what he could not forgive, what he never would forgive, was that the betrayal was not the outcome ofpassion in Ada, hardly even of one of those absurd and degrading thoughoften irresistible caprices to which the reason of a woman is sometimeshard put to it not to surrender. No--he understood now, --it was in her asecret desire to degrade him, to humiliate him, to punish him for his moralresistance, for his inimical faith, to lower him to the common level, tobring him to her feet, to prove to herself her own power for evil. And heasked himself with horror: what is this impulse towards dirtiness, whichis in the majority of human beings--this desire to besmirch the purity ofthemselves and others, --these swinish souls, who take a delight in rollingin filth, and are happy when not one inch of their skins is left clean!. . . 

Ada waited two days for Christophe to return to her. Then she began to beanxious, and sent him a tender note in which she made no allusion to whathad happened. Christophe did not even reply. He hated Ada so profoundlythat no words could express his hatred. He had cut her out of his life. Sheno longer existed for him. 

 * * * * *

Christophe was free of Ada, but he was not free of himself. In vain didhe try to return into illusion and to take up again the calm and chastestrength of the past. We cannot return to the past. We have to go onward:it is useless to turn back, save only to see the places by which we havepassed, the distant smoke from the roofs under which we have slept, dyingaway on the horizon in the mists of memory. But nothing so distances usfrom the soul that we had as a few months of passion. The road takesa sudden turn: the country is changed: it is as though we were sayinggood-bye for the last time to all that we are leaving behind. 

Christophe could not yield to it. He held out his arms to the past: hestrove desperately to bring to life again the soul that had been his, lonely and resigned. But it was gone. Passion itself is not so dangerous asthe ruins that it heaps up and leaves behind. In vain did Christophe notlove, in vain--for a moment--did he despise love: he bore the marks of itstalons: his whole being was steeped in it: there was in his heart a voidwhich must be filled. With that terrible need of tenderness and pleasurewhich devours men and women when they have once tasted it, some otherpassion was needed, were it only the contrary passion, the passion ofcontempt, of proud purity, of faith in virtue. --They were not enough, theywere not enough to stay his hunger: they were only the food of a moment. His life consisted of a succession of violent reactions--leaps fromone extreme to the other. Sometimes he would bend his passion to rulesinhumanly ascetic: not eating, drinking water, wearing himself out withwalking, heavy tasks, and so not sleeping, denying himself every sort ofpleasure. Sometimes he would persuade himself that strength is the truemorality for people like himself: and he would plunge into the quest ofjoy. In either case he was unhappy. He could no longer be alone. He couldno longer not be alone. 

The only thing that could have saved him would have been to find a truefriendship, --Rosa's perhaps: he could have taken refuge in that. But therupture was complete between the two families. They no longer met. Onlyonce had Christophe seen Rosa. She was just coming out from Mass. He hadhesitated to bow to her: and when she saw him she had made a movementtowards him: but when he had tried to go to her through the stream of thedevout walking down the steps, she had turned her eyes away: and when heapproached her she bowed coldly and passed on. In the girl's heart he feltintense, icy contempt. And he did not feel that she still loved him andwould have liked to tell him so: but she had come to think of her love as afault and foolishness: she thought Christophe bad and corrupt, and furtherfrom her than ever. So they were lost to each other forever. And perhapsit was as well for both of them. In spite of her goodness, she was notnear enough to life to be able to understand him. In spite of his need ofaffection and respect he would have stifled in a commonplace and confinedexistence, without joy, without sorrow, without air. They would both havesuffered. The unfortunate occurrence which cut them apart was, when all wastold, perhaps, fortunate as often happens--as always happens--to those whoare strong and endure. 

But at the moment it was a great sorrow and a great misfortune for them. Especially for Christophe. Such virtuous intolerance, such narrowness ofsoul, which sometimes seems to deprive those who have the most of them ofall intelligence, and those who are most good of kindness, irritated him, hurt him, and flung him back in protest into a freer life. 

During his loafing with Ada in the beer gardens of the neighborhood he hadmade acquaintance with several good fellows--Bohemians, whose carelessnessand freedom of manners had not been altogether distasteful to him. Oneof them, Friedemann, a musician like himself, an organist, a man ofthirty, was not without intelligence, and was good at his work, but he wasincurably lazy and rather than make the slightest effort to be more thanmediocre, he would have died of hunger, though not, perhaps, of thirst. He comforted himself in his indolence by speaking ill of those who livedenergetically, God knows why; and his sallies, rather heavy for the mostpart, generally made people laugh. Having more liberty than his companions, he was not afraid, --though timidly, and with winks and nods and suggestiveremarks, --to sneer at those who held positions: he was even capable of nothaving ready-made opinions about music, and of having a sly fling at theforged reputations of the great men of the day. He had no mercy upon womeneither: when he was making his jokes he loved to repeat the old saying ofsome misogynist monk about them, and Christophe enjoyed its bitterness justthen more than anybody:

_"Femina mors animae. "_

In his state of upheaval Christophe found some distraction in talkingto Friedemann. He judged him, he could not long take pleasure in thisvulgar bantering wit: his mockery and perpetual denial became irritatingbefore long and he felt the impotence of it all: but it did soothe hisexasperation with the self-sufficient stupidity of the Philistines. Whilehe heartily despised his companion, Christophe could not do without him. They were continually seen together sitting with the unclassed and doubtfulpeople of Friedemann's acquaintance, who were even more worthless thanhimself. They used to play, and harangue, and drink the whole evening. Christophe would suddenly wake up in the midst of the dreadful smell offood and tobacco: he would look at the people about him with strange eyes:he would not recognize them: he would think in agony:

"Where am I? Who are these people? What have I to do with them?"

Their remarks and their laughter would make him sick. But he could notbring himself to leave them: he was afraid of going home and of being leftalone face to face with his soul, his desires, and remorse. He was going tothe dogs: he knew it: he was doing it deliberately, --with cruel clarity hesaw in Friedemann the degraded image of what he was--of what he would beone day: and he was passing through a phase of such disheartenedness anddisgust that instead of being brought to himself by such a menace, itactually brought him low. 

He would have gone to the dogs, if he could. Fortunately, like allcreatures of his kind, he had a spring, a succor against destruction whichothers do not possess: his strength, his instinct for life, his instinctagainst letting himself perish, an instinct more intelligent than hisintelligence, and stronger than his will. And also, unknown to himself, he had the strange curiosity of the artist, that passionate, impersonalquality, which is in every creature really endowed with creative power. Invain did he love, suffer, give himself utterly to all his passions: he sawthem. They were in him but they were not himself. A myriad of little soulsmoved obscurely in him towards a fixed point unknown, yet certain, justlike the planetary worlds which are drawn through space into a mysteriousabyss. That perpetual state of unconscious action and reaction was shownespecially in those giddy moments when sleep came over his daily life, andfrom the depths of sleep and the night rose the multiform face of Beingwith its sphinx-like gaze. For a year Christophe had been obsessed withdreams in which in a second of time he felt clearly with perfect illusionthat he _was_ at one and the same time several different creatures, oftenfar removed from each other by countries, worlds, centuries. In his wakingstate Christophe was still under his hallucination and uneasiness, thoughhe could not remember what had caused it. It was like the weariness left bysome fixed idea that is gone, though traces of it are left and there is nounderstanding it. But while his soul was so troublously struggling throughthe network of the days, another soul, eager and serene, was watchingall his desperate efforts. He did not see it: but it cast over him thereflection of its hidden light. That soul was joyously greedy to feeleverything, to suffer everything, to observe and understand men, women, theearth, life, desires, passions, thoughts, even those that were torturing, even those that were mediocre, even those that were vile: and it was enoughto lend them a little of its light, to save Christophe from destruction. Itmade him feel--he did not know how--that he was not altogether alone. Thatlove of being and of knowing everything, that second soul, raised a rampartagainst his destroying passions. 

But if it was enough to keep his head above water, it did not allow himto climb out of it unaided. He could not succeed in seeing clearly intohimself, and mastering himself, and regaining possession of himself. Workwas impossible for him. He was passing through an intellectual crisis: themost fruitful of his life: all his future life was germinating in it: butthat inner wealth for the time being only showed itself in extravagance:and the immediate effect of such superabundance was not different from thatof the flattest sterility. Christophe was submerged by his life. All hispowers had shot up and grown too fast, all at once, suddenly. Only his willhad not grown with them: and it was dismayed by such a throng of monsters. His personality was cracking in every part. Of this earthquake, this innercataclysm, others saw nothing. Christophe himself could see only hisimpotence to will, to create, to be. Desires, instincts, thoughts issuedone after another like clouds of sulphur from the fissures of a volcano:and he was forever asking himself: "And now, what will come out? What willbecome of me? Will it always be so? or is this the end of all? Shall I benothing, always?"

And now there sprang up in him his hereditary fires, the vices of those whohad gone before him. --He got drunk. He would return home smelling of wine, laughing, in a state of collapse. 

Poor Louisa would look at him, sigh, say nothing, and pray. 

But one evening when he was coming out of an inn by the gates of the townhe saw, a few yards in front of him on the road, the droll shadow of hisuncle Gottfried, with his pack on his back. The little man had not beenhome for months, and his periods of absence were growing longer and longer. Christophe hailed him gleefully. Gottfried, bending under his load, turnedround: he looked at Christophe, who was making extravagant gestures, andsat down on a milestone to wait for him. Christophe came up to him witha beaming face, skipping along, and shook his uncle's hand with greatdemonstrations of affection. Gottfried took a long look at him and then hesaid:

"Good-day, Melchior. "

Christophe thought his uncle had made a mistake, and burst out laughing. 

"The poor man is breaking up, " he thought; "he is losing his memory. "

Indeed, Gottfried did look old, shriveled, shrunken, and dried: hisbreathing came short and painfully. Christophe went on talking. Gottfriedtook his pack on his shoulders again and went on in silence. They went hometogether, Christophe gesticulating and talking at the top of his voice, Gottfried coughing and saying nothing. And when Christophe questioned him, Gottfried still called him Melchior. And then Christophe asked him:

"What do you mean by calling me Melchior? My name is Christophe, you know. Have you forgotten my name?"

Gottfried did not stop. He raised his eyes toward Christophe and looked athim, shook his head, and said coldly:

"No. You are Melchior: I know you. "

Christophe stopped dumfounded. Gottfried trotted along: Christophe followedhim without a word. He was sobered. As they passed the door of a café hewent up to the dark panes of glass, in which the gas-jets of the entranceand the empty streets were reflected, and he looked at himself: herecognized Melchior. He went home crushed. 

He spent the night--a night of anguish--in examining himself, insoul-searching. He understood now. Yes: he recognized the instincts andvices that had come to light in him: they horrified him. He thought of thatdark watching by the body of Melchior, of all that he had sworn to do, and, surveying his life since then, he knew that he had failed to keep his vows. What had he done in the year? What had he done for his God, for his art, for his soul? What had he done for eternity? There was not a day that hadnot been wasted, botched, besmirched. Not a single piece of work, not athought, not an effort of enduring quality. A chaos of desires destructiveof each other. Wind, dust, nothing. . . . What did his intentions avail him?He had fulfilled none of them. He had done exactly the opposite of whathe had intended. He had become what he had no wish to be: that was thebalance-sheet of his life. 

He did not go to bed. About six in the morning it was still dark, --he heardGottfried getting ready to depart. --For Gottfried had had no intentions ofstaying on. As he was passing the town he had come as usual to embrace hissister and nephew: but he had announced that he would go on next morning. 

Christophe went downstairs. Gottfried saw his pale face and his eyes hollowwith a night of torment. He smiled fondly at him and asked him to go alittle of the way with him. They set out together before dawn. They hadno need to talk: they understood each other. As they passed the cemeteryGottfried said:

"Shall we go in?"

When he came to the place he never failed to pay a visit to Jean Michel andMelchior. Christophe had not been there for a year. Gottfried knelt byMelchior's grave and said:

"Let us pray that they may sleep well and not come to torment us. "

His thought was a mixture of strange superstitions and sound sense:sometimes it surprised Christophe: but now it was only too dear to him. They said no more until they left the cemetery. 

When they had closed the creaking gate, and were walking along the wallthrough the cold fields, waking from slumber, by the little path which ledthem under the cypress trees from which the snow was dropping, Christophebegan to weep. 

"Oh! uncle, " he said, "how wretched I am!"

He dared not speak of his experience in love, from an odd fear ofembarrassing or hurting Gottfried: but he spoke of his shame, hismediocrity, his cowardice, his broken vows. 

"What am I to do, uncle? I have tried, I have struggled: and after a yearI am no further on than before. Worse: I have gone back. I am good fornothing. I am good for nothing! I have ruined my life. I am perjured!. . . "

They were walking up the hill above the town. Gottfried said kindly:

"Not for the last time, my boy. We do not do what we will to do. We willand we live: two things. You must be comforted. The great thing is, yousee, never to give up willing and living. The rest does not depend on us. "

Christophe repeated desperately:

"I have perjured myself. "

"Do you hear?" said Gottfried. 

(The cocks were crowing in all the countryside. )

"They, too, are crowing for another who is perjured. They crow for everyone of us, every morning. "

"A day will come, " said Christophe bitterly, "when, they will no longercrow for me . . . A day to which there is no to-morrow. And what shall I havemade of my life?"

"There is always a to-morrow, " said Gottfried. 

"But what can one do, if willing is no use?"

"Watch and pray. "

"I do not believe. "

Gottfried smiled. 

"You would not be alive if you did not believe. Every one believes. Pray. "

"Pray to what?"

Gottfried pointed to the sun appearing on the horizon, red and frozen. 

"Be reverent before the dawning day. Do not think of what will be in ayear, or in ten years. Think of to-day. Leave your theories. All theories, you see, even those of virtue, are bad, foolish, mischievous. Do not abuselife. Live in to-day. Be reverent towards each day. Love it, respect it, do not sully it, do not hinder it from coming to flower. Love it even whenit is gray and sad like to-day. Do not be anxious. See. It is winter now. Everything is asleep. The good earth will awake again. You have only to begood and patient like the earth. Be reverent. Wait. If you are good, allwill go well. If you are not, if you are weak, if you do not succeed, well, you must be happy in that. No doubt it is the best you can do. So, then, why _will_? Why be angry because of what you cannot do? We all have to dowhat we can. . . . _Als ich kann. _"

"It is not enough, " said Christophe, making a face. 

Gottfried laughed pleasantly. 

"It is more than anybody does. You are a vain fellow. You want to be ahero. That is why you do such silly things. . . . A hero!. . . I don't quiteknow what that is: but, you see, I imagine that a hero is a man who doeswhat he can. The others do not do it. "

"Oh!" sighed Christophe. "Then what is the good of living? It is not worthwhile. And yet there are people who say: 'He who wills can!'". . . 

Gottfried laughed again softly. 

"Yes?. . . Oh! well, they are liars, my friend. Or they do not will anythingmuch. . . . "

They had reached the top of the hill. They embraced affectionately. Thelittle peddler went on, treading wearily. Christophe stayed there, lost inthought, and watched him go. He repeated his uncle's saying:

"_Als ich kann_ (The best I can). "

And he smiled, thinking:

"Yes. . . . All the same. . . . It is enough. "

He returned to the town. The frozen snow crackled under his feet. Thebitter winter wind made the bare branches of the stunted trees on the hillshiver. It reddened his cheeks, and made his skin tingle, and set his bloodracing. The red roofs of the town below were smiling under the brilliant, cold sun. The air was strong and harsh. The frozen earth seemed to rejoicein bitter gladness. And Christophe's heart was like that. He thought:

"I, too, shall wake again. "

There were still tears in his eyes. He dried them with the back of hishand, and laughed to see the sun dipping down behind a veil of mist. Theclouds, heavy with snow, were floating over the town, lashed by the squall. He laughed at them. The wind blew icily. . . . 

"Blow, blow!. . . Do what you will with me. Bear me with you!. . . I know nowwhere I am going. "

REVOLT

I

SHIFTING SANDS

Free! He felt that he was free!. . . Free of others and of himself! Thenetwork of passion in which he had been enmeshed for more than a year hadsuddenly been burst asunder. How? He did not know. The filaments had givenbefore the growth of his being. It was one of those crises of growth inwhich robust natures tear away the dead casing of the year that is past, the old soul in which they are cramped and stifled. 

Christophe breathed deeply, without understanding what had happened. An icywhirlwind was rushing through the great gate of the town as he returnedfrom taking Gottfried on his way. The people were walking with headslowered against the storm. Girls going to their work were strugglingagainst the wind that blew against their skirts: they stopped every nowand then to breathe, with their nose and cheeks red, and they lookedexasperated, and as though they wanted to cry. He thought of that othertorment through which he had passed. He looked at the wintry sky, the towncovered with snow, the people struggling along past him: he looked abouthim, into himself: he was no longer bound. He was alone!. . . Alone! Howhappy to be alone, to be his own! What joy to have escaped from his bonds, from his torturing memories, from the hallucinations of faces that he lovedor detested! What joy at last to live, without being the prey of life, tohave become his own master!. . . 

He went home white with snow. He shook himself gaily like a dog. As hepassed his mother, who was sweeping the passage, he lifted her up, givinglittle inarticulate cries of affection such as one makes to a tiny child. Poor old Louisa struggled in her son's arms: she was wet with the meltingsnow: and she called him, with a jolly laugh, a great gaby. 

He went up to his room three steps at a time. --He could hardly see himselfin his little mirror it was so dark. But his heart was glad. His roomwas low and narrow and it was difficult to move in it, but it was like akingdom to him. He locked the door and laughed with pleasure. At last hewas finding himself! How long he had been gone astray! He was eager toplunge into thought like a bather into water. It was like a great lake afaroff melting into the mists of blue and gold. After a night of fever andoppressive heat he stood by the edge of it, with his legs bathed in thefreshness of the water, his body kissed by the wind of a summer morning. Heplunged in and swam: he knew not whither he was going, and did not care: itwas joy to swim whithersoever he listed. He was silent, then he laughed, and listened for the thousand thousand sounds of his soul: it swarmed withlife. He could make out nothing: his head was swimming: he felt only abewildering happiness. He was glad to feel in himself such unknown forces:and indolently postponing putting his powers to the test he sank back intothe intoxication of pride in the inward flowering, which, held back formonths, now burst forth like a sudden spring. 

His mother called him to breakfast. He went down: he was giddy andlight-headed as though he had spent a day in the open air: but there wassuch a radiance of joy in him that Louisa asked what was the matter. Hemade no reply: he seized her by the waist and forced her to dance with himround the table on which the tureen was steaming. Out of breath Louisacried that he was mad: then she clasped her hands. 

"Dear God!" she said anxiously. "Sure, he is in love again!"

Christophe roared with laughter. He hurled his napkin into the air. 

"In love?. . . " he cried. "Oh! Lord!. . . But no! I've had enough! You can beeasy on that score. That is done, done, forever!. . . Ouf!"

He drank a glassful of water. 

Louisa looked at him, reassured, wagged her head, and smiled. 

"That's a drunkard's pledge, " she said. "It won't last until to-night. "

"Then the day is clear gain, " he replied good-humoredly. 

"Oh, yes!" she said. "But what has made you so happy?"

"I am happy. That is all. "

Sitting opposite her with his elbows on the table he tried to tell her allthat he was going to do. She listened with kindly skepticism and gentlypointed out that his soup was going cold. He knew that she did not hearwhat he was saying: but he did not care: he was talking for his ownsatisfaction. 

They looked at each other smiling: he talking: she hardly listening. Although she was proud of her son she attached no great importance tohis artistic projects: she was thinking: "He is happy: that mattersmost. "--While he was growing more and more excited with his discourse hewatched his mother's dear face, with her black shawl tightly tied round herhead, her white hair, her young eyes that devoured him lovingly, her sweetand tranquil kindliness. He knew exactly what she was thinking. He said toher jokingly:

"It is all one to you, eh? You don't care about what I'm telling you?"

She protested weakly:

"Oh, no! Oh, no!"

He kissed her. 

"Oh, yes! Oh, yes! You need not defend yourself. You are right. Only loveme. There is no need to understand me--either for you or for anybody else. I do not need anybody or anything now: I have everything in myself. . . . "

"Oh!" said Louisa. "Another maggot in his brain!. . . But if he must have oneI prefer this to the other. "

 * * * * *

What sweet happiness to float on the surface of the lake of histhoughts!. . . Lying in the bottom of a boat with his body bathed in sun, hisface kissed by the light fresh wind that skims over the face of the waters, he goes to sleep: he is swung by threads from the sky. Under his body lyingat full length, under the rocking boat he feels the deep, swelling water:his hand dips into it. He rises: and with his chin on the edge of the boathe watches the water flowing by as he did when he was a child. He sees thereflection of strange creatures darting by like lightning. . . . More, and yetmore. . . . They are never the same. He laughs at the fantastic spectacle thatis unfolded within him: he laughs at his own thoughts: he has no need tocatch and hold them. Select? Why select among So many thousands of dreams?There is plenty of time!. . . Later on!. . . He has only to throw out a line atwill to draw in the monsters whom he sees gleaming in the water. He letsthem pass. . . . Later on!. . . 

The boat floats on at the whim of the warm wind and the insentient stream. All is soft, sun, and silence. 

 * * * * *

At last languidly he throws out his line. Leaning out over the lappingwater he follows it with his eyes until it disappears. After a few momentsof torpor he draws it in slowly: as he draws it in it becomes heavier: justas he is about to fish it out of the water he stops to take breath. Heknows that he has his prey: he does not know what it is: he prolongs thepleasure of expectancy. 

At last he makes up his mind: fish with gleaming, many-colored scalesappear from the water: they writhe like a nest of snakes. He looks at themcuriously, he stirs them with his finger: but hardly has he drawn them fromthe water than their colors fade and they slip between his fingers. Hethrows them back into the water and begins to fish for others. He is moreeager to see one after another all the dreams stirring in him than to catchat any one of them: they all seem more beautiful to him when they arefreely swimming in the transparent lake. . . . 

He caught all kinds of them, each more extravagant than the last. Ideas hadbeen heaped up in him for months and he had not drawn upon them, so that hewas bursting with riches. But it was all higgledy-piggledy: his mind wasa Babel, an old Jew's curiosity shop in which there were piled up in theone room rare treasures, precious stuffs, scrap-iron, and rags. He couldnot distinguish their values: everything amused him. There were thrillingchords, colors which rang like bells, harmonies which buzzed like bees, melodies smiling like lovers' lips. There were visions of the country, faces, passions, souls, characters, literary ideas, metaphysical ideas. There were great projects, vast and impossible, tetralogies, decalogies, pretending to depict everything in music, covering whole worlds. And, mostoften there were obscure, flashing sensations, called forth by a trifle, the sound of a voice, a man or a woman passing in the street, the patteringof rain. An inward rhythm. --Many of these projects advanced no furtherthan their title: most of them were never more than a note or two: it wasenough. Like all very young people, he thought he had created what hedreamed of creating. 

 * * * * *

But he was too keenly alive to be satisfied for long with such fantasies. He wearied of an illusory possession: he wished to seize his dreams. --Howto begin? They seemed to him all equally important. He turned and turnedthem: he rejected them, he took them up again. . . . No, he never took them upagain: they were no longer the same, they were never to be caught twice:they were always changing: they changed in his hands, under his eyes, whilehe was watching them. He must make haste: he could not: he was appalled bythe slowness with which he worked. He would have liked to do everything inone day, and he found it horribly difficult to complete the smallest thing. His dreams were passing and he was passing himself: while he was doingone thing it worried him not to be doing another. It was as though it wasenough to have chosen one of his fine subjects for it to lose all interestfor him. And so all his riches availed him nothing. His thoughts had lifeonly on condition that he did not tamper with them: everything that hesucceeded in doing was still-born. It was the torment of Tantalus: withinreach were fruits that became stones as soon as he plucked them: near hislips was a clear stream which sank away whenever he bent down, to drink. 

To slake his thirst lie tried to sip at the springs that he had conquered, his old compositions. . . . Loathsome in taste! At the first gulp, he spat itout again, cursing. What! That tepid water, that insipid music, was thathis music?--He read through all his compositions: he was horrified: heunderstood not a note of them, he could not even understand how he had cometo write them. He blushed. Once after reading through a page more foolishthan the rest he turned round to make sure that there was nobody in theroom, and then he went and hid his face in his pillow like a child ashamed. Sometimes they seemed to him so preposterously silly that they were quitefunny, and he forgot that they were his own. . . . 

"What an idiot!" he would cry, rocking with laughter. 

But nothing touched him more than those compositions in which he had setout to express his own passionate feelings: the sorrows and joys of love. Then he would bound in his chair as though a fly had stung him: he wouldthump on the table, beat his head, and roar angrily: he would coarselyapostrophize himself: he would vow himself to be a swine, trebly ascoundrel, a clod, and a clown--a whole litany of denunciation. In the endhe would go and stand before his mirror, red with shouting, and then hewould take hold of his chin and say:

"Look, look, you scurvy knave, look at the ass-face that is yours! I'llteach you to lie, you blackguard! Water, sir, water. "

He would plunge his face into his basin, and hold it under water until hewas like to choke. When he drew himself up, scarlet, with his eyes startingfrom his head, snorting like a seal, he would rush to his table, withoutbothering to sponge away the water trickling down him: he would seize theunhappy compositions, angrily tear them in pieces, growling:

"There, you beast!. . . There, there, there!. . . "

Then he would recover. 

What exasperated him most in his compositions was their untruth. Nota spark of feeling in them. A phraseology got by heart, a schoolboy'srhetoric: he spoke of love like a blind man of color: he spoke of it fromhearsay, only repeating the current platitudes. And it was not only love:it was the same with all the passions, which had been used for themes anddeclamations. --And yet he had always tried to be sincere. --But it is notenough to wish to be sincere: it is necessary to have the power to be so:and how can a man be so when as yet he knows nothing of life? What hadrevealed the falseness of his work, what had suddenly digged a pit betweenhimself and his past was the experience which he had had during the lastsix months of life. He had left fantasy: there was now in him a realstandard to which he could bring all the thoughts for judgment as to theirtruth or untruth. 

The disgust which his old work, written without passion, roused in him, made him decide with his usual exaggeration that he would write no moreuntil he was forced to write by some passionate need: and leaving thepursuit of his ideas at that, he swore that he would renounce musicforever, unless creation were imposed upon him in a thunderclap. 

 * * * * *

He made this resolve because he knew quite well that the storm was coming. 

Thunder falls when it will, and where it will. But there are peaks whichattract it. Certain places--certain souls--breed storms: they create them, or draw them from all points of the horizon: and certain ages of life, like certain months of the year, are so saturated with electricity, thatthunderstorms are produced in them, --if not at will--at any rate when theyare expected. 

The whole being of a man is taut for it. Often the storm lies brooding fordays and days. The pale sky is hung with burning, fleecy clouds. No windstirs. The still air ferments, and seems to boil. The earth lies in astupor: no sound comes from it. The brain hums feverishly: all natureawaits the explosion of the gathering forces, the thud of the hammer whichis slowly rising to fall back suddenly on the anvil of the clouds. Dark, warm shadows pass: a fiery wind rises through the body, the nerves quiverlike leaves. . . . Then silence falls again. The sky goes on gatheringthunder. 

In such expectancy there is voluptuous anguish. In spite of the discomfortthat weighs so heavily upon you, you feel in your veins the fire which isconsuming the universe. The soul surfeited boils in the furnace, like winein a vat. Thousands of germs of life and death are in labor in it. Whatwill issue from it? The soul knows not. Like a woman with child, it issilent: it gazes in upon itself: it listens anxiously for the stirring inits womb, and thinks: "What will be born of me?". . . 

Sometimes such waiting is in vain. The storm passes without breaking: butyou wake heavy, cheated, enervated, disheartened. But it is only postponed:the storm will break: if not to-day, then to-morrow: the longer it isdelayed, the more violent will it be. . . . 

Now it comes!. . . The clouds have come up from all corners of the soul. Thick masses, blue and black, torn by the frantic darting of the lightning:they advance heavily, drunkenly, darkening the soul's horizon, blotting outlight. An hour of madness!. . . The exasperated Elements, let loose fromthe cage in which they are held bound by the Laws which hold the balancebetween the mind and the existence of things, reign, formless and colossal, in the night of consciousness. The soul is in agony. There is no longer thewill to live. There is only longing for the end, for the deliverance ofdeath. . . . 

And suddenly there is lightning!

Christophe shouted for joy. 

 * * * * *

Joy, furious joy, the sun that lights up all that is and will be, thegodlike joy of creation! There is no joy but in creation. There are noliving beings but those who create. All the rest are shadows, hoveringover the earth, strangers to life. All the joys of life are the joys ofcreation: love, genius, action, --quickened by flames issuing from one andthe same fire. Even those who cannot find a place by the great fireside:the ambitious, the egoists, the sterile sensualists, --try to gain warmth inthe pale reflections of its light. 

To create in the region of the body, or in the region of the mind, is toissue from the prison of the body: it is to ride upon the storm of life: itis to be He who Is. To create is to triumph over death. 

Wretched is the sterile creature, that man or that woman who remains aloneand lost upon the earth, scanning their withered bodies, and the sight ofthemselves from which no flame of life will ever leap! Wretched is the soulthat does not feel its own fruitfulness, and know itself to be big withlife and love, as a tree with blossom in the spring! The world may heaphonors and benefits upon such a soul: it does but crown a corpse. 

 * * * * *

When Christophe was struck by the flash of lightning, an electric fluidcoursed through his body: he trembled under the shock. It was as thoughon the high seas, in the dark night, he had suddenly sighted land. Or itwas as though in a crowd he had gazed into two eyes saluting him. Often itwould happen to him after hours of prostration when his mind was leapingdesperately through the void. But more often still it came in momentswhen he was thinking of something else, talking to his mother, or walkingthrough the streets. If he were in the street a certain human respect kepthim from too loudly demonstrating his joy. But if he were at home nothingcould keep him back. He would stamp. He would sound a blare of triumph: hismother knew that well, and she had come to know what it meant. She used totell Christophe that he was like a hen that has laid an egg. 

He was permeated with his musical imagination. Sometimes it took shape inan isolated phrase complete in itself: more often it would appear as anebula enveloping a whole work: the structure of the work, its generallines, could be perceived through a veil, torn asunder here and thereby dazzling phrases which stood out from the darkness with the clarityof sculpture. It was only a flash: sometimes others would come in quicksuccession: each lit up other corners of the night. But usually, thecapricious force haying once shown itself unexpectedly, would disappearagain for several days into its mysterious retreats, leaving behind it aluminous ray. 

This delight in inspiration was so vivid that Christophe was disgusted byeverything else. The experienced artist knows that inspiration is rare andthat intelligence is left to complete the work of intuition: he puts hisideas under the press and squeezes out of them the last drop of the divinejuices that are in them--(and if need be sometimes he does not shrink fromdiluting them with clear water)--Christophe was too young and too sure ofhimself not to despise such contemptible practices. He dreamed impossiblyof producing nothing that was not absolutely spontaneous. If he had notbeen deliberately blind he would certainly have seen the absurdity of hisaims. Ho doubt he was at that time in a period of inward abundance in whichthere was no gap, no chink, through which boredom or emptiness could creep. Everything served as an excuse to his inexhaustible fecundity: everythingthat his eyes saw or his ears heard, everything with which he came incontact in his daily life: every look, every word, brought forth a crop ofdreams. In the boundless heaven of his thoughts he saw circling millionsof milky stars, rivers of living light. --And yet, even then, there weremoments when everything was suddenly blotted out. And although the nightcould not endure, although he had hardly time to suffer from these longsilences of his soul, he did not escape a secret terror of that unknownpower which came upon him, left him, came again, and disappeared. . . . Howlong, this time? Would it ever come again?--His pride rejected that thoughtand said: "This force is myself. When it ceases to be, I shall cease to be:I shall kill myself. "--He never ceased to tremble: but it was only anotherdelight. 

But, if, for the moment, there was no danger of the spring running dry, Christophe was able already to perceive that it was never enough tofertilize a complete work. Ideas almost always appeared rawly: he hadpainfully to dig them out of the ore. And always they appeared without anysort of sequence, and by fits and starts: to unite them he had to bring tobear on them an element of reflection and deliberation and cold will, whichfashioned them into new form. Christophe was too much of an artist not todo so: but he would not accept it: he forced himself to believe that hedid no more than transcribe what was within himself, while he was alwayscompelled more or less to transform it so as to make it intelligible. --Morethan that: sometimes he would absolutely forge a meaning for it. Howeverviolently the musical idea might come upon him it would often have beenimpossible for him to say what it meant. It would come surging up from thedepths of life, from far beyond the limits of consciousness: and in thatabsolutely pure Force, which eluded common rhythms, consciousness couldnever recognize in it any of the motives which stirred in it, none of thehuman feelings which it defines and classifies: joys, sorrows, they wereall merged in one single passion which was unintelligible, because itwas above the intelligence. And yet, whether it understood or no, theintelligence needed to give a name to this form, to bind it down toone or other of the structures of logic, which man is forever buildingindefatigably in the hive of his brain. 

So Christophe convinced himself--he wished to do so--that the obscure powerthat moved him had an exact meaning, and that its meaning was in accordancewith his will. His free instinct, risen from the unconscious depths, waswilly-nilly forced to plod on under the yoke of reason with perfectly clearideas which had nothing at all in common with it. And work so produced wasno more than a lying juxtaposition of one of those great subjects thatChristophe's mind had marked out for itself, and those wild forces whichhad an altogether different meaning unknown to himself. 

 * * * * *

He groped his way, head down, borne on by the contradictory forces warringin him, and hurling into his incoherent works a fiery and strong qualityof life which he could not express, though he was joyously and proudlyconscious of it. 

The consciousness of his new vigor made him able for the first time toenvisage squarely everything about him, everything that he had been taughtto honor, everything that he had respected without question: and he judgedit all with insolent freedom. The veil was rent: he saw the German lie. 

Every race, every art has its hypocrisy. The world is fed with a littletruth and many lies. The human mind is feeble: pure truth agrees with itbut ill: its religion, its morality, its states, its poets, its artists, must all be presented to it swathed in lies. These lies are adapted to themind of each race: they vary from one to the other: it is they that make itso difficult for nations to understand each other, and so easy for them todespise each other. Truth is the same for all of us: but every nation hasits own lie, which it calls its idealism: every creature therein breathesit from birth to death: it has become a condition of life: there are onlya few men of genius who can break free from it through heroic moments ofcrisis, when they are alone in the free world of their thoughts. 

It was a trivial thing which suddenly revealed to Christophe the lie ofGerman art. It was not because it had not always been visible that he hadnot seen it: he was not near it, he had not recoiled from it. Now themountain appeared to his gaze because he had moved away from it. 

He was at a concert of the _Städtische Townhalle_. The concert was givenin a large hall occupied by ten or twelve rows of little tables--about twoor three hundred of them. At the end of the room was a stage where theorchestra was sitting. All round Christophe were officers dressed up intheir long, dark coats, --with broad, shaven faces, red, serious, andcommonplace: women talking and laughing noisily, ostentatiously at theirease: jolly little girls smiling and showing all their teeth: and large menhidden behind their beards and spectacles, looking like kindly spiders withround eyes. They got up with every fresh glass to drink a toast: they didthis almost religiously: their faces, their voices changed: it was asthough they were saying Mass: they offered each other the libations, theydrank of the chalice with a mixture of solemnity and buffoonery. The musicwas drowned under the conversation and the clinking of glasses. And yeteverybody was trying to talk and eat quietly. The _Herr Konzertmeister_, atall, bent old man, with a white beard hanging like a tail from his chin, and a long aquiline nose, with spectacles, looked like a philologist. --Allthese types were familiar to Christophe. But on that day he had aninclination--he did not know why--to see them as caricatures. There aredays like that when, for no apparent reason, the grotesque in people andthings which in ordinary life passes unnoticed, suddenly leaps into view. 

The programme of the music included the _Egmont_ overture, a valse ofWaldteufel, _Tannhäuser's Pilgrimage to Rome_, the overture to the _MerryWives_ of Nicolai, the religious march of _Athalie_, and a fantasy on the_North Star_. The orchestra played the Beethoven overture correctly, andthe valse deliciously. During the _Pilgrimage of Tannhäuser_, the uncorkingof bottles was heard. A big man sitting at the table next to Christophebeat time to the _Merry Wives_ by imitating Falstaff. A stout old lady, ina pale blue dress, with a white belt, golden pince-nez on her flat nose, red arms, and an enormous waist, sang in a loud voice _Lieder_ of Schumannand Brahms. She raised her eyebrows, made eyes at the wings, smiled witha smile that seemed to curdle on her moon-face, made exaggerated gestureswhich must certainly have called to mind the _café-concert_ but for themajestic honesty which shone in her: this mother of a family played thepart of the giddy girl, youth, passion: and Schumann's poetry had a faintsmack of the nursery. The audience was in ecstasies. --But they grew solemnand attentive when there appeared the Choral Society of the Germans of theSouth (_Süddeutschen Männer Liedertafel_), who alternately cooed and roaredpart songs full of feeling. There were forty and they sang four parts: itseemed as though they had set themselves to free their execution of everytrace of style that could properly be called choral: a hotch-potch oflittle melodious effects, little timid puling shades of sound, dying_pianissimos_, with sudden swelling, roaring _crescendos_, like some oneheating on an empty box: no breadth or balance, a mawkish style: it waslike Bottom:

"Let me play the lion. I will roar you as gently as any sucking dove. Iwill roar you as it were a nightingale. "

Christophe listened: foam the beginning with growing amazement. There wasnothing new in it all to him. He knew these concerts, the orchestra, theaudience. But suddenly it all seemed to him false. All of it: even towhat he most loved, the _Egmont_ overture, in which the pompous disorderand correct agitation hurt him in that hour like a want of frankness. Nodoubt it was not Beethoven or Schumann that he heard, but their absurdinterpreters, their cud-chewing audience whose crass stupidity was spreadabout their works like a heavy mist. --No matter, there was in the works, even the most beautiful of them, a disturbing quality which Christophe hadnever before felt. --What was it? He dared not analyze it, deeming it asacrilege to question his beloved masters. But in vain did he shut his eyesto it: he had seen it. And, in spite of himself, he went on seeing it: likethe _Vergognosa_ at Pisa he looked: between his fingers. 

He saw German art stripped. All of them--the great and the idiots--laidbare their souls with a complacent tenderness. Emotion overflowed, moralnobility trickled down, their hearts melted in distracted effusions: thesluice gates were opened to the fearful German tender-heartedness: itweakened the energy of the stronger, it drowned the weaker under itsgrayish waters: it was a flood: in the depths of it slept German thought. And, what thoughts were those of a Mendelssohn, a Brahms, a Schumann, and, following them, the whole legion of little writers of affected and tearful_Lieder_! Built on sand. Never rock. Wet and shapeless clay. --It was allso foolish, so childish often, that Christophe could not believe that itnever occurred to the audience. He looked about him: but he saw only gapingfaces, convinced in advance of the beauties they were hearing and thepleasure that they ought to find in it. How could they admit their ownright to judge for themselves? They were filled with respect for thesehallowed names. What did they not respect? They were respectful beforetheir programmes, before their glasses, before themselves. It was clearthat mentally they dubbed everything excellent that remotely or nearlyconcerned them. 

Christophe passed in review the audience and the music alternately: themusic reflected the audience, the audience reflected the music. Christophefelt laughter overcoming him and he made faces. However, he controlledhimself. But when the Germans of the South came and solemnly sang the_Confession_ that reminded him of the blushes of a girl in love, Christophecould not contain himself. He shouted with laughter. Indignant cries of"Ssh!" were raised. His neighbors looked at him, scared: their honest, scandalized faces filled him with joy: he laughed louder than ever, helaughed, he laughed until he cried. Suddenly the audience grew angry. Theycried: "Put him out!" He got up, and went, shrugging his shoulders, shakingwith suppressed laughter. His departure caused a scandal. It was thebeginning of hostilities between Christophe and his birthplace. 

 * * * * *

After that experience Christophe shut himself up and set himself to readonce more the works of the "hallowed" musicians. He was appalled to findthat certain of the masters whom he loved most had _lied_. He tried hardto doubt it at first, to believe that he was mistaken. --But no, there wasno way out of it. He was staggered by the conglomeration of mediocrity anduntruth which constitutes the artistic treasure of a great people. How manypages could bear examination!

From that time on he could begin to read other works, other masters, whowere dear to him, only with a fluttering heart. . . . Alas! There was somespell cast upon him: always there was the same discomfiture. With some ofthem his heart was rent: it was as though he had lost a dear friend, as ifhe had suddenly seen that a friend in whom he had reposed entire confidencehad been deceiving him for years. He wept for it. He did not sleep atnight: he could not escape his torment. He blamed himself: perhaps he hadlost his judgment? Perhaps he had become altogether an idiot?--No, no. Morethan ever he saw the radiant beauty of the day and with more freshness andlove than ever he felt the generous abundance of life: his heart was notdeceiving him. . . . 

But for a long time he dared not approach those who were the best for him, the purest, the Holy of Holies. He trembled at the thought of bringing hisfaith in them to the test. But how resist the pitiless instinct of a braveand truthful soul, which will go on to the end, and see things as they are, whatever suffering may be got in doing so?--So he opened the sacred works, he called upon the last reserve, the imperial guard. . . . At the first glancehe saw that they were no more immaculate than the others. He had not thecourage to go on. Every now and then he stopped and closed the book: likethe son of Noah, he threw his cloak about his father's nakedness. . . . 

Then he was prostrate in the midst of all these ruins. He would rather havelost an arm, than have tampered with his blessed illusions. In his heart hemourned. But there was so much sap in him, so much reserve of life, thathis confidence in art was not shaken. With a young man's naïve presumptionhe began life again as though no one had ever lived it before him. Intoxicated by his new strength, he felt--not without reason, perhaps--thatwith a very few exceptions there is almost no relation between livingpassion and the expression which art has striven to give to it. But he wasmistaken in thinking himself more happy or more true when he expressed it. As he was filled with passion it was easy for him to discover it at theback of what he had written: but no one else would have recognized itthrough the imperfect vocabulary with which he designated its variations. Many artists whom he condemned were in the same case. They had had, and hadtranslated profound emotions: but the secret of their language had diedwith them. 

Christophe was no psychologist: he was not bothered with all thesearguments: what was dead for him had always been so. He revised hisjudgment of the past with all the confident and fierce injustice of youth. He stripped the noblest souls, and had no pity for their foibles. Therewere the rich melancholy, the distinguished fantasy, the kindly thinkingemptiness of Mendelssohn. There were the bead-stringing and the affectationof Weber, his dryness of heart, his cerebral emotion. There was Liszt, thenoble priest, the circus rider, neo-classical and vagabond, a mixture inequal doses of real and false nobility, of serene idealism and disgustingvirtuosity. Schubert, swallowed up by his sentimentality, drowned at thebottom of leagues of stale, transparent water. The men of the heroic ages, the demi-gods, the Prophets, the Fathers of the Church, were not spared. Even the great Sebastian, the man of ages, who bore in himself the pastand the future, --Bach, --was not free of untruth, of fashionable folly, ofschool-chattering. The man who had seen God, the man who lived in God, seemed sometimes to Christophe to have had an insipid and sugared religion, a Jesuitical style, rococo. In his cantatas there were languorous anddevout airs--(dialogues of the Soul coquetting with Jesus)--which sickenedChristophe: then he seemed to see chubby cherubim with round limbs, andflying draperies. And also he had a feeling that the genial _Cantor_always wrote in a closed room: his work smacked of stuffiness: there wasnot in his music that brave outdoor air that was breathed in others, not such great musicians, perhaps, but greater men--more human--thanhe. Like Beethoven or Händel. What hurt him in all of them, especiallyin the classics, was their lack of freedom: almost all their workswere "constructed. " Sometimes an emotion was filled out with all thecommonplaces of musical rhetoric, sometimes with a simple rhythm, an ornamental design, repeated, turned upside down, combined inevery conceivable way in a mechanical fashion. These symmetrical andtwaddling constructions--classical, and neo-classical sonatas andsymphonies--exasperated Christophe, who, at that time, was not verysensible of the beauty of order, and vast and well-conceived plans. Thatseemed to him to be rather masons' work than musicians'. 

But he was no less severe with the romantics. It was a strange thing, andhe was more surprised by it than anybody, --but no musicians irritated himmore than those who had pretended to be--and had actually been--the mostfree, the most spontaneous, the least constructive, --those, who, likeSchumann, had poured drop by drop, minute by minute, into their innumerablelittle works, their whole life. He was the more indignantly in revoltagainst them as he recognized in them his adolescent soul and all thefollies that he had vowed to pluck out of it. In truth, the candid Schumanncould not be taxed with falsity: he hardly ever said anything that he hadnot felt. But that was just it: his example made Christophe understand thatthe worst falsity in German art came into it not when the artists tried toexpress something which they had not felt, but rather when they tried toexpress the feelings which they did in fact feel--_feelings which werefalse_. Music is an implacable mirror of the soul. The more a Germanmusician is naïve and in good faith, the more he displays the weaknessesof the German soul, its uncertain depths, its soft tenderness, its want offrankness, its rather sly idealism, its incapacity for seeing itself, fordaring to come face to face with itself. That false idealism is the secretsore even of the greatest--of Wagner. As he read his works Christopheground his teeth. _Lohengrin_ seemed to him a blatant lie. He loathed thehuxtering chivalry, the hypocritical mummery, the hero without fear andwithout a heart, the incarnation of cold and selfish virtue admiring itselfand most patently self-satisfied. He knew it too well, he had seen it inreality, the type of German Pharisee, foppish, impeccable, and hard, bowingdown before its own image, the divinity to which it has no scruple aboutsacrificing others. The _Flying Dutchman_ overwhelmed him with its massivesentimentality and its gloomy boredom. The loves of the barbarous decadentsof the _Tetralogy_ were of a sickening staleness. Siegmund carrying offhis sister sang a tenor drawing-room song. Siegfried and Brünnhilde, likerespectable German married people, in the _Götterdämmerung_ laid barebefore each other, especially for the benefit of the audience, theirpompous and voluble conjugal passion. Every sort of lie had arranged tomeet in that work: false idealism, false Christianity, false Gothicism, false legend, false gods, false humans. Never did more monstrous conventionappear than in that theater which was to upset all the conventions. Neithereyes, nor mind, nor heart could be deceived by it for a moment: if theywere, then they must wish to be so. --They did wish to be so. Germany wasdelighted with that doting, childish art, an art of brutes let loose, andmystic, namby-pamby little girls. 

And Christophe could do nothing: as soon as he heard the music he wascaught up like the others, more than the others, by the flood, and thediabolical will of the man who had let it loose. He laughed, and hetrembled, and his cheeks burned, and he felt galloping armies rushingthrough him! And he thought that those who bore such storms withinthemselves might have all allowances made for them. What cries of joyhe uttered when in the hallowed works which he could not read withouttrembling he felt once more his old emotion, ardent still, with nothingto tarnish the purity of what he loved! These were glorious relics thathe saved from the wreck. What happiness they gave him! It seemed to himthat he had saved a part of himself. And was it not himself? These greatGermans, against whom he revolted, were they not his blood, his flesh, hismost precious life? He was only severe with them because he was severe withhimself. Who loved them better than he? Who felt more than he the goodnessof Schubert, the innocence of Haydn, the tenderness of Mozart, the greatheroic heart of Beethoven? Who more often than he took refuge in themurmuring of the forests of Weber, and the cool shade of the cathedrals ofJohn Sebastian, raising against the gray sky of the North, above the plainsof Germany, their pile of stone, and their gigantic towers with theirsun-tipped spires?--But he suffered from their lies, and he could notforget them. He attributed them to the race, their greatness to themselves. He was wrong. Greatness and weaknesses belong equally to the race whosegreat, shifting thought flows like the greatest river of music and poetryat which Europe comes to drink. --And in what other people would he havefound the simple purity which now made it possible for him to condemn it soharshly?

He had no notion of that. With the ingratitude of a spoiled child he turnedagainst his mother the weapons which he had received from her. Later, later, he was to feel all that he owed to her, and how dear she was tohim. . . . 

But he was in a phase of blind reaction against all the idols of hischildhood. He was angry with himself and with them because he had believedin them absolutely and passionately--and it was well that it was so. Thereis an age in life when we must dare to be unjust, when we must make aclean sweep of all admiration and respect got at second-hand, and denyeverything--truth and untruth--everything which we have not of ourselvesknown for truth. Through education, and through everything that he sees andhears about him, a child absorbs so many lies and blind follies mixed withthe essential verities of life, that the first duty of the adolescent whowishes to grow into a healthy man is to sacrifice everything. 

 * * * * *

Christophe was passing through that crisis of healthy disgust. His instinctwas impelling him to eliminate from his life all the undigested elementswhich encumbered it. 

First of all to go was that sickening sweet tenderness which sucked awaythe soul of Germany like a damp and moldy riverbed. Light! Light! A rough, dry wind which should sweep away the miasmas of the swamp, the mistystaleness of the _Lieder, Liedchen, Liedlein_, as numerous as drops of rainin which inexhaustibly the Germanic _Gemüt_ is poured forth: the countlessthings like _Sehnsucht_ (Desire), _Heimweh_ (Homesickness), _Aufschwung_(Soaring), _Trage_ (A question), _Warum_? (Why?), _an den Mond_ (Tothe Moon), _an die Sterne_ (To the Stars), _an die Nachtigall_ (To theNightingale), _an den Frühling_ (To Spring), _an den Sonnenschein_ (ToSunshine): like _Frühlingslied_ (Spring Song), _Frühlingslust_ (Delights ofSpring), _Frühlingsgruss_ (Hail to the Spring), _Frülingsfahrt_ (A SpringJourney), _Frülingsnacht_ (A Spring Night), _Frühlingsbotschaft_ (TheMessage of Spring): like _Stimme der Liebe_ (The Voice of Love), _Spracheder Liebe_ (The Language of Love), _Trauer der Liebe_ (Love's Sorrow), _Geist der Liebe_ (The Spirit of Love), _Fülle der Liebe_ (The Fullnessof Love): like _Blumenlied_ (The Song of the Flowers), _Blumenbrief_ (TheLetter of the Flowers), _Blumengruss_ (Flowers' Greeting): like _Herzeleid_(Heart Pangs), _Mein Herz ist schwer_ (My Heart is Heavy), _Mein Herz istbetrübt_ (My Heart is Troubled), _Mein Aug' ist trüb_ (My Eye is Heavy):like the candid and silly dialogues with the _Röselein_ (The Little Rose), with the brook, with the turtle dove, with the lark: like those idioticquestions: _"If the briar could have no thorns?"--"Is an old husband likea lark who has built a nest?"--"Is she newly plighted?"_: the whole delugeof stale tenderness, stale emotion, stale melancholy, stale poetry. . . . Howmany lovely things profaned, rare things, used in season or out! For theworst of it was that it was all useless: a habit of undressing their heartsin public, a fond and foolish propensity of the honest people of Germanyfor plunging loudly into confidences. With nothing to say they were alwaystalking! Would their chatter never cease?--As well bid frogs in a pond besilent. 

It was in the expression of love that Christophe was most rawly consciousof untruth: for he was in a position to compare it with the reality. Theconventional love songs, lacrymose and proper, contained nothing like thedesires of man or the heart of woman. And yet the people who had writtenthem must have loved at least once in their lives! Was it possible thatthey could have loved like that? No, no, they had lied, as they always did, they had lied to themselves: they had tried to idealize themselves. . . . Idealism! That meant that they were afraid of looking at life squarely, were incapable of seeing things like a man, as they are. --Everywhere thesame timidity, the same lack of manly frankness. Everywhere the same chillyenthusiasm, the same pompous lying solemnity, in their patriotism, intheir drinking, in their religion. The _Trinklieder_ (Drinking Songs) wereprosopopeia to wine and the bowl: _"Du, herrlich Glas . . . "_ ("Thou, nobleglass . . . "). Faith--the one thing in the world which should be spontaneous, springing from the soul like an unexpected sudden stream--was amanufactured article, a commodity of trade. Their patriotic songs were madefor docile flocks of sheep basking in unison. . . . Shout, then!--What! Mustyou go on lying--"_idealizing_"--till you are surfeited, till it brings youto slaughter and madness!. . . 

Christophe ended by hating all idealism. He preferred frank brutality tosuch lying. But at heart he was more of an idealist than the rest, and hehad not--he could not have--any more real enemies than the brutal realistswhom he thought he preferred. 

He was blinded by passion. He was frozen by the mist, the anæmic lying, "the sunless phantom Ideas. " With his whole being he reached upwards tothe sun. In his youthful contempt for the hypocrisy with which he wassurrounded, or for what he took to be hypocrisy, he did not see the high, practical wisdom of the race which little by little had built up for itselfits grandiose idealism in order to suppress its savage instincts, or toturn them to account. Not arbitrary reasons, not moral and religious codes, not legislators and statesmen, priests and philosophers, transform thesouls of peoples and often impose upon them a new nature: but centuries ofmisfortune and experience, which forge the life of peoples who have thewill to live. 

 * * * * *

And yet Christophe went on composing: and his compositions were notexamples of the faults which he found in others. In him creation was anirresistible necessity which would not submit to the rules which hisintelligence laid down for it. No man creates from reason, but fromnecessity. --It is not enough to have recognized the untruth and affectationinherent in the majority of the feelings to avoid falling into them: longand painful endeavor is necessary: nothing is more difficult than to beabsolutely true in modern society with its crushing heritage of indolenthabits handed down through generations. It is especially difficult forthose people, those nations who are possessed by an indiscreet mania forletting their hearts speak--for making them speak--unceasingly, when mostgenerally it had much better have been silent. 

Christophe's heart was very German in that: it had not yet learned thevirtue of silence: and that virtue did not belong to his age. He hadinherited from his father a need for talking, and talking loudly. Heknew it and struggled against it: bat the conflict paralyzed part of hisforces. --And he had another gift of heredity, no less burdensome, whichhad come to him from his grandfather: an extraordinary difficulty--inexpressing himself exactly. --He was the son of a _virtuoso_. He wasconscious of the dangerous attraction of virtuosity: a physical pleasure, the pleasure of skill, of agility, of satisfied muscular activity, thepleasure of conquering, of dazzling, of enthralling in his own personthe many-headed audience: an excusable pleasure, in a young man almostan innocent pleasure, though none the less destructive of art and soul:Christophe knew it: it was in his blood: he despised it, but all the samehe yielded to it. 

And so, torn between the instincts of his race and those of his genius, weighed down by the burden of a parasitical past, which covered him witha crust that he could not break through, he floundered along, and wasmuch nearer than he thought to all that he shunned and banned. All hiscompositions were a mixture of truth and turgidness, of lucid strength andfaltering stupidity. It was only in rare moments that his personality couldpierce the casing of the dead personality which hampered his movements. 

He was alone. He had no guide to help him out of the mire. When he thoughthe was out of it he slipped back again. He went blindly on, wasting histime and strength in futile efforts. He was spared no trial: and in thedisorder of his creative striving he never knew what was of greatest worthin what he created. He tied himself up in absurd projects, symphonic poems, which pretended to philosophy and were of monstrous dimensions. He was toosincere to be able to hold to them for long together: and he would discardthem in disgust before he had stretched out a single movement. Or he wouldset out to translate into overtures the most inaccessible works of poetry. Then he would flounder about in a domain which was not his own. Whenhe drew up scenarios for himself--(for he stuck at nothing)--they wereidiotic: and when he attacked the great works of Goethe, Hebbel, Kleist, orShakespeare, he understood them all wrong. It was not want of intelligencebut want of the critical spirit: he could not yet understand others, he wastoo much taken up with himself: he found himself everywhere with his naïveand turgid soul. 

But besides these monsters who were not really begotten, he wrote aquantity of small pieces, which were the immediate expression of passingemotions--the most eternal of all: musical thoughts, _Lieder_. In this asin other things he was in passionate reaction against current practices. He would take up the most famous poems, already set to music, and wasimpertinent enough to try to treat them differently and with greater truththan Schumann and Schubert. Sometimes he would try to give to the poeticfigures of Goethe--to Mignon, the Harpist in _Wilhelm Meister_, theirindividual character, exact and changing. Sometimes he would tackle certainlove songs which the weakness of the artists and the dullness of theaudience in tacit agreement had clothed about with sickly sentimentality:and he would unclothe them: he would restore to them their rough, crudesensuality. In a word, he set out to make passions and people live forthemselves and not to serve as toys for German families seeking an easyemotionalism on Sundays when they sat about in some _Biergarten_. 

But generally he would find the poets, even the greatest of them, tooliterary: and he would select the simplest texts for preference: texts ofold _Lieder_, jolly old songs, which he had read perhaps in some improvingwork: he would take care not to preserve their choral character: he wouldtreat them with a fine, lively, and altogether lay audacity. Or he wouldtake words from the Gospel, or proverbs, sometimes even words heard bychance, scraps of dialogues of the people, children's thoughts: words oftenawkward and prosaic in which there was only pure feeling. With them he wasat his ease, and he would reach a depth with them which was not in hisother compositions, a depth which he himself never suspected. 

Good or bad, more often bad than good, his works as a whole had aboundingvitality. They were not altogether new: far from it. Christophe was oftenbanal, through his very sincerity: he repeated sometimes forms already usedbecause they exactly rendered his thought, because he also felt in that wayand not otherwise. Nothing would have induced him to try to be original: itseemed to him that a man must be very commonplace to burden himself withsuch an idea. He tried to be himself, to say what he felt, without worryingas to whether what he said had been said before him or not. He took a pridein believing that it was the best way of being original and that Christophehad only been and only would be alive once. With the magnificent impudenceof youth, nothing seemed to him to have been done before: and everythingseemed to him to be left for doing--or for doing again. And the feelingof this inward fullness of life, of a life stretching endless before him, brought him to a state of exuberant and rather indiscreet happiness. Hewas perpetually in a state of jubilation, which had no need of joy: itcould adapt itself to sorrow: its source overflowed with life, was, in itsstrength, mother of all happiness and virtue. To live, to live too much!. . . A man who does not feel within himself this intoxication of strength, thisjubilation in living--even in the depths of misery, --is not an artist. That is the touchstone. True greatness is shown in this power of rejoicingthrough joy and sorrow. A Mendelssohn or a Brahms, gods of the mists ofOctober, and of fine rain, have never known the divine power. 

Christophe was conscious of it: and he showed his joy simply, impudently. He saw no harm in it, he only asked to share it with others. He did notsee how such joy hurts the majority of men, who never can possess it andare always envious of it. For the rest he never bothered about pleasingor displeasing: he was sure of himself, and nothing seemed to him simplerthan to communicate his conviction to others, --to conquer. Instinctively hecompared his riches with the general poverty of the makers of music: and hethought that it would be very easy to make his superiority recognized. Tooeasy, even. He had only to show himself. 

He showed himself. 

 * * * * *

They were waiting for him. 

Christophe had made no secret of his feelings. Since he had become awareof German Pharisaism, which refuses to see things as they are, he hadmade it a law for himself that he should be absolutely, continually, uncompromisingly sincere in everything without regard for anything oranybody or himself. And as he could do nothing without going to extremes, he was extravagant in his sincerity: he would say outrageous things andscandalize people a thousand times less naïve than himself. He neverdreamed that it might annoy them. When he realized the idiocy of somehallowed composition he would make haste to impart his discovery toeverybody he encountered: musicians of the orchestra, or amateurs of hisacquaintance. He would pronounce the most absurd judgments with a beamingface. At first no one took him seriously: they laughed at his freaks. Butit was not long before they found that he was always reverting to them, insisting on them in a way that was really bad taste. It became evidentthat Christophe believed in his paradoxes: and they became less amusing. Hewas a nuisance: at concerts he would make ironic remarks in a loud voice, or would express his scorn for the glorious masters in no veiled fashionwherever he might be. 

Everything passed from mouth to mouth in the little town: not a word waslost. People were already affronted by his conduct during the past year. They had not forgotten the scandalous fashion in which he had shown himselfabroad with Ada and the troublous times of the sequel. He had forgotten, it himself: one day wiped out another, and he was very different from whathe had been two months before. But others had not forgotten: those who, inall small towns, take upon themselves scrupulously to note down all thefaults, all the imperfections, all the sad, ugly, and unpleasant happeningsconcerning their neighbors, so that nothing is ever forgotten. Christophe'snew extravagances were naturally set, side by side with his formerindiscretions, in the scroll. The former explained the latter. The outragedfeelings of offended morality were now bolstered up by those of scandalizedgood taste. The kindliest of them said:

"He is trying to be particular. "

But most alleged:

_"Total verrückt!"_ (Absolutely mad. )

An opinion no less severe and even more dangerous was beginning to findcurrency--an opinion assured of success by reason of its illustriousorigin: it was said that, at the Palace, whither Christophe still went uponhis official duties, he had had the bad taste in conversation with theGrand Duke himself, with revolting lack of decency, to give vent to hisideas concerning the illustrious masters: it was said that he had calledMendelssohn's _Elijah_ "a clerical humbug's paternoster, " and he had calledcertain _Lieder_ of Schumann "_Backfisch Musik_": and that in the face ofthe declared preference of the august Princess for those works! The GrandDuke had cut short his impertinences by saying dryly:

"To hear you, sir, one would doubt your being a German. " This vengefulutterance, coming from so lofty an eminence, reached the lowest depths: andeverybody who thought he had reason to be annoyed with Christophe, eitherfor his success, or for some more personal if not more cogent reason, didnot fail to call to mind that he was not in fact pure German. His father'sfamily, it was remembered, came originally from Belgium. It was notsurprising, therefore, that this immigrant should decry the nationalglories. That explained everything and German vanity found reasons thereinfor greater self-esteem, and at the same time for despising its adversary. 

Christophe himself most substantially fed this Platonic vengeance. It isvery imprudent to criticise others when you are yourself on the point ofchallenging criticism. A cleverer or less frank artist would have shownmore modesty and more respect for his predecessors. But Christophe couldsee no reason for hiding his contempt for mediocrity or his joy in hisown strength, and his joy was shown in no temperate fashion. Althoughfrom childhood Christophe had been turned in upon himself for want of anycreature to confide in, of late he had come by a need of expansiveness. Hehad too much joy for himself: his breast was too small to contain it: hewould have burst if he had not shared his delight. Failing a friend, he hadconfided in his colleague in the orchestra, the second _Kapellmeister_, Siegmund Ochs, a young Wurtemberger, a good fellow, though crafty, whoshowed him an effusive deference. Christophe did not distrust him: and, even if he had, how could it have occurred to him that it might be harmfulto confide his joy to one who did not care, or even to an enemy? Ought theynot rather to be grateful to him? Was it not for them also that he wasworking? He brought happiness for all, friends and enemies alike. --He hadno idea that there is nothing more difficult than to make men accept a newhappiness: they almost prefer their old misery: they need food that hasbeen masticated for ages. But what is most intolerable to them is thethought that they owe such happiness to another. They cannot forgive thatoffense until there is no way of evading it: and in any case, they docontrive to make the giver pay dearly for it. 

There were, then, a thousand reasons why Christophe's confidences shouldnot be kindly received by anybody. But there were a thousand and onereasons why they should not be acceptable to Siegmund Ochs. The first_Kapellmeister_, Tobias Pfeiffer, was on the point of retiring: and, inspite of his youth, Christophe had every chance of succeeding him. Ochswas too good a German not to recognize that Christophe was worthy of theposition, since the Court was on his side. But he had too good an opinionof himself not to believe that he would have been more worthy had the Courtknown him better. And so he received Christophe's effusions with a strangesmile when, he arrived at the theater in the morning with a face that hetried hard to make serious, though it beamed in spite of himself. 

"Well?" he would say slyly as he came up to him, "another masterpiece?"

Christophe would take his arm. 

"Ah! my friend. It is the best of all . . . If you could hear it!. . . Deviltake me, it is too beautiful! There has never been anything like it. Godhelp the poor audience! They will only long for one thing when they haveheard it: to die. "

His words did not fall upon deaf ears. Instead of smiling, or of chaffingChristophe about his childish enthusiasm--he would have been the firstto laugh at it and beg pardon if he had been made to feel the absurdityof it--Ochs went into ironic ecstasies: he drew Christophe on to furtherenormities: and when he left him made haste to repeat them all, making themeven more grotesque. The little circle of musicians chuckled over them: andevery one was impatient for the opportunity of judging the unhappycompositions. --They were all judged beforehand. 

At last they appeared--Christophe had chosen from the better of his worksan overture to the _Judith_ of Hebbel, the savage energy of which hadattracted him, in his reaction against German atony, although he wasbeginning to lose his taste for it, knowing intuitively the unnaturalnessof such assumption of genius, always and at all costs. He had added asymphony which bore the bombastic title of the Basle Boecklin, "_The Dreamof Life_, " and the motto: "_Vita somnium breve_. " A song-cycle completedthe programme, with a few classical works, and a _Festmarsch_ by Ochs, which Christophe had kindly offered to include in his concert, though heknew it to be mediocre. 

Nothing much happened during the rehearsals. Although the orchestraunderstood absolutely nothing of the composition it was playing andeverybody was privately disconcerted by the oddities of the new music, theyhad no time to form an opinion: they were not capable of doing so untilthe public had pronounced on it. Besides, Christophe's confidence imposedon the artists, who, like every good German orchestra, were docile anddisciplined. His only difficulties were with the singer. She was theblue lady of the _Townhalle_ concert. She was famous through Germany:the domestic creature sang Brünnhilde Kundry at Dresden and Bayreuthwith undoubted lung-power. But if in the Wagnerian school she hadlearned the art of which that school is justly proud, the art of goodarticulation, of projecting the consonants through space, and ofbattering the gaping audience with the vowels as with a club, she had notlearned--designedly--the art of being natural. She provided for every word:everything was accentuated: the syllables moved with leaden feet, and therewas a tragedy in every sentence. Christophe implored her to moderate herdramatic power a little. She tried at first graciously enough: but hernatural heaviness and her need for letting her voice go carried her away. Christophe became nervous. He told the respectable lady that he had triedto make human beings speak with his speaking-trumpet and not the dragonFafner. She took his insolence in bad part--naturally. She said that, thank Heaven! she knew what singing was, and that she had had the honor ofinterpreting the _Lieder_ of Maestro Brahms, in the presence of that greatman, and that he had never tired of hearing her. 

"So much the worse! So much the worse!" cried Christophe. 

She asked him with a haughty smile to be kind enough to explain the meaningof his energetic remark. He replied that never in his life had Brahmsknown what it was to be natural, that his eulogies were the worst possiblecensure, and that although he--Christophe--was not very polite, as she hadjustly observed, never would he have gone so far as to say anything sounpleasant. 

The argument went on in this fashion: and the lady insisted on singing inher own way, with heavy pathos and melodramatic effects--until one day whenChristophe declared coldly that he saw the truth: it was her nature andnothing could change it: but since the _Lieder_ could not be sung properly, they should not be sung at all: he withdrew them from the programme. --Itwas on the eve of the concert and they were counting on the _Lieder_: shehad talked about them: she was musician enough to appreciate certain oftheir qualities: Christophe insulted her: and as she was not sure that themorrow's concert would not set the seal on the young man's fame, she didnot wish to quarrel with a rising star. She gave way suddenly: and duringthe last rehearsal she submitted docilely to all Christophe's wishes. Butshe had made up her mind--at the concert--to have her own way. 

 * * * * *

The day came. Christophe had no anxiety. He was too full of his music tobe able to judge it. He realized that some of his works in certain placesbordered on the ridiculous. But what did that matter? Nothing great can bewritten without touching the ridiculous. To reach the heart of things itis necessary to dare human respect, politeness, modesty, the timidity ofsocial lies under which the heart is stifled. If nobody is to be affrontedand success attained, a man must be resigned all his life to remain boundby convention and to give to second-rate people the second-rate truth, mitigated, diluted, which they are capable of receiving: he must dwell inprison all his life. A man is great only when he has set his foot on suchanxieties. Christophe trampled them underfoot. Let them hiss him: he wassure of not leaving them indifferent. He conjured up the faces that certainpeople of his acquaintance would make as they heard certain rather boldpassages. He expected bitter criticism: he smiled at it already. In anycase they would have to be blind--or deaf--to deny that there was forcein it--pleasant or otherwise, what did it matter?--Pleasant! Pleasant!. . . Force! That is enough. Let it go its way, and bear all before it, like theRhine!. . . 

He had one setback. The Grand Duke did not come. The royal box was onlyoccupied by Court people, a few ladies-in-waiting. Christophe was irritatedby it. He thought: "The fool is cross with me. He does not know what tothink of my work: he is afraid of compromising himself. " He shrugged hisshoulders, pretending not to be put out by such idiocy. Others paid moreattention to it: it was the first lesson for him, a menace of his future. 

The public had not shown much more interest than the Grand Duke: quite athird of the hall was empty. Christophe could not help thinking bitterly ofthe crowded halls at his concerts when he was a child. He would not havebeen surprised by the change if he had had more experience: it would haveseemed natural to him that there were fewer people come to hear him whenhe made good music than when he made bad: for it is not music but themusician in which the greater part of the public is interested: and it isobvious that a musician who is a man and like everybody else is much lessinteresting than a musician in a child's little trowsers or short frock, who tickles sentimentality or amuses idleness. 

After waiting in vain for the hall to fill, Christophe decided to begin. He tried to pretend that it was better so, saying, "A few friends butgood. "--His optimism did not last long. 

His pieces were played in silence. --There is a silence in an audiencewhich seems big and overflowing with love. But there was nothing in this. Nothing. Utter sleep. Blankness. Every phrase seemed to drop into depthsof indifference. With his back turned to the audience, busy with hisorchestra, Christophe was fully aware of everything that was happening inthe hall, with those inner antennæ which every true musician is endowed, sothat he knows whether what he is playing is waking an echo in the heartsabout him. He went on conducting and growing excited while he was frozen bythe cold mist of boredom rising from the stalls and the boxes behind him. 

At last the overture was ended: and the audience applauded. It applaudedcoldly, politely, and was then silent. Christophe would rather have hadthem hoot. . . . A hiss! One hiss! Anything to give a sign of life, or atleast of reaction against his work!. . . Nothing. --He looked at the audience. The people were looking at each other, each trying to find out what theother thought. They did not succeed and relapsed into indifference. 

The music went on. The symphony was played. --Christophe found it hard togo on to the end. Several times he was on the point of throwing down hisbaton and running away. Their apathy overtook him: at last he could notunderstand what he was conducting: he could not breathe: he felt that hewas falling into fathomless boredom. There was not even the whisperedironic comment which he had anticipated at certain passages: the audiencewere reading their programmes. Christophe heard the pages turned alltogether with a dry rustling: and then, once more there was silence untilthe last chord, when the same polite applause showed that they had notunderstood that the symphony was finished. --And yet there were four pairsof hands went on clapping when the others had finished: but they awoke noecho, and stopped ashamed: that made the emptiness seem more empty, and thelittle incident served to show the audience how bored it had been. 

Christophe took a seat in the middle of the orchestra: he dared not look toright or left. He wanted to cry: and at the same time he was quivering withrage. He was fain to get up and shout at them: "You bore me! Ah! How youbore me! I cannot bear it!. . . Go away! Go away, all of you!. . . "

The audience woke up a little: they were expecting the singer, --they wereaccustomed to applauding her. In that ocean of new music in which they weredrifting without a compass, she at least was sure, a known land, and asolid, in which there was no danger of being lost. Christophe divined theirthoughts exactly, and he laughed bitterly. The singer was no less consciousof the expectancy of the audience: Christophe saw that in her regal airswhen he came and told her that it was her turn to appear. They looked ateach other inimically. Instead of offering her his arm, Christophe thrusthis hands into his pockets and let her go on alone. Furious and out ofcountenance she passed him. He followed her with a bored expression. Assoon as she appeared the audience gave her an ovation: that made everybodyhappier: every face brightened, the audience grew interested, and glasseswere brought into play. Certain of her power she tackled the _Lieder_, inher own way, of course, and absolutely disregarded Christophe's remarks ofthe evening before. Christophe, who was accompanying her, went pale. He hadforeseen her rebellion. At the first change that she made he tapped on thepiano and said angrily:

"No!"

She went on. He whispered behind her back in a low voice of fury:

"No! No! Not like that!. . . Not that!"

Unnerved by his fierce growls, which the audience could not hear, thoughthe orchestra caught every syllable, she stuck to it, dragging her notes, making pauses like organ stops. He paid no heed to them and went ahead: inthe end they got out of time. The audience did not notice it: for some timethey had been saying that Christophe's music was not made to seem pleasantor right to the ear: but Christophe, who was not of that opinion, wasmaking lunatic grimaces: and at last he exploded. He stopped short in themiddle of a bar:

"Stop, " he shouted. 

She was carried on by her own impetus for half a bar and then stopped:

"That's enough, " he said dryly. 

There was a moment of amazement in the audience. After a few seconds hesaid icily:

"Begin again!"

She looked at him in stupefaction: her hands trembled: she thought for amoment of throwing his book at his head: afterwards she did not understandhow it was that she did not do so. But she was overwhelmed by Christophe'sauthority and his unanswerable tone of voice: she began again. She sang thesong-cycle, without changing one shade of meaning, or a single movement:for she felt that he would spare her nothing: and she shuddered at thethought of a fresh insult. 

When she had finished the audience recalled her frantically. They were notapplauding the _Lieder_--(they would have applauded just the same if shehad sung any others)--but the famous singer who had grown old in harness:they knew that they could safely admire her. Besides, they wanted to makeup to her for the insult she had just received. They were not quite sure, but they did vaguely understand that the singer had made a mistake: andthey thought it indecent of Christophe to call their attention to it. Theyencored the songs. But Christophe shut the piano firmly. 

The singer did not notice his insolence: she was too much upset to thinkof singing again. She left the stage hurriedly and shut herself up in herbox: and then for a quarter of an hour she relieved her heart of the floodof wrath and rage that was pent up in it: a nervous attack, a deluge oftears, indignant outcries and imprecations against Christophe, --she omittednothing. Her cries of anger could be heard through the closed door. Thoseof her friends who had made their way there told everybody when they leftthat Christophe had behaved like a cad. Opinion travels quickly in aconcert hall. And so when Christophe went to his desk for the last pieceof music the audience was stormy. But it was not his composition: itwas the _Festmarsch_ by Ochs, which Christophe had kindly included inhis programme. The audience--who were quite at their ease with the dullmusic--found a very simple method of displaying their disapproval ofChristophe without going so far as to hiss him: they acclaimed Ochsostentatiously, recalled the composer two or three times, and he appearedreadily. And that was the end of the concert. 

The Grand Duke and everybody at the Court--the bored, gossiping littleprovincial town--lost no detail of what had happened. The papers which werefriendly towards the singer made no allusion to the incident: but theyall agreed in exalting her art while they only mentioned the titles ofthe _Lieder_ which she had sung. They published only a few lines aboutChristophe's other compositions, and they all said almost the same things:". . . Knowledge of counterpoint. Complicated writing. Lack of inspiration. No melody. Written with the head, not with the heart. Want of sincerity. Trying to be original. . . . " Followed a paragraph on true originality, thatof the masters who are dead and buried, Mozart, Beethoven, Loewe, Schubert, Brahms, "those who are original without thinking of it. "--Then by a naturaltransition they passed to the revival at the Grand Ducal Theater of the_Nachtlager von Granada_ of Konradin Kreutzer: a long account was given of"the delicious music, as fresh and jolly as when it was first written. "

Christophe's compositions met with absolute and astonished lack ofcomprehension from the most kindly disposed critics: veiled hostility fromthose who did not like him, and were arming themselves for later ventures:and from the general public, guided by neither friendly nor hostilecritics, silence. Left to its own thoughts the general public does notthink at all: that goes without saying. 

 * * * * *

Christophe was bowled over. 

And yet there was nothing surprising in his defeat. There were reasons, three to one, why his compositions should not please. They were immature. They were, secondly, too advanced to be understood at once. And, lastly, people were only too glad to give a lesson to the impertinentyoungster. --But Christophe was not cool-headed enough to admit that hisreverse was legitimate. He had none of that serenity which the true artistgains from the mournful experience of long misunderstanding at the hands ofmen and their incurable stupidity. His naïve confidence in the public andin success which he thought he could easily gain because he deserved it, crumbled away. He would have thought it natural to have enemies. But whatstaggered him was to find that he had not a single friend. Those on whom hehad counted, those who hitherto had seemed to be interested in everythingthat he wrote, had not given him a single word of encouragement since theconcert. He tried to probe them: they took refuge behind vague words. Heinsisted, he wanted to know what they really thought: the most sincere ofthem referred back to his former works, his foolish early efforts. --Morethan once in his life he was to hear his new works condemned by comparison, with the older ones, --and that by the same people who, a few years before, had condemned his older works when they were new: that is the usualordering of these things. Christophe did not like it: he exclaimed loudly. If people did not like him, well and good: he accepted that: it evenpleased him since he could not be friends with everybody. But that peopleshould pretend to be fond of him and not allow him to grow up, that theyshould try to force him all his life to remain a child, was beyond thepale! What is good at twelve is not good at twenty: and he hoped notto stay at that, but to change and to go on changing always. . . . Theseidiots who tried to stop life!. . . What was interesting in his childishcompositions was not their childishness and silliness, but the force inthem hungering for the future. And they were trying to kill his future!. . . No, they had never understood what he was, they had never loved him, neverthen or now: they only loved the weakness and vulgarity in him, everythingthat he had in common with others, and not _himself_, not what he reallywas: their friendship was a misunderstanding. . . . 

He was exaggerating, perhaps. It often happens with quite nice people whoare incapable of liking new work which they sincerely love when it istwenty years old. New life smacks too strong for their weak senses--thescent of it must evaporate in the winds of Time. A work of art only becomesintelligible to them when it is crusted over with the dust of years. 

But Christophe could not admit of not being understood when he was_present_ and of being understood when he was _past_. He preferred to thinkthat he was not understood at all, in any case, even. And he raged againstit. He was foolish enough to want to make himself understood, to explainhimself, to argue. Although no good purpose was served thereby: he wouldhave had to reform the taste of his time. But he was afraid of nothing. Hewas determined by hook or by crook to clean up German taste. But it wasutterly impossible: he could not convince anybody by means of conversation, in which he found it difficult to find words, and expressed himself with anexcess of violence about the great musicians and even about the men to whomhe was talking: he only succeeded in making a few more enemies. He wouldhave had to prepare his ideas beforehand, and then to force the public tohear him. . . . 

And just then, at the appointed hour, his star--his evil star--gave him themeans of doing so. 

 * * * * *

He was sitting in the restaurant of the theater in a group of musiciansbelonging to the orchestra whom he was scandalizing by his artisticjudgments. They were not all of the same opinion: but they were all ruffledby the freedom of his language. Old Krause, the alto, a good fellowand a good musician, who sincerely loved Christophe, tried to turn theconversation: he coughed, then looked out for an opportunity of making apun. But Christophe did not hear him: he went on: and Krause mourned andthought:

"What makes him say such things? God bless him! You can think these things:but you must not say them. "

The odd thing was that he also thought "these things": at least, he had aglimmering of them, and Christophe's words roused many doubts in him: buthe had not the courage to confess it, or openly to agree--half from fear ofcompromising himself, half from modesty and distrust of himself. 

Weigl, the cornet-player, did not want to know anything: he was ready toadmire anything, or anybody, good or bad, star or gas-jet: everything wasthe same to him: there were no degrees in his admiration: he admired, admired, admired. It was a vital necessity to him: it hurt him when anybodytried to curb him. 

Old Kuh, the violoncellist, suffered even more. He loved bad music withall his heart. Everything that Christophe hounded down with his sarcasmand invective was infinitely dear to him: instinctively his choice pitchedon the most conventional works: his soul was a reservoir of tearful andhigh-flown emotion. Indeed, he was not dishonest in his tender regard forall the sham great men. It was when he tried to pretend that he liked thereal great men that he was lying to himself--in perfect innocence. Thereare "Brahmins" who think to find in their God the breath of old men ofgenius: they love Beethoven in Brahms. Kuh went one better: he loved Brahmsin Beethoven. 

But the most enraged of all with. Christophe's paradoxes was Spitz, thebassoon. It was not so much his musical instinct that was wounded as hisnatural servility. One of the Roman Emperors wished to die standing. Spitzwished to die, as he had lived, crawling: that was his natural position:it was delightful to him to grovel at the feet of everything that wasofficial, hallowed, "arrived": and he was beside himself when anybody triedto keep him from playing the lackey, comfortably. 

So, Kuh groaned, Weigl threw up his hands in despair, Krause made jokes, and Spitz shouted in a shrill voice. But Christophe went on imperturbablyshouting louder than the rest: and saying monstrous things about Germanyand the Germans. 

At the next table a young man was listening to him and rocking withlaughter. He had black curly hair, fine, intelligent eyes, a large nose, which at its end could not make up its mind to go either to right or left, and rather than go straight on, went to both sides at once, thick lips, and a clever, mobile face: he was following everything that Christophesaid, hanging on his lips, reflecting every word with a sympathetic andyet mocking attention, wrinkling up his forehead, his temples, the cornersof his eyes, round his nostrils and cheeks, grimacing with laughter, and every now and then shaking all over convulsively. He did not join inthe conversation, but he did not miss a word of it. He showed his joyespecially when he saw Christophe, involved in some argument and heckled bySpitz, flounder about, stammer, and stutter with anger, until he had foundthe word he was seeking, --a rock with which to crush his adversary. And hisdelight knew no bounds when Christophe, swept along by his passions farbeyond the capacity of his thought, enunciated monstrous paradoxes whichmade his hearers snort. 

At last they broke up, each of them tired out with feeling and alleging hisown superiority. As Christophe, the last to go, was leaving the room he wasaccosted by the young man who had listened to his words with such pleasure. He had not yet noticed him. The other politely removed his hat, smiled, andasked permission to introduce himself:

"Franz Mannheim. "

He begged pardon for his indiscretion in listening to the argument, andcongratulated Christophe on the _maestria_ with which he had pulverized hisopponents. He was still laughing at the thought of it. Christophe was gladto hear it, and looked at him a little distrustfully:

"Seriously?" he asked. "You are not laughing at me?"

The other swore by the gods. Christophe's face lit up. 

"Then you think I am right? You are of my opinion?"

"Well, " said Mannheim, "I am not a musician. I know nothing of music. Theonly music I like--(if it is not too flattering to say so)--is yours. . . . That may show you that my taste is not so bad. . . . "

"Oh!" said Christophe skeptically, though he was flattered all the same, "that proves nothing. "

"You are difficult to please. . . . Good!. . . I think as you do: that provesnothing. And I don't venture to judge what you say of German musicians. But, anyhow, it is so true of the Germans in general, the old Germans, allthe romantic idiots with their rancid thought, their sloppy emotion, theirsenile reiteration which we are asked to admire, '_the eternal Yesterday, which has always been, and always will be, and will be law to-morrowbecause it is law to-day. _' . . . !"

He recited a few lines of the famous passage in Schiller:

 ". . . _Das ewig Gestrige, Das immer war imd immer wiederkehrt_. . . . "

"Himself, first of all!" He stopped in the middle of his recitation. 

"Who?" asked Christophe. 

"The pump-maker who wrote that!"

Christophe did not understand. But Mannheim went on:

"I should like to have a general cleaning up of art and thought every fiftyyears--nothing to be left standing. "

"A little drastic, " said Christophe, smiling. 

"No, I assure you. Fifty years is too much: I should say thirty. . . . Andeven less!. . . It is a hygienic measure. One does not keep one's ancestorsin one's house. One gets rid of them, when they are dead, and sends, themelsewhere, --there politely to rot, and one places stones on them to bequite sure that they will not come back. Nice people put flowers on them, too. I don't mind if they like it. All I ask is to be left in peace. Ileave them alone! Each for his own side, say I: the dead and the living. "

"There are some dead who are more alive than the living. "

"No, no! It would be more true to say that there are some living who aremore dead than the dead. "

"Maybe. In any case, there are old things which are still young. "

"Then if they are still young we can find them for ourselves. . . . But Idon't believe it. What has been good once never is good again. Nothing isgood but change. Before all we have to rid ourselves of the old men andthings. There are too many of them in Germany. Death to them, say I!"

Christophe listened to these squibs attentively and labored to discussthem: he was in part in sympathy with them, he recognized certain of hisown thoughts in them: and at the same time he felt a little embarrassed athaving them so blown out to the point of caricature. But as he assumed thateverybody else was as serious as himself, he thought that perhaps Mannheim, who seemed to be more learned than himself and spoke more easily, wasright, and was drawing the logical conclusions from his principles. VainChristophe, whom so many people could not forgive for his faith in himself, was really most naïvely modest often tricked by his modesty when he waswith those who were better educated than himself, --especially, when theyconsented not to plume themselves on it to avoid an awkward discussion. Mannheim, who was amusing himself with his own paradoxes, and from onesally to another had reached extravagant quips and cranks, at which hewas laughing immensely, was not accustomed to being taken seriously: hewas delighted with the trouble that Christophe was taking to discuss hisnonsense, and even to understand it: and while he laughed, he was gratefulfor the importance which Christophe gave him: he thought him absurd andcharming. 

They parted very good friends: and Christophe was not a little surprisedthree hours later at rehearsal to see Mannheim's head poked through thelittle door leading to the orchestra, smiling and grimacing, and makingmysterious signs at him. When the rehearsal was over Christophe went tohim. Mannheim took his arm familiarly. 

"You can spare a moment?. . . Listen. I have an idea. Perhaps you will thinkit absurd. . . . Would not you like for once in a way to write what you thinkof music and the musicos? Instead of wasting your breath in haranguing fourdirty knaves of your band who are good for nothing but scraping and blowinginto bits of wood, would it not be better to address the general public?"

"Not better? Would I like?. . . My word! And when do you want me to write? Itis good of you!. . . "

"I've a proposal for you. . . . Some friends and I: Adalbert von Waldhaus, Raphael Goldenring, Adolf Mai, and Lucien Ehrenfeld, --have started aReview, the only intelligent Review in the town: the _Dionysos_. --(You mustknow it. . . . )--We all admire each other and should be glad if you would joinus. Will you take over our musical criticism?"

Christophe was abashed by such an honor: he was longing to accept: he wasonly afraid of not being worthy: he could not write. 

"Oh! come, " said Mannheim, "I am sure you can. And besides, as soon as youare a critic you can do anything you like. You've no need to be afraid ofthe public. The public is incredibly stupid. It is nothing to be an artist:an artist is only a sort of comedian: an artist can be hissed. But a critichas the right to say: 'Hiss me that man!' The whole audience lets him doits thinking. Think whatever you like. Only look as if you were thinkingsomething. Provided you give the fools their food, it does not much matterwhat, they will gulp down anything. "

In the end Christophe consented, with effusive thanks. He only made it acondition that he should be allowed to say what he liked. 

"Of course, of course, " said Mannheim. "Absolute freedom! We are all free. "

He looked him up at the theater once more after the performance tointroduce him to Adalbert von Waldhaus and his friends. They welcomed himwarmly. 

With the exception of Waldhaus, who belonged to one of the noble familiesof the neighborhood, they were all Jews and all very rich: Mannheimwas the son of a banker: Mai the son of the manager of a metallurgicalestablishment: and Ehrenfeld's father was a great jeweler. Their fathersbelonged to the older generation of Jews, industrious and acquisitive, attached to the spirit of their race, building their fortunes with keenenergy, and enjoying their energy much more than their fortunes. Their sonsseemed to be made to destroy what their fathers had builded: they laughedat family prejudice and their ant-like mania for economy and delving: theyposed as artists, affected to despise money and to fling it out of window. But in reality they hardly ever let it slip through their fingers: and invain did they do all sorts of foolish things: they never could altogetherlead astray their lucidity of mind and practical sense. For the rest, theirparents kept an eye on them, and reined them in. The most prodigal of them, Mannheim, would sincerely have given away all that he had: but he never hadanything: and although he was always loudly inveighing against his father'sniggardliness, in his heart he laughed at it and thought that he was right. In fine, there was only Waldhaus really who was in control of his fortune, and went into it wholeheartedly and reckless of cost, and bore that of theReview. He was a poet. He wrote "_Polymètres_" in the manner of Arno Holzand Walt Whitman, with lines alternately very long and very short, in whichstops, double and triple stops, dashes, silences, commas, italics anditalics, played a great part. And so did alliteration and repetition--ofa word--of a line--of a whole phrase. He interpolated words of everylanguage. He wanted--(no one has ever known why)--to render the _Cézanne_into verse. In truth, he was poetic enough and had a distinguished tastefor stale things. He was sentimental and dry, naïve and foppish: hislabored verses affected a cavalier carelessness. He would have been agood poet for men of the world. But there are too many of the kind in theReviews and artistic circles: and he wished to be alone. He had taken itinto his head to play the great gentleman who is above the prejudices ofhis caste. He had more prejudices than anybody. He did not admit theirexistence. He took a delight in surrounding himself with Jews in the Reviewwhich he edited, to rouse the indignation of his family, who were veryanti-Semite, and to prove his own freedom of mind to himself. With hiscolleagues, he assumed a tone of courteous equality. But in his heart hehad a calm and boundless contempt for them. He was not unaware that theywere very glad to make use of his name and money: and he let them do sobecause it pleased him to despise them. 

And they despised him for letting them do so: for they knew very well thatit served his turn. A fair exchange, Waldhaus lent them his name andfortune: and they brought him their talents, their eye for business andsubscribers. They were much more intelligent than he. Not that they hadmore personality. They had perhaps even less. But in the little town theywere, as the Jews are everywhere and always, --by the mere fact of theirdifference of race which for centuries has isolated them and sharpenedtheir faculty for making observation--they were the most advanced in mind, the most sensible of the absurdity of its moldy institutions and decrepitthought. Only, as their character was less free than their intelligence, it did not help them, while they mocked, from trying rather to turn thoseinstitutions and ideas to account than to reform them. In spite of theirindependent professions of faith, they were like the noble Adalbert, littleprovincial snobs, rich, idle young men of family, who dabbled and flirtedwith letters for the fun of it. They were very glad to swagger about asgiant-killers: but they were kindly enough and never slew anybody but a fewinoffensive people or those whom they thought could never harm them. Theycared nothing for setting by the ears a society to which they knew verywell they would one day return and embrace all the prejudices which theyhad combated. And when they did venture to make a stir on a little scandal, or loudly to declare war on some idol of the day, --who was beginning tototter, --they took care never to burn their boats: in case of danger theyre-embarked. Whatever then might be the issue of the campaign, --when itwas finished it was a long time before war would break out again: thePhilistines could sleep in peace. All that these new _Davidsbündler_ wantedto do was to make it appear that they could have been terrible if they hadso desired: but they did not desire. They preferred to be on friendly termswith artists and to give suppers to actresses. 

Christophe was not happy in such a set. They were always talking of womenand horses: and their talk was not refined. They were stiff and formal. Adalbert spoke in a mincing, slow voice, with exaggerated, bored, andboring politeness. Adolf Mai, the secretary of the Review, a heavy, thick-set, bull-necked, brutal-looking young man, always pretended to bein the right: he laid down the law, never listened to what anybody said, seemed to despise the opinion of the person he was talking to, and alsothat person. Goldenring, the art critic, who had a twitch, and eyesperpetually winking behind his large spectacles, --no doubt in imitationof the painters whose society he cultivated, wore long hair, smoked insilence, mumbled scraps of sentences which he never finished, and madevague gestures in the air with his thumb. Ehrenfeld was little, bald, andsmiling, had a fair beard and a sensitive, weary-looking face, a hookednose, and he wrote the fashions and the society notes in the Review. In asilky voice he used to talk obscurely: he had a wit, though of a malignantand often ignoble kind. --All these young millionaires were anarchists, ofcourse: when a man possesses everything it is the supreme luxury for him todeny society: for in that way he can evade his responsibilities. So might arobber, who has just fleeced a traveler, say to him: "What are you stayingfor? Get along! I have no more use for you. "

Of the whole bunch Christophe was only in sympathy with Mannheim: he wascertainly the most lively of the five: he was amused by everything thathe said and everything that was said to him: stuttering, stammering, blundering, sniggering, talking nonsense, he was incapable of following anargument, or of knowing exactly what he thought himself: but he was quitekindly, bearing no malice, having not a spark of ambition. In truth, he wasnot very frank: he was always playing a part: but quite innocently, and henever did anybody any harm. 

He espoused all sorts of strange Utopias--most often generous. He was toosubtle and too skeptical to keep his head even in his enthusiasms, and henever compromised himself by applying his theories. But he had to havesome hobby: it was a game to him, and he was always changing from one toanother. For the time being his craze was for kindness. It was not enoughfor him to be kind naturally: he wished to be thought kind: he professedkindness, and acted it. Out of reaction against the hard, dry activity ofhis kinsfolk, and against German austerity, militarism, and Philistinism, he was a Tolstoyan, a Nirvanian, an evangelist, a Buddhist, --he was notquite sure what, --an apostle of a new morality that was soft, boneless, indulgent, placid, easy-living, effusively forgiving every sin, especiallythe sins of the flesh, a morality which did not conceal its predilectionfor those sins and much less readily forgave the virtues--a moralitywhich was only a compact of pleasure, a libertine association of mutualaccommodations, which amused itself by donning the halo of sanctity. Therewas in it a spice of hypocrisy which was a little offensive to delicatepalates, and would have even been frankly nauseating if it had taken itselfseriously. But it made no pretensions towards that: it merely amuseditself. His blackguardly Christianity was only meant to serve until someother hobby came along to take its place--no matter what: brute force, imperialism, "laughing lions. "--Mannheim was always playing a part, playingwith his whole heart: he was trying on all the feelings that he did notpossess before becoming a good Jew like the rest and with all the spiritof his race. He was very sympathetic, and extremely irritating. For sometime Christophe was one of his hobbies. Mannheim swore by him. He blew histrumpet everywhere. He dinned his praises into the ears of his family. According to him Christophe was a genius, an extraordinary man, who madestrange music and talked about it in an astonishing fashion, a wittyman--and a handsome: fine lips, magnificent teeth. He added that Christopheadmired him. --One evening he took him home to dinner. Christophe foundhimself talking to his new friend's father, Lothair Mannheim, the banker, and Franz's sister, Judith. 

It was the first time that he had been in a Jew's house. Although therewere many Jews in the little town, and although they played an importantpart in its life by reason of their wealth, cohesion, and intelligence, they lived a little apart. There were always rooted prejudices in the mindsof the people and a secret hostility that was credulous and injuriousagainst them. Christophe's family shared these prejudices. His grandfatherdid not love Jews: but the irony of fate had decreed that his two bestpupils should be of the race--(one had become a composer, the other afamous _virtuoso_): for there had been moments when he was fain to embracethese two good musicians: and then he would remember sadly that theyhad crucified the Lord: and he did not know how to reconcile his twoincompatible currents of feeling. But in the end he did embrace them. Hewas inclined to think that the Lord would forgive them because of theirlove for music. --Christophe's father, Melchior, who pretended to bebroad-minded, had had fewer scruples about taking money from the Jews: andhe even thought it good to do so: but he ridiculed them, and despisedthem. --As for his mother, she was not sure that she was not committing asin when she went to cook for them. Those whom she had had to do with weredisdainful enough with her: but she had no grudge against them, she borenobody any ill-will: she was filled with pity for these unhappy people whomGod had damned: sometimes she would be filled with compassion when she sawthe daughter of one of them go by or heard the merry laughter of theirchildren. 

"So pretty she is!. . . Such pretty children!. . . How dreadful!. . . " she wouldthink. 

She dared not say anything to Christophe, when he told her that he wasgoing to dine with the Mannheims: but her heart sank. She thought thatit was unnecessary to believe everything bad that was said about theJews--(people speak ill of everybody)--and that there are honest peopleeverywhere, but that it was better and more proper to keep themselves tothemselves, the Jews on their side, the Christians on theirs. 

Christophe shared none of these prejudices. In his perpetual reactionagainst his surroundings he was rather attracted towards the differentrace. But he hardly knew them. He had only come in contact with the morevulgar of the Jews: little shopkeepers, the populace swarming in certainstreets between the Rhine and the cathedral, forming, with the gregariousinstinct of all human beings, a sort of little ghetto. He had oftenstrolled through the neighborhood, catching sight of and feeling a sort ofsympathy with certain types of women with hollow cheeks, and full lips, and wide cheek-bones, a da Vinci smile, rather depraved, while the coarselanguage and shrill laughter destroyed this harmony that was in their faceswhen in repose. Even in the dregs of the people, in those large-headed, beady-eyed creatures with their bestial faces, their thick-set, squatbodies, those degenerate descendants of the most noble of all peoples, evenin that thick, fetid muddiness there were strange phosphorescent gleams, like will-o'-the-wisps dancing over a swamp: marvelous glances, mindssubtle and brilliant, a subtle electricity emanating from the ooze whichfascinated and disturbed Christophe. He thought that hidden deep were finesouls struggling, great hearts striving to break free from the dung: and hewould have liked to meet them, and to aid them: without knowing them, heloved them, while he was a little fearful of them. And he had never had anyopportunity of meeting the best of the Jews. 

His dinner at the Mannheims' had for him the attraction of novelty andsomething of that of forbidden fruit. The Eve who gave him the fruitsweetened its flavor. From the first moment Christophe had eyes only forJudith Mannheim. She was utterly different from all the women he had known. Tall and slender, rather thin, though solidly built, with her face framedin her black hair, not long, but thick and curled low on her head, coveringher temples and her broad, golden brow; rather short-sighted, with largepupils, and slightly prominent eyes: with a largish nose and wide nostrils, thin cheeks, a heavy chin, strong coloring, she had a fine profile showingmuch energy and alertness: full face, her expression was more changing, uncertain, complex: her eyes and her cheeks were irregular. She seemed togive revelation of a strong race, and in the mold of that race, roughlythrown together, were manifold incongruous elements, of doubtful andunequal quality, beautiful and vulgar at the same time. Her beauty layespecially in her silent lips, and in her eyes, in which there seemed to begreater depth by reason of their short-sightedness, and darker by reason ofthe bluish markings round them. 

It needed to be more used than Christophe was to those eyes, which aremore those of a race than of an individual, to be able to read through thelimpidity that unveiled them with such vivid quality, the real soul of thewoman whom he thus encountered. It was the soul of the people of Israelthat he saw in her sad and burning eyes, the soul that, unknown to them, shone forth from them. He lost himself as he gazed into them. It was onlyafter some time that he was able, after losing his way again and again, tostrike the track again on that oriental sea. 

She looked at him: and nothing could disturb the clearness of her gaze:nothing in his Christian soul seemed to escape her. He felt that. Under theseduction of the woman's eyes upon him he was conscious of a virile desire, clear and cold, Which stirred in him brutally, indiscreetly. There wasno evil in the brutality of it. She took possession of him: not like acoquette, whose desire is to seduce without caring whom she seduces. Hadshe been a coquette she would have gone to greatest lengths: but she knewher power, and she left it to her natural instinct to make use of it inits own way, --especially when she had so easy a prey as Christophe. --Whatinterested her more was to know her adversary--(any man, any stranger, wasan adversary for her, --an adversary with whom later on, if occasion served, she could sign a compact of alliance). --She wished to know his quality. Life being a game, in which the cleverest wins, it was a matter of readingher opponent's cards and of not showing her own. When she succeeded shetasted the sweets of victory. It mattered little whether she could turnit to any account. It was purely for her pleasure. She had a passion forintelligence: not abstract intelligence, although she had brains enough, if she had liked, to have succeeded in any, branch of knowledge and wouldhave made a much better successor to Lothair Mannheim, the banker, thanher brother. But she preferred intelligence in the quick, the sort ofintelligence which studies men. She loved to pierce through to the soul andto weigh its value--(she gave as scrupulous an attention to it as theJewess of Matsys to the weighing of her gold)--with marvelous divinationshe could find the weak spot in the armor, the imperfections and foibleswhich are the key to the soul, --she could lay her hands on its secrets: itwas her way of feeling her sway over it. But she never dallied with hervictory: she never did anything with her prize. Once her curiosity andher vanity were satisfied she lost her interest and passed on to anotherspecimen. All her power was sterile. There was something of death in herliving soul. She had the genius of curiosity and boredom. 

 * * * * *

And so she looked at Christophe and he looked at her. She hardly spoke. Animperceptible smile was enough, a little movement of the corners of hermouth: Christophe was hypnotized by her. Every now and then her smile wouldfade away, her face would become cold, her eyes indifferent: she wouldattend to the meal or speak coldly to the servants: it was as though shewere no longer listening. Then her eyes would light up again: and a fewwords coming pat would show that she had heard and understood everything. 

She coldly examined her brother's judgment of Christophe: she knew Franz'scrazes: her irony had had fine sport when she saw Christophe appear, whoselooks and distinction had been vaunted by her brother--(it seemed to herthat Franz had a special gift for seeing facts as they are not: or perhapshe only thought it a paradoxical joke). --But when she looked at Christophemore closely she recognized that what Franz had said was not altogetherfalse: and as she went on with her scrutiny she discovered in Christophe avague, unbalanced, though robust and bold power: that gave her pleasure, for she knew, better than any, the rarity of power. She was able tomake Christophe talk about whatever she liked, and reveal his thoughts, and display the limitations and defects of his mind: she made him playthe piano: she did not love music but she understood it: and she sawChristophe's musical originality, although his music had roused no sort ofemotion in her. Without the least change in the coldness of her manner, with a few short, apt, and certainly not flattering, remarks she showed hergrowing interest in Christophe. 

Christophe saw it: and he was proud of it: for he felt the worth of suchjudgment and the rarity of her approbation. He made no secret of his desireto win it: and he set about it so naïvely as to make the three of themsmile: he talked only to Judith and for Judith: he was as unconcerned withthe others as though they did not exist. 

Franz watched him as he talked: he followed his every word, with his lipsand eyes, with a mixture of admiration and amusement: and he laughed aloudas he glanced at his father and his sister, who listened impassively andpretended not to notice him. 

Lothair Mannheim, --a tall old man, heavily built, stooping a little, red-faced, with gray hair standing straight up on end, very black mustacheand eyebrows, a heavy though energetic and jovial face, which gave theimpression of great vitality--had also studied Christophe during the firstpart of the dinner, slyly but good-naturedly: and he too had recognizedat once that there was "something" in the boy. But he was not interestedin music or musicians: it was not in his line: he knew nothing about itand made no secret of his ignorance: he even boasted of it--(when a manof that sort confesses his ignorance of anything he does so to feed hisvanity). --As Christophe had clearly shown at once, with a rudeness in whichthere was no shade of malice, that, he could without regret dispense withthe society of the banker, and that the society of Fräulein Judith Mannheimwould serve perfectly to fill his evening, old Lothair in some amusementhad taken his seat by the fire: he read his paper, listening vaguely andironically to Christophe's crotchets and his queer music, which sometimesmade him laugh inwardly at the idea that there could be people whounderstood it and found pleasure in it. He did not trouble to follow theconversation: he relied on his daughter's cleverness to tell him exactlywhat the newcomer was worth. She discharged her duty conscientiously. 

When Christophe had gone Lothair asked Judith:

"Well, you probed him enough: what do you think of the artist?"

She laughed, thought for a moment, reckoned up, and said:

"He is a little cracked: but he is not stupid. "

"Good, " said Lothair. "I thought so too. He will succeed, then?"

"Yes, I think so. He has power, "

"Very good, " said Lothair with the magnificent logic of the strong who areonly interested in the strong, "we must help him. "

 * * * * *

Christophe went away filled with admiration for Judith Mannheim. He was notin love with her as Judith thought. They were both--she with her subtlety, he with his instinct which took the place of mind in him, --mistakenabout each other. Christophe was fascinated by the enigma and theintense activity of her mind: but he did not love her. His eyes and hisintelligence were ensnared: his heart escaped. --Why?--It were difficult totell. Because he had caught a glimpse of some doubtful, disturbing qualityin her?--In other circumstances that would have been a reason the morefor loving: love is never stronger than when it goes out to one who willmake it suffer. --If Christophe did not love Judith it was not the fault ofeither of them. The real reason, humiliating enough for both, was that hewas still too near his last love. Experience had not made him wiser. But hehad loved Ada so much, he had consumed so much faith, force, and illusionin that passion that there was not enough left for a new passion. Beforeanother flame could be kindled he would have to build a new pyre in hisheart: short of that there could only be a few flickerings, remnants of theconflagration that had escaped by chance, which asked only to be allowed toburn, cast a brief and brilliant light and then died down for want of food. Six months later, perhaps, he might have loved Judith blindly. Now he sawin her only a friend, --a rather disturbing friend in truth--but he tried todrive his uneasiness back: it reminded him of Ada: there was no attractionin that memory: he preferred not to think of it. What attracted him inJudith was everything in her which was different from other women, not thatwhich she had in common with them. She was the first intelligent womanhe had met. She was intelligent from head to foot. Even her beauty--hergestures, her movements, her features, the fold of her lips, her eyes, herhands, her slender elegance--was the reflection of her intelligence: herbody was molded by her intelligence: without her intelligence she wouldhave passed unnoticed: and no doubt she would even have been thought plainby most people. Her intelligence delighted Christophe. He thought it largerand more free than it was: he could not yet know how deceptive it was. Helonged ardently to confide in her and to impart his ideas to her. He hadnever found anybody to take an interest in his dreams: he was turned inupon, himself: what joy then to find a woman to be his friend! That he hadnot a sister had been one of the sorrows of his childhood: it seemed tohim that a sister would have understood him more than a brother could havedone. And when he met Judith he felt that childish and illusory hope ofhaving a brotherly love spring up in him. Not being in love, love seemed tohim a poor thing compared with friendship. 

Judith felt this little shade of feeling and was hurt by it. She was not inlove with Christophe, and as she had excited other passions in other youngmen of the town, rich young men of better position, she could not feelany great satisfaction in knowing Christophe to be in love with her. Butit piqued her to know that he was not in love. No doubt she was pleasedwith him for confiding his plans: she was not surprised by it: but itwas a little mortifying for her to know that she could only exercise anintellectual influence over him--(an unreasoning influence is much moreprecious to a woman). --She did not even exercise her influence: Christopheonly courted her mind. Judith's intellect was imperious. She was used tomolding to her will the soft thoughts of the young men of her acquaintance. As she knew their mediocrity she found no pleasure in holding sway overthem. With Christophe the pursuit was more interesting because moredifficult. She was not interested in his projects: but she would have likedto direct his originality of thought, his ill-grown power, and to make themgood, --in her own way, of course, and not in Christophe's, which she didnot take the trouble to understand. She saw at once that she could notsucceed without a struggle: she had marked down in Christophe all sorts ofnotions and ideas which she thought childish and extravagant: they wereweeds to her: she tried hard to eradicate them. She did not get rid ofa single one. She did not gain the least satisfaction for her vanity. Christophe was intractable. Not being in love he had no reason forsurrendering his ideas to her. 

She grew keen on the game and instinctively tried for some time to overcomehim. Christophe was very nearly taken in again in spite of his lucidity ofmind at that time. Men are easily taken in by any flattery of their vanityor their desires: and an artist is twice as easy to trick as any other manbecause he has more imagination. Judith had only to draw Christophe into adangerous flirtation to bowl him over once more more thoroughly than ever. But as usual she soon wearied of the game: she found that such a conquestwas hardly worth while: Christophe was already boring her: she did notunderstand him. 

She did not understand him beyond a certain point. Up to that sheunderstood everything. Her admirable intelligence could not take her beyondit: she needed a heart, or in default of that the thing which could givethe illusion of one for a time: love. She understood Christophe's criticismof people and things: it amused her and seemed to her true enough: shehad thought much the same herself. But what she did not understand wasthat such ideas might have an influence on practical life when it mightbe dangerous or awkward to apply them. The attitude of revolt againsteverybody and everything which Christophe had taken up led to nothing: hecould not imagine that he was going to reform the world. . . . And then?. . . Itwas waste of time to knock one's head against a wall. A clever man judgesmen, laughs at them in secret, despises them a little: but he does as theydo--only a little better: it is the only way of mastering them. Thought isone world: action is another. What boots it for a man to be the victim ofhis thoughts? Since men are so stupid as not to be able to bear the truth, why force it on them? To accept their weakness, to seem to bow to it, andto feel free to despise them in his heart, is there not a secret joy inthat? The joy of a clever slave? Certainly. But all the world is a slave:there is no getting away from that: it is useless to protest against it:better to be a slave deliberately of one's own free will and to avoidridiculous and futile conflict. Besides, the worst slavery of all is to bethe slave of one's own thoughts and to sacrifice everything to them. Thereis no need to deceive one's self. --She saw clearly that if Christophewent on, as he seemed determined to do, with his aggressive refusal tocompromise with the prejudices of German art and German mind, he would turneverybody against him, even his patrons: he was courting inevitable ruin. She did not understand why he so obstinately held out against himself, andso took pleasure in digging his own ruin. 

To have understood him she would have had to be able to understand thathis aim was not success but his own faith. He believed in art: he believedin _his_ art: he believed in himself, as realities not only superior tointerest, but also to his own life. When he was a little out of patiencewith her remarks and told her so in his naïve arrogance, she just shruggedher shoulders: she did not take him seriously. She thought he was usingbig words such as she was accustomed to hearing from her brother whenhe announced periodically his absurd and ridiculous resolutions, whichhe never by any chance put into practice. And then when she saw thatChristophe really believed in what he said, she thought him mad and lostinterest in him. 

After that she took no trouble to appear to advantage, and she showedherself as she was: much more German, and average German, than she seemedto be at first, more perhaps than she thought. --The Jews are quiteerroneously reproached with not belonging to any nation and with formingfrom one end of Europe to the other a homogeneous people impervious to theinfluence of the different races with which they have pitched their tents. In reality there is no race which more easily takes on the impress of thecountry through which it passes: and if there are many characteristics incommon between a French Jew and a German Jew, there are many more differentcharacteristics derived from their new country, of which with incrediblerapidity they assimilate the habits of mind: more the habits than the mind, indeed. But habit, which is a second nature to all men, is in most of themall the nature that they have, and the result is that the majority of theautochthonous citizens of any country have very little right to reproachthe Jews with the lack of a profound and reasonable national feeling ofwhich they themselves possess nothing at all. 

The women, always more sensible to external influences, more easilyadaptable to the conditions of life and to change with them--Jewish womenthroughout Europe assume the physical and moral customs, often exaggeratingthem, of the country in which they live, --without losing the shadow and thestrange fluid, solid, and haunting quality of their race. --This idea cameto Christophe. At the Mannheims' he met Judith's aunts, cousins, andfriends. Though there was little of the German in their eyes, ardent andtoo close together, their noses going down to their lips, their strongfeatures, their red blood coursing under their coarse brown skins: thoughalmost all of them seemed hardly at all fashioned to be German--theywere all extraordinarily German: they had the same way of talking, ofdressing, --of overdressing. --Judith was much the best of them all: andcomparison with them made all that was exceptional in her intelligence, allthat she had made of herself, shine forth. But she had most of their faultsjust as much as they. She was much more free than they morally--almostabsolutely free--but socially she was no more free: or at least herpractical sense usurped the place of her freedom of mind. She believed insociety, in class, in prejudice, because when all was told she found themto her advantage. It was idle for her to laugh at the German spirit: shefollowed it like any German. Her intelligence made her see the mediocrityof some artist of reputation: but she respected him none the less becauseof his reputation: and if she met him personally she would admire him: forher vanity was flattered. She had no love for the works of Brahms and shesuspected him of being an artist of the second rank: but his fame impressedher: and as she had received five or six letters from him the result wasthat she thought him the greatest musician of the day. She had no doubt asto Christophe's real worth, or as to the stupidity of Lieutenant Detlev vonFleischer: but she was more flattered by the homage the lieutenant deignedto pay to her millions than by Christophe's friendship: for a dull officeris a man of another caste: it is more difficult for a German Jewess toenter that caste than for any other woman. Although she was not deceivedby these feudal follies, and although she knew quite well that if she didmarry Lieutenant Detlev von Fleischer she would be doing him a great honor, she set herself to the conquest: she stooped so low as to make eyes atthe fool and to flatter his vanity. The proud Jewess, who had a thousandreasons for her pride--the clever, disdainful daughter of Mannheim thebanker lowered herself, and acted like any of the little middle-classGerman women whom she despised. 

 * * * * *

That experience was short. Christophe lost his illusions about Judithas quickly as he had found them. It is only just to say that Judith didnothing to preserve them. As soon as a woman of that stamp has judged aman she is done with him: he ceases to exist for her: she will not seehim again. And she no more hesitates to reveal her soul to him, with calmimpudence, that to appear naked before her dog, her cat, or any otherdomestic animal. Christophe saw Judith's egoism and coldness, and themediocrity of her character. He had not had time to be absolutely caught. But he had been enough caught to make him suffer and to bring him to a sortof fever. He did not so much love Judith as what she might have been--whatshe ought to have been. Her fine eyes exercised a melancholy fascinationover him: he could not forget them: although he knew now the drab soul thatslumbered in their depths he went on seeing them as he wished to see them, as he had first seen them. It was one of those loveless hallucinationsof love which take up so much of the hearts of artists when they are notentirely absorbed by their work. A passing face is enough to create it:they see in it all the beauty that is in it, unknown to its indifferentpossessor. And they love it the more for its indifference. They love it asa beautiful thing that must die without any man having known its worth orthat it even had life. 

Perhaps he was deceiving himself, and Judith Mannheim could not have beenanything more than she was. But for a moment Christophe had believed inher: and her charm endured: he could not judge her impartially. All herbeauty seemed to him to be hers, to be herself. All that was vulgar in herhe cast back upon her twofold race, Jew and German, and perhaps he was moreindignant with the German than with the Jew, for it had made him suffermore. As he did not yet know any other nation, the German spirit was forhim a sort of scapegoat: he put upon it all the sins of the world. ThatJudith had deceived him was a reason the more for combating it: he couldnot forgive it for having crushed the life out of such a soul. 

Such was his first encounter with Israel. He had hoped much from it. Hehad hoped to find in that strong race living apart from the rest an allyfor his fight. He lost that hope. With the flexibility of his passionateintuition, which made him leap from one extreme to another, he persuadedhimself that the Jewish race was much weaker than it was said to be, andmuch more open--much too open--to outside influence. It had all its ownweaknesses augmented by those of the rest of the world picked up on itsway. It was not in them that he could find assistance in working the leverof his art. Rather he was in danger of being swallowed with them in thesands of the desert. 

Having seen the danger, and not feeling sure enough of himself to brave it, he suddenly gave up going to the Mannheims'. He was invited several timesand begged to be excused without giving any reason. As up till then he hadshown an excessive eagerness to accept, such a sudden change was remarked:it was attributed to his "originality": but the Mannheims had no doubtthat the fair Judith had something to do with it: Lothair and Franz jokedabout it at dinner. Judith shrugged her shoulders and said it was a fineconquest, and she asked her brother frigidly not to make such a fuss aboutit. But she left no stone unturned in her effort to bring Christophe back. She wrote to him for some musical information which no one else couldsupply: and at the end of her letter she made a friendly allusion to therarity of his visits and the pleasure it would give them to see him. Christophe replied, giving the desired information, said that he wasvery busy, and did not go. They met sometimes at the theater. Christopheobstinately looked away from the Mannheims' box: and he would pretend notto see Judith, who held herself in readiness to give him her most charmingsmile. She did not persist. As she did not count on him for anything shewas annoyed that the little artist should let her do all the labor of theirfriendship, and pure waste at that. If he wanted to come, he would. Ifnot--oh, well, they could do without him. . . . 

They did without him: and his absence left no very great gap in theMannheims' evenings. But in spite of herself Judith was really annoyedwith Christophe. It seemed natural enough not to bother about him whenhe was there: and she could allow him to show his displeasure at beingneglected: but that his displeasure should go so far as to break off theirrelationship altogether seemed to her to show a stupid pride and a heartmore egoistic than in love. --Judith could not tolerate her own faults inothers. 

She followed the more attentively everything that Christophe did and wrote. Without seeming to do so, she would lead her brother to the subject ofChristophe: she would make him tell her of his intercourse with him: andshe would punctuate the narrative with clever ironic comment, which neverlet any ridiculous feature escape, and gradually destroyed Franz'senthusiasm without his knowing it. 

At first all went well with the Review. Christophe had not yet perceivedthe mediocrity of his colleagues: and, since he was one of them, theyhailed him as a genius. Mannheim, who had discovered him, went everywhererepeating that Christophe was an admirable critic, though he had neverread anything he had written, that he had mistaken his vocation, and thathe, Mannheim, had revealed it to him. They advertised his articles inmysterious terms which roused curiosity: and his first effort was in factlike a stone falling into a duck-pond in the atony of the little town. Itwas called: _Too much music_. 

"Too much music, too much drinking, too much eating, " wrote Christophe. "Eating, drinking, hearing, without hunger, thirst, or need, from sheerhabitual gormandizing. Living like Strasburg geese. These people are sickfrom a diseased appetite. It matters little what you give them: _Tristram_or the _Trompeter von Säkkingen_, Beethoven or Mascagni, a fugue or atwo-step, Adam, Bach, Puccini, Mozart, or Marschner: they do not know whatthey are eating: the great thing is to eat. They find no pleasure in it. Look at them at a concert. Talk of German gaiety! These people do not knowwhat gaiety means: they are always gay! Their gaiety, like their sorrow, drops like rain: their joy is dust: there is neither life nor force in it. They would stay for hours smilingly and vaguely drinking in sounds, sounds, sounds. They think of nothing: they feel nothing: they are sponges. Truejoy, or true sorrow--strength--is not drawn out over hours like beer froma cask. They take you by the throat and have you down: after they are gonethere is no desire left in a man to drink in anything: he is full!. . . 

"Too much music! You are slaying each other and it. If you choose to murdereach other that is your affair: I can't help it. But where music isconcerned, --hands off! I will not suffer you to debase the loveliness ofthe world by heaping up in the same basket things holy and things shameful, by giving, as you do at present, the prelude to _Parsifal_ between afantasia on the _Daughter of the Regiment_ and a saxophone quartette, or anadagio of Beethoven between a cakewalk and the rubbish of Leoncavallo. Youboast of being a musical people. You pretend to love music. What sort ofmusic do you love? Good or bad? You applaud both equally. Well, then, choose! What exactly do you want? You do not know yourselves. You donot want to know: you are too fearful of taking sides and compromisingyourselves. . . . To the devil with your prudence!--You are above party, doyou say?--Above? You mean below. . . . "

And he quoted the lines of old Gottfried Keller, the rude citizen ofZurich--one of the German writers who was most dear to him by reason of hisvigorous loyalty and his keen savor of the soil:

"_Wer über den Parlein sich wähnt mit stolzen Mienen Der steht zumeistvielmehr beträchtlich unter ihnen. _"

("He who proudly preens himself on being above parties is ratherimmeasurably beneath them. ")

"Have courage and be true, " he went on. "Have courage and be ugly. If youlike bad music, then say so frankly. Show yourselves, see yourselves as youare. Kid your souls of the loathsome burden of all your compromise andequivocation. Wash it in pure water. How long is it since you have seen. Yourselves in a mirror? I will show you yourselves. Composers, _virtuosi_, conductors, singers, and you, dear public. You shall for once knowyourselves. . . . Be what you like: but, for any sake, be true! Be true eventhough art and artists--and I myself--have to suffer for it! If art andtruth cannot live together, then let art disappear. Truth is life. Lies aredeath. "

Naturally, this youthful, wild outburst, which was all of a piece, and invery bad taste, produced an outcry. And yet, as everybody was attacked andnobody in particular, its pertinency was not recognized. Every one is, orbelieves himself to be, or says that he is the best friend of truth: therewas therefore no danger of the conclusions of the article being attacked. Only people were shocked by its general tone: everybody agreed that itwas hardly proper, especially from an artist in a semi-official position. A few musicians began to be uneasy and protested bitterly: they saw thatChristophe would not stop at that. Others thought themselves more cleverand congratulated Christophe on his courage: they were no less uneasy abouthis next articles. 

Both tactics produced the same result. Christophe had plunged: nothingcould stop him: and as he had promised, everybody was passed in survey, composers and interpreters alike. 

The first victims were the _Kapellmeisters_. Christophe did not confinehimself to general remarks on the art of conducting an orchestra. Hementioned his colleagues of his own town and the neighboring towns by name:or if he did not name them his allusions were so transparent that nobodycould be mistaken. Everybody recognized the apathetic conductor of theCourt, Alois von Werner, a cautious old man, laden with honors, who wasafraid of everything, dodged everything, was too timid to make a remark tohis musicians and meekly followed whatever they chose to do, --who neverrisked anything on his programme that had not been consecrated by twentyyears of success, or, at least, guaranteed by the official stamp of someacademic dignity. Christophe ironically applauded his boldness: hecongratulated him on having discovered Gade, Dvorak, or Tschaikowsky: hewaxed enthusiastic over his unfailing correctness, his metronomic equality, the always _fein-nuanciert_ (finely shaded) playing of his orchestra:he proposed to orchestrate the _École de la Vélocité_ of Czerny for hisnext concert, and implored him not to try himself so much, not to giverein to his passions, to look after his precious health. --Or he criedout indignantly upon the way in which he had conducted the _Eroica_ ofBeethoven:

"A cannon! A cannon! Mow me down these people!. . . But have you then no ideaof the conflict, the fight between human stupidity and human ferocity, --andthe strength which tramples them underfoot with a glad shout oflaughter?--How could you know it? It is you against whom it fights! Youexpend all the heroism that is in you in listening or in playing the_Eroica_ of Beethoven without a yawn--(for it bores you. . . . Confess that itbores you to death!)--or in risking a draught as you stand with bare headand bowed back to let some Serene Highness pass. "

He could not be sarcastic enough about the pontiffs of the Conservatorieswho interpreted the great men of the past as "classics. "

"Classical! That word expresses everything. Free passion, arranged andexpurgated for the use of schools! Life, that vast plain swept by thewinds, --inclosed within the four walls of a school playground! The fierce, proud beat of a heart in anguish, reduced to the tic-tacs of a four-tunependulum, which goes its jolly way, hobbling and imperturbably leaning onthe crutch of time!. . . To enjoy the Ocean you need to put it in a bowl withgoldfish. You only understand life when you have killed it. "

If he was not kind to the "bird-stuffers" as he called them, he was evenless kind to the ringmen of the orchestra, the illustrious _Kapellmeisters_who toured the country to show off their flourishes and their dainty hands, those who exercised their virtuosity at the expense of the masters, triedhard to make the most familiar works unrecognizable, and turned somersaultsthrough the hoop of the _Symphony in C minor_. He made them appear as oldcoquettes, _prima donnas_ of the orchestra, gipsies, and rope-dancers. 

The _virtuosi_ naturally provided him with splendid material. He declaredhimself incompetent when he had to criticise their conjuring performances. He said that such mechanical exercises belonged to the School of Arts andCrafts, and that not musical criticism but charts registering the duration, and number of the notes, and the energy expended, could decide the merit ofsuch labors. Sometimes he would set at naught some famous piano _virtuoso_who during a two hours' concert had surmounted the formidable difficulties, with a smile on his lips and his hair hanging down into his eyes--ofexecuting a childish _andante_ of Mozart. --He did not ignore the pleasureof overcoming difficulties. He had tasted it himself: it was one of thejoys of life to him. But only to see the most material aspect of it, and to reduce all the heroism of art to that, seemed to him grotesqueand degrading. He could not forgive the "lions" or "panthers" of thepiano. --But he was not very indulgent either towards the town pedants, famous in Germany, who, while they are rightly anxious not to alter thetext of the masters, carefully suppress every flight of thought, and, likeE. D'Albert and H. Von Bülow, seem to be giving a lesson in diction whenthey are rendering a passionate sonata. 

The singers had their turn. Christophe was full to the brim of things tosay about their barbarous heaviness and their provincial affectations. Itwas not only because of his recent misadventures with the enraged lady, butbecause of all the torture he had suffered during so many performances. Itwas difficult to know which had suffered most, ears or eyes. And Christophehad not enough standards of comparison to be able to have any idea of theugliness of the setting, the hideous costumes, the screaming colors. He wasonly shocked by the vulgarity of the people, their gestures and attitudes, their unnatural playing, the inability of the actors to take on other soulsthan their own, and by the stupefying indifference with which they passedfrom one rôle to another, provided they were written more or less inthe same register. Matrons of opulent flesh, hearty and buxom, appearedalternately as Ysolde and Carmen. Amfortas played Figaro. --But what mostoffended Christophe was the ugliness of the singing, especially in theclassical works in which the beauty of melody is essential. No one inGermany could sing the perfect music of the eighteenth century: no onewould take the trouble. The clear, pure style of Gluck and Mozart which, like that of Goethe, seems to be bathed in the light of Italy--the stylewhich begins to change and to become vibrant and dazzling with Weber--thestyle ridiculed by the ponderous caricatures of the author of_Crociato_--had been killed by the triumph of Wagner. The wild flight ofthe Valkyries with their strident cries had passed over the Grecian sky. The heavy clouds of Odin dimmed the light. No one now thought of singingmusic: they sang poems. Ugliness and carelessness of detail, even falsenotes were let pass under pretext that only the whole, only the thoughtbehind it mattered. . . . 

"Thought! Let us talk of that. As if you understood it!. . . But whether orno you do understand it, I pray you respect the form that thought haschosen for itself. Above all, let music be and remain music!"

And the great concern of German artists with expression and profundity ofthought was, according to Christophe, a good joke. Expression? Thought?Yes, they introduced them into everything--everything impartially. Theywould have found thought in a skein of wool just as much--neither more norless--as in a statue of Michael Angelo. They played anything, anybody'smusic with exactly the same energy. For most of them the great thing inmusic--so he declared--was the volume of sound, just a musical noise. Thepleasure of singing so potent in Germany was in some sort a pleasure ofvocal gymnastics. It was just a matter of being inflated with air andthen letting it go vigorously, powerfully, for a long time together andrhythmically. --And by way of compliment he accorded a certain great singera certificate of good health. He was not content with flaying the artists. He strode over the footlights and trounced the public for coming, gaping, to such performances. The public was staggered and did not know whetherit ought to laugh or be angry. They had every right to cry out upon hisinjustice: they had taken care not to be mixed up in any artistic conflict:they stood aside prudently from any burning question: and to avoid makingany mistake they applauded everything! And now Christophe declared thatit was a crime to applaud!. . . To applaud bad works?--That would have beenenough! But Christophe went further: he stormed at them for applaudinggreat works:

"Humbugs!" he said. "You would have us believe that you have as muchenthusiasm as that?. . . Oh! Come! Spare yourselves the trouble! You onlyprove exactly the opposite of what you are trying to prove. Applaud if youlike those works and passages which in some measure deserve applause. Applaud those loud final movements which are written, as Mozart said, 'forlong ears. ' Applaud as much as you like, then: your braying is anticipated:it is part of the concert. --But after the _Missa Solemnis_ of Beethoven!. . . Poor wretches!. . . It is the Last Judgment. You have just seen the maddening_Gloria_ pass like a storm over the ocean. You have seen the waterspout ofan athletic and tremendous well, which stops, breaks, reaches up to theclouds clinging by its two hands above the abyss, then plunging once moreinto space in full swing. The squall shrieks and whirls along. And whenthe hurricane is at its height there is a sudden modulation, a radiance ofsound which cleaves the darkness of the sky and falls upon the livid sealike a patch of light. It is the end: the furious flight of the destroyingangel stops short, its wings transfixed by these flashes of lightning. Around you all is buzzing and quivering. The eye gazes fixedly forward instupor. The heart beats, breathing stops, the limbs are paralyzed. . . . Andhardly has the last note sounded than already you are gay and merry. Youshout, you laugh, you criticise, you applaud. . . . But you have seen nothing, heard nothing, felt nothing, understood nothing, nothing, nothing, absolutely nothing! The sufferings of an artist are a show to you. Youthink the tears of agony of a Beethoven are finely painted. You would cry'Encore' to the Crucifixion. A great soul struggles all its life long insorrow to divert your idleness for an hour!. . . "

So, without knowing it, he confirmed Goethe's great words: but he had notyet attained his lofty serenity:

"The people make a sport of the sublime. If they could see it as it is, they would be unable to bear its aspect. "

If he had only stopped at that!--But, whirled along by his enthusiasm, heswept past the public and plunged like a cannon ball into the sanctuary, the tabernacle, the inviolable refuge of mediocrity: Criticism. Hebombarded his colleagues. One of them had taken upon himself to attackthe most gifted of living composers, the most advanced representative ofthe new school, Hassler, the writer of programme symphonies, extravagantin truth, but full of genius. Christophe who--as perhaps will beremembered--had been presented to him when he was a child, had always had asecret tenderness for him in his gratitude for the enthusiasm and emotionthat he had had then. To see a stupid critic, whose ignorance he knew, instructing a man of that caliber, calling him to order, and reminding himof set principles, infuriated him:

"Order! Order!" he cried. "You do not know any order but that of thepolice. Genius is not to be dragged along the beaten track. It createsorder, and makes its will a law. "

After this arrogant declaration he took the unlucky critic, considered allthe idiocies he had written for some time past, and administeredcorrection. 

All the critics felt the affront. Up to that time they had stood asidefrom the conflict. They did not care to risk a rebuff: they knewChristophe, they knew his efficiency, and they knew also that he was notlong-suffering. Certain of them had discreetly expressed their regret thatso gifted a composer should dabble in a profession not his own. Whatevermight be their opinion (when they had one), and however hurt they might beby Christophe, they respected in him their own privilege of being able tocriticise everything without being criticised themselves. But when they sawChristophe rudely break the tacit convention which bound them, they saw inhim an enemy of public order. With one consent it seemed revolting to themthat a very young man should take upon himself to show scant respect forthe national glories: and they began a furious campaign against him. Theydid not write long articles or consecutive arguments--(they were unwillingto venture upon such ground with an adversary better armed than themselves:although a journalist has the special faculty of being able to discusswithout taking his adversary's arguments into consideration, and evenwithout having read them)--but long experience had taught them that, as thereader of a paper always agrees with it, even to appear to argue was toweaken its credit with him: it was necessary to affirm, or better still, to deny--(negation is twice as powerful as affirmation: it is a directconsequence of the law of gravity: it is much easier to drop a stone thanto throw it up). --They adopted, therefore, a system of little notes, perfidious, ironic, injurious, which were repeated day by day, in an easilyaccessible position, with unwearying assiduity. They held the insolentChristophe up to ridicule, though they never mentioned him by name, butalways transparently alluded to him. They twisted his words to make themlook absurd: they told anecdotes about him, true for the most part, thoughthe rest were a tissue of lies, nicely calculated to set him at loggerheadswith the whole town, and, worse still, with the Court: even his physicalappearance, his features, his manner of dressing, were attacked andcaricatured in a way that by dint of repetition came to be like him. 

 * * * * *

It would have mattered little to Christophe's friends if their Review hadnot also come in for blows in the battle. In truth, it served rather as anadvertisement: there was no desire to commit the Review to the quarrel:rather the attempt was made to cut Christophe off from it: there wasastonishment that it should so compromise its good name, and they weregiven to understand that if they did not take care steps would be taken, however unpleasant it might be, to make the whole editorial staffresponsible. There were signs of attack, gentle enough, upon Adolf Mai andMannheim, which stirred up the wasps' nest. Mannheim only laughed at it: hethought that it would infuriate his father, his uncles, cousins, and hisinnumerable family, who took upon themselves to watch everything he did andto be scandalized by it. But Adolf Mai took it very seriously and blamedChristophe for compromising the Review. Christophe sent him packing. Theothers who had not been attacked found it rather amusing that Mai, who wasapt to pontificate over them, should be their scapegoat. Waldhaus wassecretly delighted: he said that there was never a fight without a fewheads being broken. Naturally he took good care that it should not be hisown: he thought he was sheltered from onslaught by the position of hisfamily; and his relatives: and he saw no harm in the Jews, his allies, being mauled a little. Ehrenfeld and Goldenring, who were so far untouched, would not have been worried by attack: they could reply. But what did touchthem on the raw was that Christophe should go on persistently putting themin the wrong with their friends, and especially their women friends. Theyhad laughed loudly at the first articles and thought them good fun: theyadmired Christophe's vigorous window-smashing: they thought they had onlyto give the word to check his combativeness, or at least to turn his attackfrom men and women whom they might mention. --But no. Christophe wouldlisten to nothing: he paid no heed to any remark and went on like a madman. If they let him go on there would be no living in the place. Already theiryoung women friends, furious and in tears, had come and made scenes atthe offices of the Review. They brought all their diplomacy to bear onChristophe to persuade him at least to moderate certain of his criticisms:Christophe changed nothing. They lost their tempers: Christophe lost his, but he changed nothing. Waldhaus was amused by the unhappiness of hisfriends, which in no wise touched him, and took Christophe's part toannoy them. Perhaps also he was more capable than they of appreciatingChristophe's extravagance, who with head down hurled himself uponeverything without keeping any line of retreat, or preparing any refuge forthe future. As for Mannheim he was royally amused by the farce: it seemedto him a good joke to have introduced this madman among these correctpeople, and he rocked with laughter both at the blows which Christophedealt and at those which he received. Although under his sister's influencehe was beginning to think that Christophe was decidedly a little cracked, he only liked him the more for it--(it was necessary for him to find thosewho were in sympathy with him a little absurd). --And so he joined Waldhausin supporting Christophe against the others. 

As he was not wanting in practical sense, in spite of all his efforts topretend to the contrary, he thought very justly that it would be to hisfriend's advantage to ally himself with the cause of the most advancedmusical party in the country. 

As in most German towns, there was in the town a _Wagner-Verein_, whichrepresented new ideas against the conservative element. --In truth, therewas no great risk in defending Wagner when his fame was acknowledgedeverywhere and his works included in the repertory of every Opera Housein Germany. And yet his victory was rather won by force than by universalaccord, and at heart the majority were obstinately conservative, especiallyin the small towns such as this which have been rather left outside thegreat modern movements and are rather proud of their ancient fame. Morethan anywhere else there reigned the distrust, so innate in the Germanpeople, of anything new, the sort of laziness in feeling anything true orpowerful which has not been pondered and digested by several generations. It was apparent in the reluctance with which--if not the works of Wagnerwhich are beyond discussion--every new work inspired by the Wagnerianspirit was accepted. And so the _Wagner-Vereine_ would have had a usefultask to fulfil if they had set themselves to defend all the young andoriginal forces in art. Sometimes they did so, and Bruckner or Hugo Wolffound in some of them their best allies. But too often the egoism ofthe master weighed upon his disciples: and just as Bayreuth serves onlymonstrously to glorify one man, the _offshoots_ of Bayreuth were littlechurches in which Mass was eternally sung in honor of the one God. Atthe most the faithful disciples were admitted to the side chapels, thedisciples who applied the hallowed doctrines to the letter, and, prostratein the dust, adored the only Divinity with His many faces: music, poetry, drama, and metaphysics. 

The _Wagner-Verein_ of the town was in exactly this case. --However, theywent through the form of activity: they were always trying to enroll youngmen of talent who looked as though they might be useful to it: and they hadlong had their eyes on Christophe. They had discreetly made advances tohim, of which Christophe had not taken any notice, because he felt no needof being associated with anybody: he could not understand the necessitywhich drove his compatriots always to be banding themselves together ingroups, being unable to do anything alone: neither to sing, nor to walk, nor to drink. He was averse to all _Vereinswesen_. But on the whole he wasmore kindly disposed to the _Wagner-Verein_ than to any other _Verein_: atleast they did provide an excuse for fine concerts: and although he didnot share all the Wagnerian ideas on art, he was much nearer them thanto those of any other group in music. He could he thought find commonground with a party which was as unjust as himself towards Brahms andthe "Brahmins. " So he let himself be put up for it. Mannheim introducedhim: he knew everybody. Without being a musician he was a member of the_Wagner-Verein_. --The managing committee had followed the campaign whichChristophe was conducting in the Review. His slaughter in the opposing camphad seemed to them to give signs of a strong grip which it would be as wellto have in their service. Christophe had also let fly certain disrespectfulremarks about the sacred fetish: but they had preferred to close their eyesto that: and perhaps his attacks, not yet very offensive, had not beenwithout their influence, unconsciously, in making them so eager to enrollChristophe before he had time to deliver himself manfully. They came andvery amiably asked his permission to play some of his compositions at oneof the approaching concerts of the Association. Christophe was flattered, and accepted: he went to the _Wagner-Verein_, and, urged by Mannheim, hewas made a member. 

At that time there were at the head of the _Wagner-Verein_ two men, of whomone enjoyed a certain notoriety as a writer, and the other as a conductor. Both had a Mohammedan belief in Wagner. The first, Josias Kling, hadcompiled a Wagner Dictionary--_Wagner Lexikon_--which made it possible in amoment to know the master's thoughts _de omni re scibili_: it had been hislife's work. He was capable of reciting whole chapters of it at table, asthe French provincials used to troll the songs of the Maid. He used alsoto publish in the _Bayreuther Blätter_ articles on Wagner and the AryanSpirit. Of course, Wagner was to him the type of the pure Aryan, of whomthe German race had remained the last inviolable refuge against thecorrupting influences of Latin Semitism, especially the French. He declaredthat the impure French spirit was finally destroyed, though he did notdesist from attacking it bitterly day by day as though the eternal enemywere still a menace. He would only acknowledge one great man in France:the Count of Gobineau. Kling was a little man, very little, and he used toblush like a girl. --The other pillar of the _Wagner-Verein_, Erich Lauber, had been manager of a chemical works until four years before: then he hadgiven up everything to become a conductor. He had succeeded by force ofwill, and because he was very rich. He was a Bayreuth fanatic: it was saidthat he had gone there on foot, from Munich, wearing pilgrim's sandals. Itwas a strange thing that a man who had read much, traveled much, practiseddivers professions, and in everything displayed an energetic personality, should have become in music a sheep of Panurge: all his originality wasexpended in his being a little more stupid than the others. He was notsure enough of himself in music to trust to his own personal feelings, and so he slavishly followed the interpretations of Wagner given by the_Kapellmeisters_, and the licensees of Bayreuth. He desired to reproduceeven to the smallest detail the setting and the variegated costumes whichdelighted the puerile and barbarous taste of the little Court of Wahnfried. He was like the fanatical admirer of Michael Angelo who used to reproducein his copies even the cracks in the wall of the moldy patches which hadthemselves been hallowed by their appearance in the hallowed pictures. 

Christophe was not likely to approve greatly of the two men. But they weremen of the world, pleasant, and both well-read: and Lauber's conversationwas always interesting on any other subject than music. He was a bit of acrank: and Christophe did not dislike cranks: they were a change from thehorrible banality of reasonable people. He did not yet know that there isnothing more devastating than an irrational man, and that originality iseven more rare among those who are called "originals" than among the rest. For these "originals" are simply maniacs whose thoughts are reduced toclockwork. 

Josias Kling and Lauber, being desirous of winning Christophe's support, were at first very keenly interested in him. Kling wrote a eulogisticarticle about him and Lauber followed all his directions when he conductedhis compositions at one of the concerts of the Society. Christophe wastouched by it all. Unfortunately all their attentions were spoiled by thestupidity of those who paid them. He had not the facility of pretendingabout people because they admired him. He was exacting. He demanded that noone should admire him for the opposite of what he was: and he was alwaysprone to regard as enemies those who were his friends, by mistake. Andso he was not at all pleased with Kling for seeing in him a disciple ofWagner, and trying to see connections between passages of his _Lieder_and passages of the _Tetralogy_, which had nothing in common but certainnotes of the scale. And he had no pleasure in hearing one of hisworks sandwiched--together with a worthless imitation by a Wagnerianstudent--between two enormous blocks of Wagnerian drama. 

It was not long before he was stifled in the little chapel. It was justanother Conservatoire, as narrow as the old Conservatoires, and moreintolerant because it was the latest comer in art. Christophe began to losehis illusions about the absolute value of a form of art or of thought. Hitherto he had always believed that great ideas bear their own lightwithin themselves. Now he saw that ideas may change, but that men remainthe same: and, in fine, nothing counted but men: ideas were what they were. If they were born mediocre and servile, even genius became mediocre in itspassage through their souls, and the shout of freedom of the hero breakinghis bonds became the act of slavery of succeeding generations. --Christophecould mot refrain from expressing his feelings. He let no opportunityslip of jeering at fetishism in art. He declared that there was no needof idols, or classics of any sort, and that he only had the right to callhimself the heir of the spirit of Wagner who was capable of tramplingWagner underfoot and so walking on and keeping himself in close communionwith life. Kling's stupidity made Christophe aggressive. He set out allthe faults and absurdities he could see in Wagner. The Wagnerians at oncecredited him with a grotesque jealousy of their God. Christophe for hispart had no doubt that these same people who exalted Wagner since he wasdead would have been the first to strangle him in his life: and he didthem an injustice. The Klings and the Laubers also had had their hour ofillumination: they had been advanced twenty years ago: and then like mostpeople they had stopped short at that. Man has so little force that he isout of breath after the first ascent: very few are long-winded enough to goon. 

Christophe's attitude quickly alienated him from his new friends. Theirsympathy was a bargain: he had to side with them if they were to side withhim: and it was quite evident that Christophe would not yield an inch: hewould not join them. They lost their enthusiasm for him. The eulogies whichhe refused to accord to the gods and demi-gods who were approved by thecult, were withheld from him. They showed less eagerness to welcome hiscompositions: and some of the members began to protest against his namebeing too often on the programmes. They laughed at him behind his back, andcriticism went on: Kling and Lauber by not protesting seemed to take partin it. They would have avoided a breach with Christophe if possible: firstbecause the minds of the Germans of the Rhine like mixed solutions, solutions which are not solutions, and have the privilege of prolongingindefinitely an ambiguous situation: and secondly, because they hoped inspite of everything to be able to make use of him, by wearing him down, ifnot by persuasion. 

Christophe gave them no time for it. Whenever he thought he felt that atheart any man disliked him, but would not admit it and tried to cover it upso as to remain on good terms with him, he would never rest until he hadsucceeded in proving to him that he was his enemy. One evening at the_Wagner-Verein_ when he had come up against a wall of hypocriticalhostility, he could bear it no longer and sent in his resignation to Lauberwithout wasting words. Lauber could not understand it: and Mannheimhastened to Christophe to try and pacify him. At his first words Christopheburst out:

"No, no, no, --no! Don't talk to me about these people. I will not see themagain. . . . I cannot. I cannot. . . . I am disgusted, horribly, with men: I canhardly bear to look at one. "

Mannheim laughed heartily. He was thinking much less of smoothingChristophe down than of having the fun of it. 

"I know that they are not beautiful, " he said; "but that is nothing new:what new thing has happened?"

"Nothing. I have had enough, that is all. . . . Yes, laugh, laugh at me:everybody knows I am mad. Prudent people act in accordance with the laws oflogic and reason and sanity. I am not like that: I am a man who acts onlyon his own impulse. When a certain quantity of electricity is accumulatedin me it has to expend itself, at all costs: and so much the worse for theothers if it touches them! And so much the worse for them! I am not madefor living in society. Henceforth I shall belong only to myself. "

"You think you can do without everybody else?" said Mannheim. "You cannotplay your music all by yourself. You need singers, an orchestra, aconductor, an audience, a claque. . . . "

Christophe shouted. 

"No! no! no!"

But the last word made him jump. 

"A claque! Are you not ashamed?"

"I am not talking of a paid claque--(although, indeed, it is the onlymeans yet discovered of revealing the merit of a composition to theaudience). --But you must have a claque: the author's coterie is a claque, properly drilled by him: every author has his claque: that is what friendsare for. "

"I don't want any friends!"

"Then you will be hissed. "

"I want to be hissed!"

Mannheim was in the seventh heaven. 

"You won't have even that pleasure for long. They won't play you. "

"So be it, then! Do you think I care about being a famous man?. . . Yes. Iwas making for that with all my might. . . . Nonsense! Folly! Idiocy!. . . As ifthe satisfaction of the vulgarest sort of pride could compensate for allthe sacrifices--weariness, suffering, infamy, insults, degradation, ignobleconcessions--which are the price of fame! Devil take me if I ever bother myhead about such things again! Never again! Publicity is a vulgar infamy. Iwill be a private citizen and live for myself and those whom I love. . . . "

"Good, " said Mannheim ironically. "You must choose a profession. Whyshouldn't you make shoes?"

"Ah! if I were a cobbler like the incomparable Sachs!" cried Christophe. "How happy my life would be! A cobbler all through the week, --and amusician on Sunday, privately, intimately, for my own pleasure and that ofmy friends! What a life that would be!. . . Am I mad, to waste my time andtrouble for the magnificent pleasure of being a prey to the judgment ofidiots? Is it not much better and finer to be loved and understood by afew honest men than to be heard, criticised, and toadied by thousands offools?. . . The devil of pride and thirst for fame shall never again take me:trust me for that!"

"Certainly, " said Mannheim. He thought:

"In an hour he will say just the opposite. " He remarked quietly:

"Then I am to go and smooth things down with the _Wagner-Verein_?"

Christophe waved his arms. 

"What is the good of my shouting myself hoarse with telling you 'No', forthe last hour?. . . I tell you that I will never set foot inside it again! Iloathe all these _Wagner-Vereine_, all these _Vereine_, all these flocks ofsheep who have to huddle together to be able to baa in unison. Go and tellthose sheep from me that I am a wolf, that I have teeth, and am not madefar the pasture!"

"Good, good, I will tell them, " said Mannheim, as he went. He was delightedwith his morning's entertainment. He thought:

"He is mad, mad, mad as a hatter. . . . "

His sister, to whom he reported the interview, at once shrugged hershoulders and said:

"Mad? He would like us to think so!. . . He is stupid, and absurdly vain. . . . "

 * * * * *

Christophe went on with his fierce campaign in Waldhaus's Review. It wasnot that it gave him pleasure: criticism disgusted him, and he was alwayswishing it at the bottom of the sea. But he stuck to it because people weretrying to stop him: he did not wish to appear to have given in. 

Waldhaus was beginning to be uneasy. As long as he was out of reach he hadlooked on at the affray with the calmness of an Olympian god. But for someweeks past the other papers had seemed to be beginning to disregard hisinviolability: they had begun to attack his vanity as a writer with arare malevolence in which, had Waldhaus been more subtle, he might haverecognized the hand of a friend. As a matter of fact, the attacks werecunningly instigated by Ehrenfeld and Goldenring: they could see no otherway of inducing him to stop Christophe's polemics. Their perception wasjustified. Waldhaus at once declared that Christophe was beginning to wearyhim: and he withdrew his support. All the staff of the Review then triedhard to silence Christophe! But it were as easy to muzzle a dog whois about to devour his prey! Everything they said to him only excitedhim more. He called them poltroons and declared that he would sayeverything--everything that he ought to say. If they wished to get rid ofhim, they were free to do so! The whole town would know that they were ascowardly as the rest: but he would not go of his own accord. 

They looked at each other in consternation, bitterly blaming Mannheim forthe trick he had played them in bringing such a madman among them. Mannheimlaughed and tried hard to curb Christophe himself: and he vowed that withthe next article Christophe would water his wine. They were incredulous:but the event proved that Mannheim had not boasted vainly. Christophe'snext article, though not a model of courtesy, did not contain a singleoffensive remark about anybody. Mannheim's method was very simple: theywere all amazed at not having thought of it before: Christophe never readwhat he wrote in the Review, and he hardly read the proofs of his articles, only very quickly and carelessly. Adolf Mai had more than once passedcaustic remarks on the subject: he said that a printer's error was adisgrace to a Review: and Christophe, who did not regard criticismaltogether as an art, replied that those who were upbraided in it wouldunderstand well enough. Mannheim turned this to account: he said thatChristophe was right and that correcting proofs was printers' work: and heoffered to take it over. Christophe was overwhelmed with gratitude: butthey told him that such an arrangement would be of service to them and asaving of time for the Review. So Christophe left his proofs to Mannheimand asked him to correct them carefully. Mannheim did: it was sport forhim. At first he only ventured to tone down certain phrases and to deletehere and there certain ungracious epithets. Emboldened by success, hewent further with his experiments: he began to alter sentences and theirmeaning: and he was really skilful in it. The whole art of it consisted inpreserving the general appearance of the sentence and its characteristicform while making it say exactly the opposite of what Christophe had meant. Mannheim took far more trouble to disfigure Christophe's articles than hewould have done to write them himself: never had he worked so hard. But heenjoyed the result: certain musicians whom Christophe had hitherto pursuedwith his sarcasms were astounded to see him grow gradually gentle and atlast sing their praises. The staff of the Review were delighted. Mannheimused to read aloud his lucubrations to them. They roared with laughter. Ehrenfeld and Goldenring would say to Mannheim occasionally:

"Be careful! You are going too far. "

"There's no danger, " Mannheim would say. And he would go on with it. 

Christophe never noticed anything. He used to go to the office of theReview, leave his copy, and not bother about it any more. Sometimes hewould take Mannheim aside and say:

"This time I really have done for the swine. Just read. . . . "

Mannheim would read. 

"Well, what do you think of it?"

"Terrible, my dear fellow, there's nothing left of them!"

"What do you think they will say?"

"Oh! there will be a fine row. "

But there never was a row. On the contrary, everybody beamed at Christophe:people whom he detested would bow to him in the street. One day he came tothe office uneasy and scowling: and, throwing a visiting card on the table, he asked:

"What does this mean?"

It was the card of a musician whom he slaughtered. 

"_A thousand thanks_. "

Mannheim replied with a laugh:

"It is ironical. "

Christophe was set at rest. 

"Oh!" he said. "I was afraid my article had pleased him. "

"He is furious, " said Ehrenfeld: "but he does not wish to seem so: he isposing as the strong man, and is just laughing. "

"Laughing?. . . Swine!" said Christophe, furious once more. "I shall writeanother article about him. He laughs best who laughs last. "

"No, no, " said Waldhaus anxiously. "I don't think he is laughing at you. Itis humility: he is a good Christian. He is holding out the other cheek tothe smiter. "

"So much the better!" said Christophe. "Ah! Coward! He has asked for it: heshall have his flogging. "

Waldhaus tried to intervene. But the others laughed. 

"Let him be. . . . " said Mannheim. 

"After all . . . " replied Waldhaus, suddenly reassured, "a little more orless makes no matter!. . . "

Christophe went away. His colleagues rocked and roared with laughter. Whenthey had had their fill of it Waldhaus said to Mannheim:

"All the same, it was a narrow squeak. . . . Please be careful. We shall becaught yet. "

"Bah!" said Mannheim. "We have plenty of time. . . . And besides, I am makingfriends for him. "

II

ENGULFED

Christophe had got so far with his clumsy efforts towards the reform ofGerman art when there happened to pass through the town a troupe of Frenchactors. It would be more exact to say, a band; for, as usual, they werea collection of poor devils, picked up goodness knows where, and youngunknown players too happy to learn their art, provided they were allowed toact. They were all harnessed to the chariot of a famous and elderly actresswho was making tour of Germany, and passing through the little princelytown, gave their performances there. 

Waldhaus' review made a great fuss over them. Mannheim and his friends knewor pretended to know about the literary and social life of Paris: they usedto repeat gossip picked up in the boulevard newspapers and more or lessunderstood; they represented the French spirit in Germany. That robbedChristophe of any desire to know more about it. Mannheim used to overwhelmhim with praises of Paris. He had been there several times; certain membersof his family were there. He had relations in every country in Europe, andthey had everywhere assumed the nationality and aspect of the country:this tribe of the seed of Abraham included an English baronet, a Belgiansenator, a French minister, a deputy in the _Reichstag_, and a Papal Count;and all of them, although they were united and filled with respect for thestock from which they sprang, were sincerely English, Belgian, French, German, or Papal, for their pride never allowed of doubt that the countryof their adoption was the greatest of all. Mannheim was paradoxically theonly one of them who was pleased to prefer all the countries to which hedid not belong. He used often to talk of Paris enthusiastically, but as hewas always extravagant in his talk, and, by way of praising the Parisians, used to represent them as a species of scatterbrains, lewd and rowdy, who spent their time in love-making and revolutions without ever takingthemselves seriously, Christophe was not greatly attracted by the"Byzantine and decadent republic beyond the Vosges. " He used rather toimagine Paris as it was presented in a naïve engraving which he had seenas a frontispiece to a book that had recently appeared in a German artpublication; the Devil of Notre Dame appeared huddled up above the roofsof the town with the legend:

"_Eternal luxury like an insatiable Vampire devours its prey above thegreat city. _"

Like a good German he despised the debauched Volcae and their literature, of which he only knew lively buffooneries like _L'Aiglon, Madame SansGêne_, and a few café songs. The snobbishness of the little town, wherethose people who were most notoriously incapable of being interested inart flocked noisily to take places at the box office, brought him to anaffectation of scornful indifference towards the great actress. He vowedthat he would not go one yard to hear her. It was the easier for him tokeep his promise as seats had reached an exorbitant price which he couldnot afford. 

The repertory which the French actors had brought included a few classicalpieces; but for the most part it was composed of those idiotic pieces whichare expressly manufactured in Paris for exportation, for nothing is moreinternational than mediocrity. Christophe knew _La Tosca_, which was to bethe first production of the touring actors; he had seen it in translationadorned with all those easy graces which the company of a little Rhenishtheater can give to a French play: and he laughed scornfully and declaredthat he was very glad, when he saw his friends go off to the theater, notto have to see it again. But next day he listened none the less eagerly, without seeming to listen, to the enthusiastic tales of the delightfulevening they had had: he was angry at having lost the right to contradictthem by having refused to see what everybody was talking about. 

The second production announced was a French translation of _Hamlet_. Christophe had never missed an opportunity of seeing a play ofShakespeare's. Shakespeare was to him of the same order as Beethoven, aninexhaustible spring of life. _Hamlet_ had been specially dear to himduring the period of stress and tumultuous doubts through which he had justpassed. In spite of his fear of seeing himself reflected in that magicmirror he was fascinated by it: and he prowled about the theater notices, though he did not admit that he was longing to book a seat. But he was soobstinate that after what he had said to his friends he would not eat hiswords: and he would have stayed at home that evening if chance had notbrought him in contact with Mannheim just as he was sadly going home. 

Mannheim took his arm and told him angrily, though he never ceased hisbanter, that an old beast of a relation, his father's sister, had just comedown upon them with all her retinue and that they had all to stay at hometo welcome her. He had time to get out of it: but his father would brook notrifling with questions of family etiquette and the respect due to elderlyrelatives: and as he had to handle his father carefully because he wantedpresently to get money out of him, he had had to give in and not go to theplay. 

"You had tickets?" asked Christophe. 

"An excellent box: and I have to go and give it--(I am just going now)--tothat old pig, Grünebaum, papa's partner, so that he can swagger there withthe she Grünebaum and their turkey hen of a daughter. Jolly!. . . I want tofind something very disagreeable to say to them. They won't mind so long asI give them the tickets--although they would much rather they werebanknotes. "

He stopped short with his month open and looked at Christophe:

"Oh! but--but just the man I want!" He chuckled:

"Christophe, are you going to the theater?"

"No. "

"Good. You shall go. I ask it as a favor. Yon cannot refuse. "

Christophe did not understand. 

"But I have no seat. "

"Here you are!" said Mannheim triumphantly, thrusting the ticket into hishand. 

"You are mad, " said Christophe. "What about your father's orders?"

Mannheim laughed:

"He will be furious!" he said. 

He dried his eyes and went on:

"I shall tap him to-morrow morning as soon as he is up before he knowsanything. "

"I cannot accept, " said Christophe, "knowing that he would not like it. "

"It does not concern you: you know nothing about it. "

Christophe had unfolded the ticket:

"And what would I do with a box for four?"

"Whatever you like. You can sleep in it, dance if you like. Take somewomen. You must know some? If need be we can lend you some. "

Christophe held out the ticket to Mannheim:

"Certainly not. Take it back. "

"Not I, " said Mannheim, stepping back a pace. "I can't force you to go ifit bores you, but I shan't take it back. You can throw it in the fire oreven take it virtuously to the Grünebaums. I don't care. Good-night!"

He left Christophe in the middle of the street, ticket in hand, and wentaway. 

Christophe was unhappy about it. He said to himself that he ought to takeit to the Grünebaums: but he was not keen about the idea. He went homestill pondering, and when later he looked at the clock he saw that he hadonly just time enough to dress for the theater. It would be too silly towaste the ticket. He asked his mother to go with him. But Louisa declaredthat she would rather go to bed. He went. At heart he was filled withchildish glee at the thought of his evening. Only one thing worried him:the thought of having to be alone in such a pleasure. He had no remorseabout Mannheim's father or the Grünebaums, whose box he was taking: but hewas remorseful about those whom he might have taken with him. He thought ofthe joy it could give to other young people like himself: and it hurt himnot to be able to give it them. He cast about but could find nobody to whomhe could offer his ticket. Besides, it was late and he must hurry. 

As he entered the theater he passed by the closed window on which a posterannounced that there was not a single seat left in the office. Among thepeople who were turning away from it disappointedly he noticed a girl whocould not make up her mind to leave and was enviously watching the peoplegoing in. She was dressed very simply in black; she was not very tall; herface was thin and she looked delicate; and at the moment he did not noticewhether she were pretty or plain. He passed her: then he stopped, turned, and without stopping to think:

"You can't get a seat, Fräulein?" he asked point-blank. 

She blushed and said with a foreign accent:

"No, sir. "

"I have a box which I don't know what to do with. Will you make use of itwith me?"

She blushed again and thanked him and said she could not accept. Christophewas embarrassed by her refusal, begged her pardon and tried to insist, buthe could not persuade her, although it was obvious that she was dying toaccept. He was very perplexed. He made up his mind suddenly. 

"There is a way out of the difficulty, " he said. "You take the ticket. Idon't want it. I have seen the play. " (He was boasting). "It will give youmore pleasure than me. Take it, please. "

The girl was so touched by his proposal and the cordial manner in which itwas made that tears all but came to her eyes. She murmured gratefully thatshe could not think of depriving him of it. 

"Then, come, " he said, smiling. 

He looked so kind and honest that she was ashamed of having refused, andshe said in some confusion:

"Thank you. I will come. "

 * * * * *

They went in. The Mannheims' box was wide, big, and faced the stage: it wasimpossible not to be seen in it if they had wished. It is useless to saythat their entry passed unnoticed. Christophe made the girl sit at thefront, while he stayed a little behind so as not to embarrass her. She satstiffly upright, not daring to turn her head: she was horribly shy: shewould have given much not to have accepted. To give her time to recover hercomposure and not knowing what to talk to her about, Christophe pretendedto look the other way. Whichever way he looked it was easily seen that hispresence with an unknown companion among the brilliant people of the boxeswas exciting much curiosity and comment. He darted furious glances atthose who were looking at him: he was angry that people should go on beinginterested in him when he took no interest in them. It did not occur to himthat their indiscreet curiosity was more busied with his companion thanwith himself and that there was more offense in it. By way of showing hisutter indifference to anything they might say or think he leaned towardsthe girl and began to talk to her. She looked so scared by his talking andso unhappy at having to reply, and it seemed to be so difficult for her towrench out a "Yes" or a "No" without ever daring to look at him, that hetook pity on her shyness, and drew back to a corner. Fortunately the playbegan. 

Christophe had not seen the play bill and he hardly cared to know what partthe great actress was playing: he was one of those simple people who goto the theater to see the play and not the actors. He had never wonderedwhether the famous player would be Ophelia or the Queen; if he had wonderedabout it he would have inclined towards the Queen, bearing in naiad theages of the two ladies. But it could never have occurred to him that shewould play Hamlet. When he saw Hamlet, and heard his mechanical dollysqueak, it was some time before he could believe it; he wondered if he werenot dreaming. 

"But who? Who is it?" he asked half aloud. "It can't be. . . . "

And when he had to accept that it _was_ Hamlet, he rapped out an oath, which fortunately his companion did not hear, because she was a foreigner, though it was heard perfectly in the next box: for he was at onceindignantly bidden to be silent. He withdrew to the back of the box toswear his fill. He could not recover his temper. If he had been just hewould have given homage to the elegance of the travesty and the _tour deforce_ of nature and art, which made it possible for a woman of sixty toappear in a youth's costume and even to seem beautiful in it--at least tokindly eyes. But he hated all _tours de force_, everything which violatesand falsifies Nature, He liked a woman to be a woman, and a man a man. (Itdoes not often happen nowadays. ) The childish and absurd travesty of theLeonora of Beethoven did not please him much. But this travesty of Hamletwas beyond all dreams of the preposterous. To make of the robust Dane, fat and pale, choleric, cunning, intellectual, subject to hallucinations, a woman, --not even a woman: for a woman playing the man can only bea monster, --to make of Hamlet a eunuch or an androgynous betwixt andbetween, --the times must be flabby indeed, criticism must be idiotic, tolet such disgusting folly be tolerated for a single day and not hissedoff the boards! The actress's voice infuriated Christophe. She had thatsinging, labored diction, that monotonous melopoeia which seems to havebeen dear to the least poetic people in the world since the days of the_Champmeslé_ and the _Hôtel de Bourgogne_. Christophe was so exasperated byit that he wanted to go away. He turned his back on the scene, and he madehideous faces against the wall of the box like a child put in the corner. Fortunately his companion dared not look at him: for if she had seen himshe would have thought him mad. 

Suddenly Christophe stopped making faces. He stopped still and made nosound. A lovely musical voice, a young woman's voice, grave and sweet, washeard. Christophe pricked his ears. As she went on with her words he turnedagain, keenly interested to see what bird could warble so. He saw Ophelia. In truth she was nothing like the Ophelia of Shakespeare. She was abeautiful girl, tall, big and fine like a young fresh statue--Electra orCassandra. She was brimming with life. In spite of her efforts to keepwithin her part, the force of youth and joy that was in her shone forthfrom her body, her movements, her gestures, her brown eyes that laughed inspite of herself. Such is the power of physical beauty that Christophe whoa moment before had been merciless in judging the interpretation of Hamletnever for a moment thought of regretting that Ophelia was hardly at alllike his image of her: and he sacrificed his image to the present vision ofher remorselessly. With the unconscious faithlessness of people of passionhe even found a profound truth in the youthful ardor brimming in the depthsof the chaste and unhappy virgin heart. But the magic of the voice, pure, warm, and velvety, worked the spell: every word sounded like a lovelychord: about every syllable there hovered like the scent of thyme or wildmint the laughing accent of the Midi with its full rhythm. Strange was thisvision of an Ophelia from Arles! In it was something of that golden sun andits wild northwest wind, its _mistral_. 

Christophe forgot his companion and came and sat by her side at the frontof the box: he never took his eyes off the beautiful actress whose name hedid not know. But the audience who had not come to see an unknown playerpaid no attention to her, and only applauded when the female Hamlet spoke. That made Christophe growl and call them: "Idiots!" in a low voice whichcould be heard ten yards away. 

It was not until the curtain was lowered upon the first act that heremembered the existence of his companion, and seeing that she was stillshy he thought with a smile of how he must have scared her with hisextravagances. He was not far wrong: the girl whom chance had thrown in hiscompany for a few hours was almost morbidly shy; she must have been in anabnormal state of excitement to have accepted Christophe's invitation. Shehad hardly accepted it than she had wished at any cost to get out of it, tomake some excuse and to escape. It had been much worse for her when she hadseen that she was an object of general curiosity, and her unhappiness hadbeen increased almost past endurance when she heard behind her back--(shedared not turn round)--her companion's low growls and imprecations. Sheexpected anything now, and when he came and sat by her she was frozen withterror: what eccentricity would he commit next? She would gladly have sunkinto the ground fathoms down. She drew back instinctively: she was afraidof touching him. 

But all her fears vanished when the interval came and she heard him sayquite kindly:

"I am an unpleasant companion, eh? I beg your pardon. "

Then she looked at him and saw his kind smile which had induced her to comewith him. 

He went on:

"I cannot hide what I think. . . . But you know it is too much!. . . That woman, that old woman!. . . "

He made a face of disgust. 

She smiled and said in a low voice:

"It is fine in spite of everything. "

He noticed her accent and asked:

"You are a foreigner?"

"Yes, " said she. 

He looked at her modest gown. 

"A governess?" he said. 

"Yes. "

"What nationality?"

She said:

"I am French. "

He made a gesture of surprise:

"French? I should not have thought it. "

"Why?" she asked timidly. 

"You are so . . . Serious!" said he. 

(She thought it was not altogether a compliment from him. )

"There are serious people also in France, " said she confusedly. He lookedat her honest little face, with its broad forehead, little straight nose, delicate chin, and thin cheeks framed in her chestnut hair. It was not shethat he saw: he was thinking of the beautiful actress. He repeated:

"It is strange that you should be French!. . . Are you really of the samenationality as Ophelia? One would never think it"

After a moment's silence he went on:

"How beautiful she is!" without noticing that he seemed to be making acomparison between the actress and his companion that was not at allflattering to her. But she felt it: but she did not mind: for she was ofthe same opinion. He tried to find out about the actress from her: but sheknew nothing: it was plain that she did not know much about the theater. 

"You must be glad to hear French?" he asked. He meant it in jest, but hetouched her. 

"Ah!" she said with an accent of sincerity which struck him, "it does me somuch good! I am stifled here. "

He looked at her more closely: she clasped her hands, and seemed to beoppressed. But at once she thought of how her words might hurt him:

"Forgive me, " she said. "I don't know what I am saying. "

He laughed:

"Don't beg pardon! You are quite right. You don't need to be French to bestifled here. Ouf!"

He threw back his shoulders and took a long breath. 

But she was ashamed of having been so free and relapsed into silence. Besides she had just seen that the people in the boxes next to them werelistening to what they were saying: he noticed it too and was wrathful. They broke off: and until the end of the interval he went out into thecorridor. The girl's words were ringing in his ears, but he was lost indreams: the image of Ophelia filled his thoughts. During the succeedingacts she took hold of him completely, and when the beautiful actress cameto the mad scene and the melancholy songs of love and death, her voice gaveforth notes so moving that he was bowled over: he felt that he was goingto burst into tears. Angry with himself for what he took to be a signof weakness--(for he would not admit that a true artist can weep)--andnot wishing to make an object of himself, he left the box abruptly. Thecorridors and the foyer were empty. In his agitation he went down thestairs of the theater and went out without knowing it. He had to breathethe cold night air, and to go striding through the dark, half-emptystreets. He came to himself by the edge of a canal, and leaned on theparapet of the bank and watched the silent water whereon the reflectionsof the street lamps danced in the darkness. His soul was like that: it wasdark and heaving: he could see nothing in it but great joy dancing on thesurface. The clocks rang the hour. It was impossible for him to go back tothe theater and hear the end of the play. To see the triumph of Fortinbras?No, that did not tempt him. A fine triumph that! Who thinks of envying theconqueror? Who would be he after being gorged with all the wild and absurdsavagery of life? The whole play is a formidable indictment of life. Butthere is such a power of life in it that sadness becomes joy, andbitterness intoxicates. . . . 

Christophe went home without a thought for the unknown girl, whose nameeven he had not ascertained. 

 * * * * *

Next morning he went to see the actress at the little third-rate hotel inwhich the impresario had quartered her with her comrades while the greatactress had put up at the best hotel in the town. He was conducted to avery untidy room where the remains of breakfast were left on an open piano, together with hairpins and torn and dirty sheets of music. In the next roomOphelia was singing at the top of her voice, like a child, for the pleasureof making a noise. She stopped for a moment when her visitor was announcedto ask merrily in a loud voice without ever caring whether she were heardthrough the wall:

"What does he want? What is his name? Christophe? Christophe what?Christophe Krafft? What a name!"

(She repeated it two or three times, rolling her _r_'s terribly. )

"It is like a swear--"

(She swore. )

"Is he young or old? Pleasant? Very well. I'll come. "

She began to sing again:

"_Nothing is sweeter than my love_. . . . " while she rushed about her roomcursing a tortoise-shell pin which had got lost in all the rubbish. Shelost patience, began to grumble, and roared. Although he could not see herChristophe followed all her movements on the other side of the wall inimagination and laughed to himself. At last he heard steps approaching, thedoor was flung open, and Ophelia appeared. 

She was half dressed, in a loose gown which she was holding about herwaist: her bare arms showed in her wide sleeves: her hair was carelesslydone, and locks of it fell down into her eyes and over her cheeks. Herfine brown eyes smiled, her lips smiled, her cheeks smiled, and a charmingdimple in her chin smiled. In her beautiful grave melodious voice she askedhim to excuse her appearance. She knew that there was nothing to excuse andthat he could only be very grateful to her for it. She thought he was ajournalist come to interview her. Instead of being annoyed when he told herthat he had come to her entirely of his own accord and because he admiredher, she was delighted. She was a good girl, affectionate, delighted toplease, and making no effort to conceal her delight. Christophe's visit andhis enthusiasm made her very happy--(she was not yet spoiled by flattery). She was so natural in all her movements and ways, even in her littlevanities and her naïve delight in giving pleasure, that he was notembarrassed for a single moment. They became old friends at once. He couldjabber a few words of French: and she could jabber a few words of German:after an hour they told each other all their secrets. She never thoughtof sending him away. The splendid gay southern creature, intelligent andwarm-hearted, who would have been bored to tears with her stupid companionsand in a country whose language she did not know, a country without thenatural joy that was in herself, was glad to find some one to talk to. Asfor Christophe it was an untold blessing for him to meet the free-heartedgirl of the Midi filled with the life of the people, in the midst of hisnarrow and insincere fellow citizens. He did not yet know the workings ofsuch natures which, unlike the Germans, have no more in their minds andhearts than they show, and often not even as much. But at the least she wasyoung, she was alive, she said frankly, rawly, what she thought: she judgedeverything freely from a new and a fresh point of view: in her it waspossible to breathe a little of the northwest wind that sweeps away mists. She was gifted. Uneducated and unthinking, she could at once feel with herwhole heart and be sincerely moved by things which were beautiful and good;and then, a moment later, she would burst out laughing. She was a coquetteand made eyes; she did not mind showing her bare arms and neck underher half open gown; she would have liked to turn Christophe's head, butit was all purely instinctive. There was no thought of gaining her ownends in her, and she much preferred to laugh, and talk blithely, to bea good fellow, a good chum, without ceremony or awkwardness. She toldhim about the underworld of the theater, her little sorrows, the sillysusceptibilities of her comrades, the bickerings of Jezebel--(so she calledthe great actress)--who took good care not to let her shine. He confidedhis sufferings at the hands of the Germans: she clapped her hands andplayed chords to him. She was kind and would not speak ill of anybody; butthat did not keep her from doing so, and while she blamed herself for hermalice, when she laughed at anybody, she had a fund of mocking humor andthat realistic and witty gift of observation which belongs to the people ofthe South; she could not resist it and drew cuttingly satirical portraits. With her pale lips she laughed merrily to show her teeth, like those of apuppy, and dark eyes shone in her pale face, which was a little discoloredby grease paint. 

They noticed suddenly that they had been talking for more than an hour. Christophe proposed to come for Corinne--(that was her stage name)--in theafternoon and show her over the town. She was delighted with the idea, andthey arranged to meet immediately after dinner. 

At the appointed hour, he turned up. Corinne was sitting in the littledrawing-room of the hotel, with a book in her hand, which she was readingaloud. She greeted him with smiling eyes but did not stop reading until shehad finished her sentence. Then she signed to him to sit down on the sofaby her side:

"Sit there, " she said, "and don't talk. I am going over my part. I shallhave finished in a quarter of an hour. "

She followed the script with her finger nail and read quickly andcarelessly like a little girl in a hurry. He offered to hear her her words. She passed him the book and got up to repeat what she had learned. Shefloundered and would repeat the end of one sentence four times before goingon to the next. She shook her head as she recited her part; her hair-pinsfell down and all over the room. When she could not recollect sometimessome word she was as impatient as a naughty child; sometimes sheswore comically or she would use big words;--one word with which sheapostrophized herself was very big and very short. Christophe wasastonished by the mixture of talent and childishness in her. She wouldproduce moving tones of voice quite aptly, but in the middle of a speechinto which she seemed to be throwing her whole heart she would say a wholestring of words that had absolutely no meaning. She recited her lessonlike a parrot, without troubling about its meaning, and then she producedburlesque nonsense. She did not worry about it. When she saw it she wouldshout with laughter. At last she said: "Zut!", snatched the book from him, flung it into a corner of the room, and said:

"Holidays! The hour has struck!. . . Now let us go out. "

He was a little anxious about her part and asked:

"You think you will know it?"

She replied confidently:

"Certainly. What is the prompter for?" She went into her room to put on herhat. Christophe sat at the piano while he was waiting for her and struck afew chords. From the next room she called:

"Oh! What is that? Play some more! How pretty it is!"

She ran in, pinning on her hat. He went on. When he had finished shewanted him to play more. She went into ecstasies with all the little archexclamations habitual to Frenchwomen which they make about _Tristan_ and acup of chocolate equally. It made Christophe laugh; it was a change fromthe tremendous affected, clumsy exclamations of the Germans; they wereboth exaggerated in different directions; one made a mountain out of amole-hill, the other made a mole-hill out of a mountain; the French was notless ridiculous than the German, but for the moment it seemed more pleasantbecause he loved the lips from which it came. Corinne wanted to know whathe was playing, and when she learned that he had composed it she gave ashout. He had told her during their conversation in the morning that he wasa composer, but she had hardly listened to him. She sat by him and insistedon his playing everything that he had composed. Their walk was forgotten. It was not mere politeness on her part; she adored music and had anadmirable instinct for it which supplied the deficiencies of her education. At first he did not take her seriously and played his easiest melodies. Butwhen he had played a passage by which he set more store and saw that shepreferred it too, although he had not said anything about it, he wasjoyfully surprised. With the naïve astonishment of the Germans when theymeet a Frenchman who is a good musician he said:

"Odd. How good your taste is! I should never have thought it. . . . "

Corinne laughed in his face. 

He amused himself then by selecting compositions more and more difficultto understand, to see how far she would go with him. But she did not seemto be put out by his boldness, and after a particularly new melody whichChristophe himself had almost come to doubt because he had never succeededin having it accepted in Germany, he was greatly astonished when Corinnebegged him to play it again, and she got up and began to sing the notesfrom memory almost without a mistake! He turned towards her and took herhands warmly:

"But you are a musician!" he cried. 

She began to laugh and explained that she had made her début as a singer inprovincial opera houses, but that an impresario of touring companies hadrecognized her disposition towards the poetic theater and had enrolled herin its services. He exclaimed:

"What a pity!"

"Why?" said she. "Poetry also is a sort of music. "

She made him explain to her the meaning of his _Lieder_; he told her theGerman words, and she repeated them with easy mimicry, copying even themovements of his lips and eyes as he pronounced the words. When she hadthese to sing from memory, then she made grotesque mistakes, and when sheforgot, she invented words, guttural and barbarously sonorous, which madethem both laugh. She did not tire of making him play, nor he of playingfor her and hearing her pretty voice; she did not know the tricks of thetrade and sang a little from the throat like little girls, and there was acurious fragile quality in her voice that was very touching. She told himfrankly what she thought. Although she could not explain why she likedor disliked anything there was always some grain of sense hidden in herjudgment. The odd thing was that she found least pleasure in the mostclassical passages which were most appreciated in Germany; she paid him afew compliments out of politeness; but they obviously meant nothing. As shehad no musical culture she had not the pleasure which amateurs and evenartists find in what is _already heard_, a pleasure which often makes themunconsciously reproduce, or, in a new composition, like forms or formulæwhich they have already used in old compositions. Nor did she have theGerman taste for melodious sentimentality (or, at least, her sentimentalitywas different; Christophe did not yet know its failings)--she did not gointo ecstasies over the soft insipid music preferred in Germany; she didnot single out the most melodious of his _Lieder_, --a melody which hewould have liked to destroy because his friends, only too glad to be ableto compliment him on something, were always talking about it. Corinne'sdramatic instinct made her prefer the melodies which frankly reproduceda certain passion; he also set most store by them. And yet she did nothesitate to show her lack of sympathy with certain rude harmonies whichseemed quite natural to Christophe; they gave her a sort of shock when shecame upon them; she would stop then and ask "if it was really so. " When hesaid "Yes, " then she would rush at the difficulty; but she would make alittle grimace which did not escape Christophe. Sometimes even she wouldprefer to skip the bar. Then he would play it again on the piano. 

"You don't like that?" he would ask. 

She would screw up her nose. 

"It is wrong, " she would say. 

"Not at all, " he would reply with a laugh. "It is quite right. Think of itsmeaning. It is rhythmic, isn't it?"

(He pointed to her heart. )

But she would shake her head:

"May be; but it is wrong here. " (She pulled her ear. )

And she would be a little shocked by the sudden outbursts of Germandeclamation. 

"Why should he talk so loud?" she would ask. "He is all alone. Aren't youafraid of his neighbors overhearing him? It is as though--(Forgive me! Youwon't be angry?)--he were hailing a boat. "

He was not angry; he laughed heartily, he recognized that there was sometruth in what she said. Her remarks amused him; nobody had ever said suchthings before. They agreed that declamation in singing generally deformsthe natural word like a magnifying glass. Corinne asked Christophe to writemusic for a piece in which she would speak to the accompaniment of theorchestra, singing a few sentences every now and then. He was fired by theidea in spite of the difficulties of the stage setting which, he thought, Corinne's musical voice would easily overcome, and they made plans for thefuture. It was not far short of five o'clock when they thought of goingout. Night fell early. They could not think of going for a walk. Corinnehad a rehearsal at the theater in the evening; nobody was allowed to bepresent. She made him promise to come and fetch her during the nextafternoon to take the walk they had planned. 

 * * * * *

Next day they did almost the same again. He found Corinne in front of hermirror, perched on a high stool, swinging her legs; she was trying on awig. Her dresser was there and a hair dresser of the town to whom she wasgiving instructions about a curl which she wished to have higher up. As shelooked in the glass she saw Christophe smiling behind her back; she put outher tongue at him. The hair dresser went away with the wig and she turnedgaily to Christophe:

"Good-day, my friend!" she said. 

She held up her cheek to be kissed. He had not expected such intimacy, buthe took advantage of it all the same. She did not attach so much importanceto the favor; it was to her a greeting like any other. 

"Oh! I am happy!" said she. "It will do very well to-night. " (She wastalking of her wig. ) "I was so wretched! If you had come this morning youwould have found me absolutely miserable. "

He asked why. 

It was because the Parisian hair dresser had made a mistake in packing andhad sent a wig which was not suitable to the part. 

"Quite flat, " she said, "and falling straight down. When I saw it I weptlike a Magdalen. Didn't I, Désirée?"

"When I came in, " said Désirée, "I was afraid for Madame. Madame was quitewhite. Madame looked like death. "

Christophe laughed. Corinne saw him in her mirror:

"Heartless wretch; it makes you laugh, " she said indignantly. 

She began to laugh too. 

He asked her how the rehearsal had gone. Everything had gone off well. Shewould have liked the other parts to be cut more and her own less. Theytalked so much that they wasted part of the afternoon. She dressed slowly;she amused herself by asking Christophe's opinion about her dresses. Christophe praised her elegance and told her naïvely in his Franco-Germanjargon, that he had never seen anybody so "luxurious. " She looked at himfor a moment and then burst out laughing. 

"What have I said?" he asked. "Have I said anything wrong?"

"Yes, yes, " she cried, rocking with laughter. "You have indeed. "

At last they went out. Her striking costume and her exuberant chatterattracted attention. She looked at everything with her mocking eyes andmade no effort to conceal her impressions. She chuckled at the dressmakers'shops, and at the picture post-card shops in which sentimental scenes, comic and obscene drawings, the town prostitutes, the imperial family, theEmperor as a sea-dog holding the wheel of the _Germania_ and defying theheavens, were all thrown together higgledy-piggledy. She giggled at adinner-service decoration with Wagner's cross-grained face, or at a hairdresser's shop-window in which there was the wax head of a man. She made noattempt to modify her hilarity over the patriotic monument representing theold Emperor in a traveling coat and a peaked cap, together with Prussia, the German States, and a nude Genius of War. She made remarks aboutanything in the faces of the people or their way of speaking that struckher as funny. Her victims were left in no doubt about it as she maliciouslypicked out their absurdities. Her instinctive mimicry made her sometimesimitate with her mouth and nose their broad grimaces and frowns, withoutthinking; and she would blow out her cheeks as she repeated fragmentsof sentences and words that struck her as grotesque in sound as shecaught them. He laughed heartily and was not at all embarrassed by herimpertinence, for he was no longer easily embarrassed. Fortunately he hadno great reputation to lose, or his walk would have ruined it for ever. 

They visited the cathedral. Corinne wanted to go to the top of the spire, in spite of her high heels, and long dress which swept the stairs or wascaught in a corner of the staircase; she did not worry about it, but pulledthe stuff which split, and went on climbing, holding it up. She wanted verymuch to ring the bells. From the top of the tower she declaimed Victor Hugo(he did not understand it), and sang a popular French song. After that sheplayed the muezzin. Dusk was falling. They went down into the cathedralwhere the dark shadows were creeping along the gigantic walls in whichthe magic eyes of the windows were shining. Kneeling in one of the sidechapels, Christophe saw the girl who had shared his box at _Hamlet_. Shewas so absorbed in her prayers that she did not see him: he saw that shewas looking sad and strained. He would have liked to speak to her, just tosay, "How do you do?" but Corinne dragged him off like a whirlwind. 

They parted soon afterwards. She had to get ready for the performance, which began early, as usual in Germany. He had hardly reached home whenthere was a ring at the door and a letter from Corinne was handed in:

"Luck! Jezebel ill! No performance! No school! Come! Let us dine together!Your friend, "CORINETTE. 

"P. S. Bring plenty of music!"

It was some time before he understood. When he did understand he was ashappy as Corinne, and went to the hotel at once. He was afraid of findingthe whole company assembled at dinner; but he saw nobody. Corinne herselfwas not there. At last he heard her laughing voice at the back of thehouse: he went to look for her and found her in the kitchen. She had takenit into her head to cook a dish in her own way, one of those southerndishes which fills the whole neighborhood with its aroma and would awaken astone. She was on excellent terms with the large proprietress of the hotel, and they were jabbering in a horrible jargon that was a mixture of German, French, and negro, though there is no word to describe it in any language. They were laughing loudly and making each other taste their cooking. Christophe's appearance made them noisier than ever. They tried to push himout; but he struggled and succeeded in tasting the famous dish. He made aface. She said he was a barbarous Teuton and that it was no use puttingherself out for him. 

They went up to the little sitting-room when the table was laid; there wereonly two places, for himself and Corinne. He could not help asking herwhere her companions were. Corinne waved her hands carelessly:

"I don't know. "

"Don't you sup together?"

"Never! We see enough of each other at the theater!. . . And it would beawful if we had to meet at meals!. . . "

It was so different from German custom that he was surprised and charmed byit. 

"I thought, " he said, "you were a sociable people!"

"Well, " said she, "am I not sociable?"

"Sociable means living in society. We have to see each other! Men, women, children, we all belong to societies from birth to death. We are alwaysmaking societies: we eat, sing, think in societies. When the societiessneeze, we sneeze too: we don't have a drink except with our societies. "

"That must be amusing, " said she. "Why not out of the same glass?"

"Brotherly, isn't it?"

"That for fraternity! I like being 'brotherly' with people I like: not withthe others . . . Pooh! That's not society: that is an ant heap. "

"Well, you can imagine how happy I am here, for I think as you do. "

"Come to us, then!"

He asked nothing better. He questioned her about Paris and the French. Shetold him much that was not perfectly accurate. Her southern propensityfor boasting was mixed with an instinctive desire to shine before him. According to her, everybody in Paris was free: and as everybody in Pariswas intelligent, everybody made good use of their liberty, and no oneabused it. Everybody did what they liked: thought, believed, loved or didnot love, as they liked; nobody had anything to say about it. There nobodymeddled with other people's beliefs, or spied on their consciences or triedto regulate their thoughts. There politicians never dabbled in literatureor the arts, and never gave orders, jobs, and money to their friends orclients. There little cliques never disposed of reputation or success, journalists were never bought; there men of letters never entered intocontroversies with the church, that could lead to nothing. There criticismnever stifled unknown talent, or exhausted its praises upon recognizedtalent. There success, success at all costs, did not justify the means, andcommand the adoration of the public. There were only gentle manners, kindlyand sweet. There was never any bitterness, never any scandal. Everybodyhelped everybody else. Every worthy newcomer was certain to find hands heldout to him and the way made smooth for him. Pure love, of beauty filled thechivalrous and disinterested souls of the French, and they were only absurdin their idealism, which, in spite of their acknowledged wit, made themthe dupes of other nations. Christophe listened open-mouthed. It wascertainly marvelous. Corinne marveled herself as she heard her words. She had forgotten what she had told Christophe the day before about thedifficulties of her past life. He gave no more thought to it than she. 

And yet Corinne was not only concerned with making the Germans love hercountry: she wanted to make herself loved, too. A whole evening withoutflirtation would have seemed austere and rather absurd to her. She madeeyes at Christophe; but it was trouble wasted: he did not notice it. Christophe did not know what it was to flirt. He loved or did not love. When he did not love he was miles from any thought of love. He likedCorinne enormously. He felt the attraction of her southern nature; it wasso new to him. And her sweetness and good humor, her quick and livelyintelligence: many more reasons than he needed for loving. But the spiritblows where it listeth. It did not blow in that direction, and as forplaying at love, in love's absence, the idea had never occurred to him. 

Corinne was amused by his coldness. She sat by his side at the piano whilehe played the music he had brought with him, and put her arm round hisneck, and to follow the music she leaned towards the keyboard, almostpressing her cheek against his. He felt her hair touch his face, and quiteclose to him saw the corner of her mocking eye, her pretty little mouth, and the light down on her tip-tilted nose. She waited, smiling--she waited. Christophe did not understand the invitation. Corinne was in his way: thatwas all he thought of. Mechanically he broke free from her and moved hischair. And when, a moment later, he turned to speak to Corinne, he saw thatshe was choking with laughter: her cheeks were dimpled, her lips werepressed together, and she seemed to be holding herself in. 

"What is the matter?" he said, in his astonishment. 

She looked at him and laughed aloud. 

He did not understand. 

"Why are you laughing?" he asked. "Did I say anything funny?"

The more he insisted, the more she laughed. When she had almost finishedshe had only to look at his crestfallen appearance to break out again. Shegot up, ran to the sofa at the other end of the room, and buried her facein the cushions to laugh her fill; her whole body shook with it. He beganto laugh too, came towards her, and slapped her on the back. When she haddone laughing she raised her head, dried the tears in her eyes, and heldout her hands to him. 

"What a good boy you are!" she said. 

"No worse than another. "

She went on, shaking occasionally with laughter, still holding his hands. 

"Frenchwomen are not serious?" she asked. (She pronounced it:"_Françouése_. ")

"You are making fun of me, " he said good-humoredly. 

She looked at him kindly, shook his hands vigorously, and said:

"Friends?"

"Friends!" said he, shaking her hand. 

"You will think of Corinette when she is gone? You won't be angry with theFrenchwoman for not being serious?"

"And Corinette won't be angry with the barbarous Teuton for being sostupid?"

"That is why she loves him . . . You will come and see her in Paris?"

"It is a promise . . . And she--she will write to him?"

"I swear it . . . You say: 'I swear. '"

"I swear. "

"No, not like that. You must hold up your hand. " She recited the oath ofthe Horatii. She made him promise to write a play for her, a melodrama, which could be translated into French and played in Paris by her. She wasgoing away next day with her company. He promised to go and see her againthe day after at Frankfort, where they were giving a performance. 

They stayed talking for some time. She presented Christophe with aphotograph in which she was much décolletée, draped only in a garmentfastening below her shoulders. They parted gaily, and kissed like brotherand sister. And, indeed, once Corinne had seen that Christophe was fond ofher, but not at all in love, she began to be fond of him, too, withoutlove, as a good friend. 

Their sleep was not troubled by it. He could not see her off next day, because he was occupied by a rehearsal. But on the day following he managedto go to Frankfort as he had promised. It was a few hours' journey byrail. Corinne hardly believed Christophe's promise. But he had taken itseriously, and when the performance began he was there. When he knocked ather dressing-room door during the interval, she gave a cry of glad surpriseand threw her arms round his neck with her usual exuberance. She wassincerely grateful to him for having come. Unfortunately for Christophe, she was much more sought after in the city of rich, intelligent Jews, whocould appreciate her actual beauty and her future success. Almost everyminute there was a knock at the door, and it opened to reveal men withheavy faces and quick eyes, who said the conventional things with a thickaccent. Corinne naturally made eyes, and then she would go on talking toChristophe in the same affected, provoking voice, and that irritated him. And he found no pleasure in the calm lack of modesty with which she went ondressing in his presence, and the paint and grease with which she lardedher arms, throat, and face filled him with profound disgust. He was on thepoint of going away without seeing her again after the performance; butwhen he said good-bye and begged to be excused from going to the supperthat was to be given to her after the play, she was so hurt by it andso affectionate, too, that he could not hold out against her. She had atime-table brought, so as to prove that he could and must stay an hourwith her. He only needed to be convinced, and he was at the supper. He waseven able to control his annoyance with the follies that were indulged inand his irritation at Corinne's coquetries with all and sundry. It wasimpossible to be angry with her. She was an honest girl, without any moralprinciples, lazy, sensual, pleasure-loving, childishly coquettish; but atthe same time so loyal, so kind, and all her faults were so spontaneous andso healthy that it was only possible to smile at them and even to lovethem. Christophe, who was sitting opposite her, watched her animation, herradiant eyes, her sticky lips, with their Italian smile--that smile inwhich there is kindness, subtlety, and a sort of heavy greediness. He sawher more clearly than he had yet done. Some of her features reminded himof Ada: certain gestures, certain looks, certain sensual and rather coarsetricks--the eternal feminine. But what he loved in her was her southernnature, that generous nature which is not niggardly with its gifts, whichnever troubles to fashion drawing-room beauties and literary cleverness, but harmonious creatures who are made body and mind to grow in the air andthe sun. When he left she got up from the table to say good-bye to him awayfrom the others. They kissed and renewed their promises to write and meetagain. 

He took the last train home. At a station the train coming from theopposite direction was waiting. In the carriage opposite his--a third-classcompartment--Christophe saw the young Frenchwoman who had been with him tothe performance of _Hamlet_. She saw Christophe and recognized him. Theywere both astonished. They bowed and did not move, and dared not lookagain. And yet he had seen at once that she was wearing a little travelingtoque and had an old valise by her side. It did not occur to him that shewas leaving the country. He thought she must be going away for a few days. He did not know whether he ought to speak to her. He stopped, turned overin his mind what to say, and was just about to lower the window of thecarriage to address a few words to her, when the signal was given. He gaveup the idea. A few seconds passed before the train moved. They lookedstraight at each other. Each was alone, and their faces were pressedagainst the windows and they looked into each other's eyes through thenight. They were separated by two windows. If they had reached out theirhands they could have touched each other. So near. So far. The carriagesshook heavily. She was still looking at him, shy no longer, now that theywere parting. They were so absorbed in looking at each other that theynever even thought of bowing for the last time. She was slowly borne away. He saw her disappear, and the train which bore her plunged into the night. Like two circling worlds, they had passed close to each other in infinitespace, and now they sped apart perhaps for eternity. 

When she had disappeared he felt the emptiness that her strange eyes hadleft in him, and he did not understand why; but the emptiness was there. Sleepy, with eyes half-closed, lying in a corner of the carriage, he felther eyes looking into his, and all other thoughts ceased, to let him feelthem more keenly. The image of Corinne fluttered outside his heart like aninsect breaking its wings against a window; but he did not let it in. 

He found it again when he got out of the train on his arrival, when thekeen night air and his walk through the streets of the sleeping town hadshaken off his drowsiness. He scowled at the thought of the pretty actress, with a mixture of pleasure and irritation, according as he recalled heraffectionate ways or her vulgar coquetries. 

"Oh! these French people, " he growled, laughing softly, while he wasundressing quietly, so as not to waken his mother, who was asleep in thenext room. 

A remark that he had heard the other evening in the box occurred to him:

"There are others also. "

At his first encounter with France she laid before him the enigma of herdouble nature. But, like all Germans, he did not trouble to solve it, andas he thought of the girl in the train he said quietly:

"She does not look like a Frenchwoman. "

As if a German could say what is French and what is not. 

 * * * * *

French or not, she filled his thoughts; for he woke in the middle of thenight with a pang: he had just remembered the valise on the seat by thegirl's side; and suddenly the idea that she had gone forever crossed hismind. The idea must have come to him at the time, but he had not thought ofit. It filled him with a strange sadness. He shrugged his shoulders. 

"What does it matter to me?" he said. "It is not my affair. "

He went to sleep. 

But next day the first person he met when he went out was Mannheim, whocalled him "Blücher, " and asked him if he had made up his mind to conquerall France. From the garrulous newsmonger he learned that the story of thebox had had a success exceeding all Mannheim's expectations. 

"Thanks to you! Thanks to you!" cried Mannheim. "You are a great man. I amnothing compared with you. "

"What have I done?" said Christophe. 

"You are wonderful!" Mannheim replied. "I am jealous of you. To shut thebox in the Grünebaums' faces, and then to ask the French governess insteadof them--no, that takes the cake! I should never have thought of that!"

"She was the Grünebaums' governess?" said Christophe in amazement. 

"Yes. Pretend you don't know, pretend to be innocent. You'd better!. . . Myfather is beside himself. The Grünebaums are in a rage!. . . It was not forlong: they have sacked the girl. "

"What!" cried Christophe. "They have dismissed her? Dismissed her becauseof me?"

"Didn't you know?" said Mannheim. "Didn't she tell you?"

Christophe was in despair. 

"You mustn't be angry, old man, " said Mannheim. "It does not matter. Besides, one had only to expect that the Grünebaums would find out. . . "

"What?" cried Christophe. "Find out what?"

"That she was your mistress, of course!"

"But I do not even know her. I don't know who she is. "

Mannheim smiled, as if to say:

"You take me for a fool. "

Christophe lost his temper and bade Mannheim do him the honor of believingwhat he said. Mannheim said:

"Then it is even more humorous. "

Christophe worried about it, and talked of going to the Grünebaums andtelling them the facts and justifying the girl. Mannheim dissuaded him. 

"My dear fellow, " he said, "anything you may say will only convince them ofthe contrary. Besides, it is too late. The girl has gone away. "

Christophe was utterly sick at heart and tried to trace the youngFrenchwoman. He wanted to write to her to beg her pardon. But nothing wasknown of her. He applied to the Grünebaums, but they snubbed him. They didnot know themselves where she had gone, and they did not care. The ideaof the harm he had done in trying to do good tortured Christophe: he wasremorseful. But added to his remorse was a mysterious attraction, whichshone upon him from the eyes of the woman who was gone. Attraction andremorse both seemed to be blotted out, engulfed in the flood of the day'snew thoughts. But they endured in the depths of his heart. Christophe didnot forget the woman whom he called his victim. He had sworn to meet heragain. He knew how small were the chances of his ever seeing her again: andhe was sure that he would see her again. 

As for Corinne, she never answered his letters. But three months later, when he had given up expecting to hear from her, he received a telegramof forty words of utter nonsense, in which she addressed him in littlefamiliar terms, and asked "if they were still fond of each other. " Then, after nearly a year's silence, there came a scrappy letter scrawled in herenormous childish zigzag writing, in which she tried to play the lady, --afew affectionate, droll words. And there she left it. She did not forgethim, but she had no time to think of him. 

 * * * * *

Still under the spell of Corinne and full of the ideas they had exchangedabout art, Christophe dreamed of writing the music for a play in whichCorinne should act and sing a few airs--a sort of poetic melodrama. Thatform of art once so much in favor in Germany, passionately admired byMozart, and practised by Beethoven, Weber, Mendelssohn and Schumann, andall the great classics, had fallen into discredit since the triumph ofWagnerism, which claimed to have realized the definite formula of thetheater and music. The Wagnerian pedants, not content with proscribingevery new melodrama, busied themselves with dressing up the old melodramasand operas. They carefully effaced every trace of spoken dialogue and wrotefor Mozart, Beethoven, or Weber, recitations in their own manner; they wereconvinced that they were doing a service to the fame of the masters andfilling out their thoughts by the pious deposit of their dung uponmasterpieces. 

Christophe, who had been made more sensible of the heaviness, and oftenthe ugliness, of Wagnerian declamation by Corinne, had for some time beendebating whether it was not nonsense and an offense against nature toharness and yoke together the spoken word and the word sung in the theater:it was like harnessing a horse and a bird to a cart. Speech and singingeach had its rhythm. It was comprehensible that an artist should sacrificeone of the two arts to the triumph of that which he preferred. But to tryto find a compromise between them was to sacrifice both: it was to wantspeech no longer to be speech, and singing no longer to be singing; to wantsinging to let its vast flood be confined between the banks of monotonouscanals, to want speech to cloak its lovely naked limbs with rich, heavystuffs which must paralyze its gestures and movements. Why not leave bothwith their spontaneity and freedom of movement? Like a beautiful girlwalking tranquilly, lithely along a stream, dreaming as she goes: the gaymurmur of the water lulls her dreams, and unconsciously she brings hersteps and her thoughts in tune with the song of the stream. So beingboth free, music and poesy would go side by side, dreaming, their dreamsmingling. Assuredly all music was not good for such a union, nor allpoetry. The opponents of melodrama had good ground for attack in thecoarseness of the attempts which had been made in that form, and of theinterpreters. Christophe had for long shared their dislike: the stupidityof the actors who delivered these recitations spoken to an instrumentalaccompaniment, without bothering about the accompaniment, without tryingto merge their voices in it, rather, on the contrary, trying to preventanything being heard but themselves, was calculated to revolt any musicalear. But since he had tasted the beauty of Corinne's harmonious voice--thatliquid and pure voice which played upon music like a ray of light on water, which wedded every turn of a melody, which was like the most fluid and mostfree singing, --he had caught a glimpse of the beauty of a new art. 

Perhaps he was right, but he was still too inexperienced to venturewithout peril upon a form which--if it is meant to be beautiful and reallyartistic--is the most difficult of all. That art especially demands oneessential condition, the perfect harmony of the combined efforts of thepoet, the musicians, and the actors. Christophe had no tremors about it: hehurled himself blindly at an unknown art of which the laws were only knownto himself. 

His first idea had been to clothe in music a fairy fantasy of Shakespeareor an act of the second part of _Faust_. But the theaters showed littledisposition to make the experiment. It would be too costly and appearedabsurd. They were quite willing to admit Christophe's efficiency in music, but that he should take upon himself to have ideas about poetry and thetheater made them smile. They did not take him seriously. The world ofmusic and the world of poesy were like two foreign and secretly hostilestates. Christophe had to accept the collaboration of a poet to be able toset foot upon poetic territory, and he was not allowed to choose his ownpoet. He would not have dared to choose himself. He did not trust his tastein poetry. He had been told that he knew nothing about it; and, indeed, hecould not understand the poetry which was admired by those about him. Withhis usual honesty and stubbornness, he had tried hard sometimes to feel thebeauty of some of these works, but he had always been bewildered and alittle ashamed of himself. No, decidedly he was not a poet. In truth, heloved passionately certain old poets, and that consoled him a little. Butno doubt he did not love them as they should be loved. Had he not onceexpressed, the ridiculous idea that those poets only are great who remaingreat even when they are translated into prose, and even into the prose ofa foreign language, and that words have no value apart from the soul whichthey express? His friends had laughed at him. Mannheim had called him agoose. He did not try to defend himself. As every day he saw, through theexample of writers who talk of music, the absurdity of artists who attemptto image any art other than their own, he resigned himself--though a littleincredulous at heart--to his incompetence in poetry, and he shut his eyesand accepted the judgments of those whom he thought were better informedthan himself. So he let his friends of the Review impose one of theirnumber on him, a great man of a decadent coterie, Stephen von Hellmuth, whobrought him an _Iphigenia_. It was at the time when German poets (liketheir colleagues in France) were recasting all the Greek tragedies. Stephenvon Hellmuth's work was one of those astounding Græco-German plays in whichIbsen, Homer, and Oscar Wilde are compounded--and, of course, a few manualsof archeology. Agamemnon was neurasthenic and Achilles impotent: theylamented their condition at length, and naturally their outcries producedno change. The energy of the drama was concentrated in the rôle ofIphigenia--a nervous, hysterical, and pedantic Iphigenia, who lectured thehero, declaimed furiously, laid bare for the audience her Nietzschianpessimism and, glutted with death, cut her throat, shrieking with laughter. 

Nothing could be more contrary to Christophe's mind than such pretentious, degenerate, Ostrogothic stuff, in Greek dress. It was hailed as amasterpiece by everybody about him. He was cowardly and was overpersuaded. In truth, he was bursting with music and thinking much more of his musicthan of the text. The text was a new bed into which to let loose the floodof his passions. He was as far as possible from the state of abnegation andintelligent impersonality proper to musical translation of a poetic work. He was thinking only of himself and not at all of the work. He neverthought of adapting himself to it. He was under an illusion: he saw in thepoem something absolutely different from what was actually in it--just aswhen he was a child he used to compose in his mind a play entirelydifferent from that which was upon the stage. 

It was not until it came to rehearsal that he saw the real play. One day hewas listening to a scene, and he thought it so stupid that he fancied theactors must be spoiling it, and went so far as to explain it to them inthe poet's presence; but also to explain it to the poet himself, who wasdefending his interpretation. The author refused bluntly to hear him, andsaid with some asperity that he thought he knew what he had meant to write. Christophe would not give in, and maintained that Hellmuth knew nothingabout it. The general merriment told him that he was making himselfridiculous. He said no more, agreeing that after all it was not he who hadwritten the poem. Then he saw the appalling emptiness of the play and wasoverwhelmed by it: he wondered how he could ever have been persuaded totry it. He called himself an idiot and tore his hair. He tried in vain toreassure himself by saying: "You know nothing about it; it is not yourbusiness. Keep to your music. " He was so much ashamed of certain idioticthings in it, of the pretentious pathos, the crying falsity of the words, the gestures and attitudes, that sometimes, when he was conducting theorchestra, he hardly had the strength to raise his baton. He wanted to goand hide in the prompter's box. He was too frank and too little politic toconceal what he thought. Every one noticed it: his friends, the actors, andthe author. Hellmuth said to him with a frigid smile:

"Is it not fortunate enough to please you?"

Christophe replied honestly:

"Truth to tell, no. I don't understand it, "

"Then you did not read it when you set it to music?"

"Yes, " said Christophe naïvely, "but I made a mistake. I understood itdifferently. "

"It is a pity you did not write what you understood yourself. "

"Oh! If only I could have done so!" said Christophe. 

The poet was vexed, and in his turn criticised the music. He complainedthat it was in the way and prevented his words being heard. 

If the poet did not understand the musician, or the musician the poet, theactors understood neither the one nor the other, and did not care. Theywere only asking for sentences in their parts on which to bring in theirusual effects. They had no idea of adapting their declamation to theformality of the piece and the musical rhythm. They went one way, themusic another. It was as though they were constantly singing out of tune. Christophe ground his teeth and shouted the note at them until he washoarse. They let him shout and went on imperturbably, not evenunderstanding what he wanted them to do. 

Christophe would have flung the whole thing up if the rehearsals had notbeen so far advanced, and he had not been bound to go on by fear of legalproceedings. Mannheim, to whom he confided his discouragement, laughed athim:

"What is it?" he asked. "It is all going well. You don't understand eachother? What does that matter? Who has ever understood his work but theauthor? It is a toss-up whether he understands it himself!"

Christophe was worried about the stupidity of the poem, which, he said, would ruin the music. Mannheim made no difficulty about admitting thatthere was no common sense in the poem and that Hellmuth was "a muff, " buthe would not worry about him: Hellmuth gave good dinners and had a prettywife. What more did criticism want?

Christophe shrugged his shoulders and said that he had no time to listen tononsense. 

"It is not nonsense!" said Mannheim, laughing. "How serious people are!They have no idea of what matters in life. "

And he advised Christophe not to bother so much about Hellmuth's business, but to attend to his own. He wanted him to advertise a little. Christopherefused indignantly. To a reporter who came and asked for a history of hislife, he replied furiously:

"It is not your affair!"

And when they asked for his photograph for a review, he stamped with rageand shouted that he was not, thank God! an emperor, to have his facepassed from hand to hand. It was impossible to bring him into touch withinfluential people. He never replied to invitations, and when he had beenforced by any chance to accept, he would forget to go or would go with sucha bad grace that he seemed to have set himself to be disagreeable toeverybody. 

But the climax came when he quarreled with his review, two days before theperformance. 

 * * * * *

The thing was bound to happen. Mannheim had gone on revising Christophe'sarticles, and he no longer scrupled about deleting whole lines of criticismand replacing them with compliments. 

One day, out visiting, Christophe met a certain virtuoso--a foppish pianistwhom he had slaughtered. The man came and thanked him with a smile thatshowed all his white teeth. He replied brutally that there was no reasonfor it. The other insisted and poured forth expressions of gratitude. Christophe cut him short by saying, that if he was satisfied with thearticle that was his affair, but that the article had certainly not beenwritten with a view to pleasing him. And he turned his back on him. Thevirtuoso thought him a kindly boor and went away laughing. But Christopheremembered having received a card of thanks from another of his victims, and a suspicion flashed upon him. He went out, bought the last number ofthe Review at a news-stand, turned to his article, and read. . . At first hewondered if he were going mad. Then he understood, and, mad with rage, heran to the office of the _Dionysos_. 

Waldhaus and Mannheim were there, talking to an actress whom they knew. They had no need to ask Christophe what brought him. Throwing a number ofthe Review on the table, Christophe let fly at them without stopping totake breath, with extraordinary violence, shouting, calling them rogues, rascals, forgers, thumping on the floor with a chair. Mannheim began tolaugh. Christophe tried to kick him. Mannheim took refuge behind the tableand rolled with laughter. But Waldhaus took it very loftily. With dignity, formally, he tried to make himself heard through the row, and said that hewould not allow any one to talk to him in such a tone, that Christopheshould hear from him, and he held out his card. Christophe flung it in hisface. 

"Mischief-maker!--I don't need your card to know what you are. . . . You are arascal and a forger!. . . And you think I would fight with you . . . Athrashing is all you deserve!. . . "

His voice could be heard in the street. People stopped to listen. Mannheimclosed the windows. The actress tried to escape, but Christophe wasblocking the way. Waldhaus was pale and choking. Mannheim was stutteringand stammering and trying to reply. Christophe did not let them speak. Helet loose upon them every expression he could think of, and never stoppeduntil he was out of breath and had come to an end of his insults. Waldhausand Mannheim only found their tongues after he had gone. Mannheim quicklyrecovered himself: insults slipped from him like water from a duck's back. But Waldhaus was still sore: his dignity had been outraged, and what madethe affront more mortifying was that there had been witnesses. He wouldnever forgive it. His colleagues joined chorus with him. Mannheim only ofthe staff of the Review was not angry with Christophe. He had had his fillof entertainment out of him: it did not seem to him a heavy price to payfor his pound of flesh, to suffer a few violent words. It had been a goodjoke. If he had been the butt of it he would have been the first to laugh. And so he was quite ready to shake hands with Christophe as though nothinghad happened. But Christophe was more rancorous and rejected all advances. Mannheim did not care. Christophe was a toy from which he had extracted allthe amusement possible. He was beginning to want a new puppet. From thatvery day all was over between them. But that did not prevent Mannheim stillsaying, whenever Christophe was mentioned in his presence, that they wereintimate friends. And perhaps he thought they were. 

Two days after the quarrel the first performance of _Iphigenia_ took place. It was an utter failure. Waldhaus' review praised the poem and made nomention of the music. The other papers and reviews made merry over it. Theylaughed and hissed. The piece was withdrawn after the third performance, but the jokes at its expense did not disappear so quickly. People wereonly too glad of the opportunity of having a fling at Christophe, and forseveral weeks the _Iphigenia_ remained an unfailing subject for joking. They knew that Christophe had no weapon of defense, and they took advantageof it. The only thing which held them back a little was his position at theCourt. Although his relation with the Grand Duke had become quite cold, forthe Prince had several times made remarks to which he had paid no attentionwhatever, he still went to the Palace at intervals, and still enjoyed, inthe eye of the public, a sort of official protection, though it was morevisionary than real. He took upon himself to destroy even that lastsupport. 

He suffered from the criticisms. They were concerned not only with hismusic, but also with his idea of a new form of art, which the writers didnot take the trouble to understand. It was very easy to travesty it andmake fun of it. Christophe was not yet wise enough to know that the bestreply to dishonest critics is to make none and to go on working. For somemonths past he had fallen into the bad habit of not letting any unjustattack go unanswered. He wrote an article in which he did not spare certainof his adversaries. The two papers to which he took it returned it withironically polite excuses for being unable to publish it. Christophe stuckto his guns. He remembered that the socialist paper in the town had madeadvances to him. He knew one of the editors. They used to meet and talkoccasionally. Christophe was glad to find some one who would talk freelyabout power, the army and oppression and archaic prejudices. But they couldnot go far with each other, for the socialist always came back to KarlMarx, about whom Christophe cared not a rap. Moreover, Christophe used tofind in his speeches about the free man--besides a materialism which wasnot much to his taste--a pedantic severity and a despotism of thought, asecret cult of force, an inverse militarism, all of which did not soundvery different from what he heard every day in German. 

However, he thought of this man and his paper when he saw all other doorsin journalism closed to him. He knew that his doing so would cause ascandal. The paper was violent, malignant, and always being condemned. Butas Christophe never read it, he only thought of the boldness of its ideas, of which he was not afraid, and not of the baseness of its tone, whichwould have repelled him. Besides, he was so angry at seeing the otherpapers in alliance to suppress him that perhaps he would have gone on evenif he had been warned. He wanted to show people that he was not so easilygot rid of. So he took his article to the socialist paper, which receivedit with open arms. The next day the article appeared, and the paperannounced in large letters that it had engaged the support of the young andtalented maestro, Jean-Christophe Krafft, whose keen sympathy with thedemands of the working classes was well known. 

Christophe read neither the note nor the article, for he had gone outbefore dawn for a walk in the country, it being Sunday. He was in finefettle. As he saw the sun rise he shouted, laughed, yodeled, leaped, anddanced. No more review, no more criticisms to do! It was spring and therewas once more the music of the heavens and the earth, the most beautifulof all. No more dark concert rooms, stuffy and smelly, unpleasant people, dull performers. Now the marvelous song of the murmuring forests was to beheard, and over the fields like waves there passed the intoxicating scentsof life, breaking through the crust of the earth and issuing from thegrave. 

He went home with his head buzzing with light and music, and his mothergave him a letter which had been brought from the Palace while he was away. The letter was in an impersonal form, and told Herr Krafft that he was togo to the Palace that morning. The morning was past, it was nearly oneo'clock. Christophe was not put about. 

"It is too late now, " he said. "It will do to-morrow. "

But his mother said anxiously:

"No, no. You cannot put off an appointment with His Highness like that: youmust go at once. Perhaps it is a matter of importance. "

Christophe shrugged his shoulders. 

"Important! As if those people could have anything important to say!. . . He wants to tell me his ideas about music. That will be funny!. . . If onlyhe has not taken it into his head to rival Siegfried Meyer [Footnote: Anickname given by German pamphleteers to H. M. (His Majesty) the Emperor. ]and wants to show me a _Hymn to Aegis_! I vow that I will not spare him. I shall say: 'Stick to politics. You are master there. You will alwaysbe right. But beware of art! In art you are seen without your plumes, your helmet, your uniform, your money, your titles, your ancestors, yourpolicemen--and just think for a moment what will be left of you then!'"

Poor Louisa took him quite seriously and raised her hands in horror. 

"You won't say that!. . . You are mad! Mad!"

It amused him to make her uneasy by playing upon her credulity until hebecame so extravagant that Louisa began to see that he was making fun ofher. 

"You are stupid, my boy!"

He laughed and kissed her. He was in a wonderfully good humor. On his walkhe had found a beautiful musical theme, and he felt it frolicking in himlike a fish in water. He refused to go to the Palace until he had hadsomething to eat. He was as hungry as an ape. Louisa then supervised hisdressing, for he was beginning to tease her again, pretending that hewas quite all right as he was with his old clothes and dusty boots. Buthe changed them all the same, and cleaned his boots, whistling like ablackbird and imitating all the instruments in an orchestra. When hehad finished his mother inspected him and gravely tied his tie for himagain. For once in a way he was very patient, because he was pleased withhimself--which was not very usual. He went off saying that he was going toelope with Princess Adelaide--the Grand Duke's daughter, quite a prettywoman, who was married to a German princeling and had come to stay with herparents for a few weeks. She had shown sympathy for Christophe when he wasa child, and he had a soft side for her. Louisa used to declare that he wasin love with her, and he would pretend to be so in fun. 

He did not hurry; he dawdled and looked into the shops, and stopped topat some dog that he knew as it lay on its side and yawned in the sun. He jumped over the harmless railings which inclosed the Palace square--agreat empty square, surrounded with houses, with two little fountains, twosymmetrical bare flower-beds, divided, as by a parting, by a gravel path, carefully raked and bordered by orange trees in tubs. In the middle wasthe bronze statue of some unknown Grand Duke in the costume of LouisPhilippe, on a pediment adorned at the four corners by allegorical figuresrepresenting the Virtues. On a seat one solitary man was dozing over hispaper. Behind the silly moat of the earthworks of the Palace two sleepycannon yawned upon the sleepy town. Christophe laughed at the whole thing. 

He entered the Palace without troubling to take on a more official manner. At most he stopped humming, but his thoughts went dancing on inside him. Hethrew his hat on the table in the hall and familiarly greeted the oldusher, whom he had known since he was a child. (The old man had been thereon the day when Christophe had first entered the Palace, on the eveningwhen he had seen Hassler. ) But to-day the old man, who always used to replygood-humoredly to Christophe's disrespectful sallies, now seemed a littlehaughty. Christophe paid no heed to it. A little farther on, in theante-chamber, he met a clerk of the chancery, who was usually full ofconversation and very friendly. He was surprised to see him hurry past himto avoid having to talk. However, he did not attach any significance to it, and went on and asked to be shown in. 

He went in. They had just finished dinner. His Highness was in one of thedrawing-rooms. He was leaning against the mantelpiece, smoking, and talkingto his guests, among whom Christophe saw _his_ princess, who was alsosmoking. She was lying back in an armchair and talking in a loud voice tosome officers who made a circle about her. The gathering was lively. Theywere all very merry, and when Christophe entered he heard the Grand Duke'sthick laugh. But he stopped dead when he saw Christophe. He growled andpounced on him. 

"Ah! There you are!" he said. "You have condescended to come at last? Doyou think you can go on making fun of me any longer? You're a blackguard, sir!"

Christophe was so staggered by this brutal attack that it was some timebefore he could utter a word. He was thinking that he was only late, andthat that could not have provoked such violence. He murmured:

"What have I done, Your Highness?"

His Highness did not listen and went on angrily:

"Be silent! I will not be insulted by a blackguard!" Christophe turnedpale, and gulped so as to try to speak, for he was choking. He made aneffort, and said:

"Your Highness, you have no right--you have no right to insult me withouttelling me what I have done. "

The Grand Duke turned to his secretary, who produced a paper from hispocket and held it out to him. He was in such a state of exasperation ascould not be explained only by his anger: the fumes of good wine had theirshare in it, too. He came and stood in front of Christophe, and like atoreador with his cape, furiously waved the crumpled newspaper in his faceand shouted:

"Your muck, sir!. . . You deserve to have your nose rubbed in it!"

Christophe recognized the socialist paper. 

"I don't see what harm there is in it, " he said. 

"What! What!" screamed the Grand Duke. "You are impudent!. . . This rascallypaper, which insults me from day to day, and spews out filthy insults uponme!. . . "

"Sire, " said Christophe, "I have not read it. "

"You lie!" shouted the Grand Duke. 

"You shall not call me a liar, " said Christophe. "I have not read it. I amonly concerned with reviews, and besides, I have the right to write inwhatever paper I like. "

"You have no right but to hold your tongue. I have been too kind to you. Ihave heaped kindness upon you, you and yours, in spite of your misconductand your father's, which would have justified me in cutting you off. Iforbid you to go on writing in a paper which is hostile to me. And further:I forbid you altogether to write anything in future without my authority. I have had enough of your musical polemics. I will not allow any one whoenjoys my patronage to spend his time in attacking everything which is dearto people of taste and feeling, to all true Germans. You would do better towrite better music, or if that is impossible, to practise your scales andexercises. I don't want to have anything to do with a musical Bebel whoamuses himself by decrying all our national glories and upsetting the mindsof the people. We know what is good, thank God. We do not need to wait foryou to tell us. Go to your piano, sir, or leave us in peace!"

Standing face to face with Christophe the fat man glared at himinsultingly. Christophe was livid, and tried to speak. His lips moved; hestammered:

"I am not your slave. I shall say what I like and write what I like . . . "

He choked. He was almost weeping with shame and rage. His legs weretrembling. He jerked his elbow and upset an ornament on a table by hisside. He felt that he was in a ridiculous position. He heard peoplelaughing. He looked down the room, and as through a mist saw the princesswatching the scene and exchanging ironically commiserating remarks with herneighbors. He lost count of what exactly happened. The Grand Duke shouted. Christophe shouted louder than he without knowing what he said. ThePrince's secretary and another official came towards him and tried to stophim. He pushed them away, and while he talked he waved an ash-tray which hehad mechanically picked up from the table against which he was leaning. Heheard the secretary say:

"Put it down! Put it down!"

And he heard himself shouting inarticulately and knocking on the edge ofthe table with the ash-tray. 

"Go!" roared the Grand Duke, beside himself with rage. "Go! Go! I'll haveyou thrown out!"

The officers had come up to the Prince and were trying to calm him. TheGrand Duke looked apoplectic. His eyes were starting from his head, heshouted to them to throw the rascal out. Christophe saw red. He longed tothrust his fist in the Grand Duke's face; but he was crushed under a weightof conflicting feelings: shame, fury, a remnant of shyness, of Germanloyalty, traditional respect, habits of humility in the Prince's presence. He tried to speak; he could not. He tried to move; he could not. He couldnot see or hear. He suffered them to push him along and left the room. 

He passed through the impassive servants who had come up to the door, andhad missed nothing of the quarrel. He had to go thirty yards to cross theante-chamber, and it seemed a lifetime. The corridor grew longer and longeras he walked up it. He would never get out!. . . The light of day whichhe saw shining downstairs through the glass door was his haven. He wentstumbling down the stairs. He forgot that he was bareheaded. The old usherreminded him to take his hat. He had to gather all his forces to leave thecastle, cross the court, reach his home. His teeth were chattering when heopened the door. His mother was terrified by his face and his trembling. Heavoided her and refused to answer her questions. He went up to his room, shut himself in, and lay down. He was shaking so that he could not undress. His breathing came in jerks and his whole body seemed shattered. . . . Oh! Ifonly he could see no more, feel no more, no longer have to bear with hiswretched body, no longer have to struggle against ignoble life, and fall, fall, breathless, without thought, and no longer be anywhere!. . . Withfrightful difficulty he tore off his clothes and left them on the ground, and then flung himself into his bed and drew the coverings over him. Therewas no sound in the room save that of the little iron bed rattling on thetiled floor. 

Louisa listened at the door. She knocked in vain. She called softly. Therewas no reply. She waited, anxiously listening through the silence. Then shewent away. Once or twice during the day she came and listened, and againat night, before she went to bed. Day passed, and the night. The house wasstill. Christophe was shaking with fever. Every now and then he wept, andin the night he got up several times and shook his fist at the wall. Abouttwo o'clock, in an access of madness, he got up from his bed, sweating andhalf naked. He wanted to go and kill the Grand Duke, He was devoured byhate and shame. His body and his heart writhed in the fire of it. Nothingof all the storm in him could be heard outside; not a word, not a sound. With clenched teeth he fought it down and forced it back into himself. 

 * * * * *

Next morning he came down as usual. He was a wreck. He said nothing and hismother dared not question him. She knew, from the gossip of theneighborhood. All day he stayed sitting by the fire, silent, feverish, andwith bent head, like a little old man. And when he was alone he wept insilence. 

In the evening the editor of the socialist paper came to see him. Naturallyhe had heard and wished to have details. Christophe was touched by hiscoming, and interpreted it naïvely as a mark of sympathy and a desire forforgiveness on the part of those who had compromised him. He made a pointof seeming to regret nothing and he let himself go and said everything thatwas rankling in him. It was some solace for him to talk freely to a manwho shared his hatred of oppression. The other urged him on. He saw a goodchance for his journal in the event, and an opportunity for a scandalousarticle, for which he expected Christophe to provide him with material ifhe did not write it himself; for he thought that after such an explosionthe Court musician would put his very considerable political talents andhis no less considerable little tit-bits of secret information about theCourt at the service of "the cause. " As he did not plume himself on hissubtlety he presented the thing rawly in the crudest light. Christophestarted. He declared that he would write nothing and said that any attackon the Grand Duke that he might make would be interpreted as an act ofpersonal vengeance, and that he would be more reserved now that he was freethan when, not being free, he ran some risk in saying what he thought. Thejournalist could not understand his scruples. He thought Christophe narrowand clerical at heart, but he also decided that Christophe was afraid. Hesaid:

"Oh, well! Leave it to us. I will write it myself. You need not botherabout it. "

Christophe begged him to say nothing, but he had no means of restraininghim. Besides, the journalist declared that the affair was not his concernonly: the insult touched the paper, which had the right to avenge itself. There was nothing to be said to that. All that Christophe could do was toask him on his word of honor not to abuse certain of his confidences whichhad been made to his friend and not to the journalist. The other made nodifficulty about that. Christophe was not reassured by it. He knew too wellhow imprudent he had been. When he was left alone he turned over everythingthat he had said, and shuddered. Without hesitating for a moment, he wroteto the journalist imploring him once more not to repeat what he hadconfided to him. (The poor wretch repeated it in part himself in theletter. )

Next day, as he opened the paper with feverish haste, the first thing heread was his story at great length on the front page. Everything that hehad said on the evening before was immeasurably enlarged, having sufferedthat peculiar deformation which everything has to suffer in its passagethrough the mind of a journalist. The article attacked the Grand Duke andthe Court with low invective. Certain details which it gave were toopersonal to Christophe, too obviously known only to him, for the articlenot to be attributed to him in its entirety. 

Christophe was crushed by this fresh blow. As he read a cold sweat came outon his face. When he had finished he was dumfounded. He wanted to rush tothe office of the paper, but his mother withheld him, not unreasonablybeing fearful of his violence. He was afraid of it himself. He felt that ifhe went there he would do something foolish; and he stayed--and did a veryfoolish thing. He wrote an indignant letter to the journalist in which hereproached him for his conduct in insulting terms, disclaimed the article, and broke with the party. The disclaimer did not appear. 

Christophe wrote again to the paper, demanding that his letter should bepublished. They sent him a copy of his first letter, written on the nightof the interview and confirming it. They asked if they were to publishthat, too. He felt that he was in their hands. Thereupon he unfortunatelymet the indiscreet interviewer in the street. He could not help tellinghim of his contempt for him. Next day the paper, without a spark of shame, published an insulting paragraph about the servants of the Court, who evenwhen they are dismissed remain servants and are incapable of being free. Afew allusions to recent events left no room for doubt that Christophe wasmeant. 

 * * * * *

When it became evident to everybody that Christophe had no single support, there suddenly cropped up a host of enemies whose existence he had neversuspected. All those whom he had offended, directly or indirectly, eitherby personal criticism or by attacking their ideas and taste, now took theoffensive and avenged themselves with interest. The general public whomChristophe had tried to shake out of their apathy were quite pleased to seethe insolent young man, who had presumed to reform opinion and disturb therest of people of property, taken down a peg. Christophe was in the water. Everybody did their best to duck him. 

They did not come down upon him all at once. One tried first, to spy outthe land. Christophe made no response, and he struck more lustily. Othersfollowed, and then the whole gang of them. Some joined in the sportsimply for fun, like puppies who think it funny to leave their mark ininappropriate places. They were the flying squadron of incompetentjournalists, who, knowing nothing, try to hide their ignorance by belaudingthe victors and belaboring the vanquished. Others brought the weight oftheir principles and they shouted like deaf people. Nothing was left ofanything when they had passed. They were the critics--with the criticismwhich kills. 

Fortunately for Christophe, he did not read the papers. A few devotedfriends took care to send him the most insulting. But he left them in aheap on his desk and never thought of opening them. It was only towardsthe end of it that his eyes were attracted by a great red mark round anarticle. He read that his _Lieder_ were like the roaring of a wild beast;that his symphonies seemed to have come from a madhouse; that his art washysterical, his harmony spasmodic, as a change from the dryness of hisheart and the emptiness of his thought. The critic, who was well known, ended with these words:

"Herr Krafft as a journalist has lately given astounding proof of his styleand taste, which roused irresistible merriment in musical circles. He wasthen given the friendly advice rather to devote himself to composition. Butthe latest products of his muse have shown that this advice, thoughwell-meant, was bad. Herr Krafft should certainly devote himself tojournalism. "

After reading the article, which prevented Christophe working the wholemorning, naturally he began to look for the other hostile papers, andbecame utterly demoralized. But Louisa, who had a mania for movingeverything lying about, by way of "tidying up, " had already burned them. Hewas irritated at first and then comforted, and he held out the last of thepapers to her, and said that she had better do the same with that. 

Other rebuffs hurt him more. A quartette which he had sent in manuscriptto a well-known society at Frankfort was rejected unanimously and returnedwithout explanation. An overture which an orchestra at Cologne seemeddisposed to perform was returned after a month as unplayable. But the worstof all was inflicted on him by an orchestral society in the town. The_Kapellmeister_, H. Euphrat, its conductor, was quite a good musician, butlike many conductors, he had no curiosity of mind. He suffered (or ratherhe carried to extremes) the laziness peculiar to his class, which consistsin going on and on investigating familiar works, while it shuns any reallynew work like the plague. He was never tired of organizing Beethoven, Mozart, or Schumann festivals: in conducting these works he had only to lethimself be carried along by the purring of the familiar rhythms. On theother hand, contemporary music was intolerable to him. He dared not admitit and pretended to be friendly towards young talent; in fact, whenever hewas brought a work built on the old lines--a sort of hotch-potch of worksthat had been new fifty years before--he would receive it very well, andwould even produce it ostentatiously and force it upon the public. Itdid not disturb either his effects or the way in which the public wasaccustomed to be moved. On the other hand, he was filled with a mixtureof contempt and hatred for anything which threatened to disturb thatarrangement and put him to extra trouble. Contempt would predominate if theinnovator had no chance of emerging from obscurity. But if there were anydanger of his succeeding, then hatred would predominate--of course untilthe moment when he had gained an established success. 

Christophe was not yet in that position: far from it. And so he was muchsurprised when he was informed, by indirect overtures, that Herr H. Euphratwould be very glad to produce one of his compositions. It was all the moreunexpected as he knew that the _Kapellmeister_ was an intimate friend ofBrahms and others whom he had maltreated in his criticisms. Being honesthimself, he credited his adversaries with the same generous feelings whichhe would have had himself. He supposed that now that he was down theywished to show him that they were above petty spite. He was touched by it. He wrote effusively to Herr Euphrat and sent him a symphonic poem. Theconductor replied through his secretary coldly but politely, acknowledgingthe receipt of his work, and adding that, in accordance with the rules ofthe society, the symphony would be given out to the orchestra immediatelyand put to the test of a general rehearsal before it could be accepted forpublic hearing. A rule is a rule. Christophe had to bow to it, though itwas a pure formality which served to weed out the lucubrations of amateurswhich were sometimes a nuisance. 

A few weeks later Christophe was told that his composition was to berehearsed. On principle everything was done privately and even the authorwas not permitted to be present at the rehearsal. But by a generally agreedindulgence the author was always admitted; only he did not show himself. Everybody knew it and everybody pretended not to know it. On the appointedday one of his friends brought Christophe to the hall, where he sat at theback of a box. He was surprised to see that at this private rehearsal thehall--at least the ground floor seats--were almost all filled; a crowd ofdilettante idlers and critics moved about and chattered to each other. Theorchestra had to ignore their presence. 

They began with the Brahms _Rhapsody_ for alto, chorus of male voices, andorchestra on a fragment of the _Harzreise im Winter_ of Goethe. Christophe, who detested the majestic sentimentality of the work, thought that perhapsthe "Brahmins" had introduced it politely to avenge themselves by forcinghim to hear a composition of which he had written irreverently. The ideamade him laugh, and his good humour increased when after the _Rhapsody_there came two other productions by known musicians whom he had taken totask; there seemed to be no doubt about their intentions. And while hecould not help making a face at it he thought that after all it was quitefair tactics; and, failing the music, he appreciated the joke. It evenamused him to applaud ironically with the audience, which made manifest itsenthusiasm for Brahms and his like. 

At last it came to Christophe's symphony. He saw from the way the orchestraand the people in the hall were looking at his box that they were aware ofhis presence. He hid himself. He waited with the catch at his heart whichevery musician feels at the moment when the conductor's wand is raised andthe waters of the music gather in silence before bursting their dam. Hehad never yet heard his work played. How would the creatures of his dreamslive? How would their voices sound? He felt their roaring within him; andhe leaned over the abyss of sounds waiting fearfully for what should comeforth. 

What did come forth was a nameless thing, a shapeless hotch-potch. Insteadof the bold columns which were to support the front of the building thechords came crumbling down like a building in ruins; there was nothing tobe seen but the dust of mortar. For a moment Christophe was not quite surewhether they were really playing his work. He cast back for the train, therhythm of his thoughts; he could not recognize it; it went on babblingand hiccoughing like a drunken man clinging close to the wall, and he wasovercome with shame, as though he had himself been seen in that condition. It was of no avail to think that he had not written such stuff; when anidiotic interpreter destroys a man's thoughts he has always a moment ofdoubt when he asks himself in consternation if he is himself responsiblefor it. The audience never asks such a question; the audience believes inthe interpreter, in the singers, in the orchestra whom they are accustomedto hear as they believe in their newspaper; they cannot make a mistake; ifthey say absurd things, it is the absurdity of the author. This audiencewas the less inclined to doubt because it liked to believe. Christophetried to persuade himself that the _Kapellmeister_ was aware of the hashand would stop the orchestra and begin again. The instruments were notplaying together. The horn had missed his beat and had come in a bar toolate; he went on for a few minutes, and then stopped quietly to clean hisinstrument. Certain passages for the oboe had absolutely disappeared. It was impossible for the most skilled ear to pick up the thread ofthe musical idea, or even to imagine that there was one. Fantasticinstrumentations, humoristic sallies became grotesque through thecoarseness of the execution. It was lamentably stupid, the work of anidiot, of a joker who knew nothing of music. Christophe tore his hair. Hetried to interrupt, but the friend who was with him held him back, assuringhim that the _Herr Kapellmeister_ must surely see the faults of theexecution and would put everything right--that Christophe must not showhimself and that if he made any remark it would have a very bad effect. Hemade Christophe sit at the very back of the box. Christophe obeyed, but hebeat his head with his fists; and every fresh monstrosity drew from him agroan of indignation and misery. 

"The wretches! The wretches!. . . "

He groaned, and squeezed his hands tight to keep himself from crying out. 

Now mingled with the wrong notes there came up to him the muttering of theaudience, who were beginning to be restless. At first it was only a tremor;but soon Christophe was left without a doubt; they were laughing. Themusicians of the orchestra had given the signal; some of them did notconceal their hilarity. The audience, certain then that the music waslaughable, rocked with laughter. This merriment became general; itincreased at the return of a very rhythmical motif which the double-bassesaccentuated in a burlesque fashion. Only the _Kapellmeister_ went onthrough the uproar imperturbably beating time. 

At last they reached the end (the best things come to an end). It was theturn of the audience. They exploded with delight, an explosion which lastedfor several minutes. Some hissed; others applauded ironically; the wittiestof all shouted "Encore!" A bass voice coming from a stage box began toimitate the grotesque motif. Other jokers followed suit and imitated italso. Some one shouted "Author!" It was long since these witty folk hadbeen so highly entertained. 

When the tumult was calmed down a little the _Kapellmeister_, standingquite impassive with his face turned towards the audience though hewas pretending not to see it--(the audience was still supposed to benon-existent)--made a sign to the audience that he was about to speak. There was a cry of "Ssh, " and silence. He waited a moment longer;then--(his voice was curt, cold, and cutting):

"Gentlemen, " he said, "I should certainly not have let _that_ he playedthrough to the end if I had not wished to make an example of the gentlemanwho has dared to write offensively of the great Brahms. "

That was all; and jumping down from his stand he went out amid cheers fromthe delighted audience. They tried to recall him; the applause went on fora few minutes longer. But he did not return. The orchestra went away. Theaudience decided to go too. The concert was over. 

It had been a good day. 

Christophe had gone already. Hardly had he seen the wretched conductorleave his desk when he had rushed from the box; he plunged down the stairsfrom the first floor to meet him and slap his face. His friend who hadbrought him followed and tried to hold him back, but Christophe brushed himaside and almost threw him downstairs;--(he had reason to believe that thefellow was concerned in the trick which had been played him). Fortunatelyfor H. Euphrat and himself the door leading to the stage was shut; and hisfurious knocking could not make them open it. However the audience wasbeginning to leave the hall. Christophe could not stay there. He fled. 

He was in an indescribable condition. He walked blindly, waving his arms, rolling his eyes, talking aloud like a madman; he suppressed his criesof indignation and rage. The street was almost empty. The concert hallhad been built the year before in a new neighborhood a little way out ofthe town; and Christophe instinctively fled towards the country acrossthe empty fields in which were a few lonely shanties and scaffoldingssurrounded by fences. His thoughts were murderous; he could have killed theman who had put such an affront upon him. Alas! and when he had killed himwould there he any change in the animosity of those people whose insultinglaughter was still ringing in his ears? They were too many; he could donothing against them; they were all agreed--they who were divided about somany things--to insult and crush him. It was past understanding; there washatred in them. What had he done to them all? There were beautiful thingsin him, things to do good and make the heart big; he had tried to say them, to make others enjoy them; he thought they would be happy like himself. Even if they did not like them they should he grateful to him for hisintentions; they could, if need be, show him kindly where he had beenwrong; but that they should take such a malignant joy in insulting andodiously travestying his ideas, in trampling them underfoot, and killinghim by ridicule, how was it possible? In his excitement he exaggeratedtheir hatred; he thought it much more serious than such mediocre peoplecould ever be. He sobbed: "What have I done to them?" He choked, he thoughtthat all was lost, just as he did when he was a child coming into contactfor the first time with human wickedness. 

And when he looked about him he suddenly saw that he had reached the edgeof the mill-race, at the very spot where a few years before his father hadbeen drowned. And at once he thought of drowning himself too. He was justat the point of making the plunge. 

But as he leaned over the steep bank, fascinated by the calm clean aspectof the water, a tiny bird in a tree by his side began to sing--to singmadly. He held his breath to listen. The water murmured. The ripening cornmoaned as it waved under the soft caressing wind; the poplars shivered. Behind the hedge on the road, out of sight, bees in hives in a gardenfilled the air with their scented music. From the other side of the streama cow was chewing the cud and gazing with soft eyes. A little fair-hairedgirl was sitting on a wall, with a light basket on her shoulders, like alittle angel with wings, and she was dreaming, and swinging her bare legsand humming aimlessly. Far away in a meadow a white dog was leaping andrunning in wide circles. Christophe leaned against a tree and listened andwatched the earth in Spring; he was caught up by the peace and joy of thesecreatures; he could forget, he could forget. Suddenly he clasped the treewith his arms and leaned his cheek against it. He threw himself on theground; he buried his face in the grass; he laughed nervously, happily. All the beauty, the grace, the charm of life wrapped him round, imbued hissoul, and he sucked them up like a sponge. He thought:

"Why are you so beautiful, and they--men--so ugly?"

No matter! He loved it, he loved it, he felt that he would always love it, and that nothing could ever take it from him. He held the earth to hisbreast. He held life to his breast:

"I love you! You are mine. They cannot take you from me. Let them do whatthey will! Let them make me suffer!. . . Suffering also is life!"

Christophe began bravely to work again. He refused to have anything moreto do with "men of letters"--well named--makers of phrases, the sterilebabblers, journalists, critics, the exploiters and traffickers of art. Asfor musicians he would waste no more time in battling with their prejudicesand jealousy. They did not want him? Very well! He did not want them. He had his work to do; he would do it. The Court had given him back hisliberty; he was grateful for it. He was grateful to the people for theirhostility; he could work in peace. 

Louisa approved with all her heart. She had no ambition; she was not aKrafft; she was like neither his father nor his grandfather. She did notwant honors or reputation for her son. She would have liked him to be richand famous; but if those advantages could only be bought at the price of somuch unpleasantness she much preferred not to bother about them. She hadbeen more upset by Christophe's grief over his rupture with the Palace thanby the event itself; and she was heartily glad that he had quarreled withthe review and newspaper people. She had a peasant's distrust of blackenedpaper; it was only a waste of time and made enemies. She had sometimesheard his young friends of the Review talking to Christophe; she had beenhorrified by their malevolence; they tore everything to pieces and saidhorrible things about everybody; and the worse things they said the betterpleased they were. She did not like them. No doubt they were very cleverand very learned, but they were not kind, and she was very glad thatChristophe saw no more of them. She was full of common sense: what goodwere they to him?

"They may say, write, and think what they like of me, " said Christophe. "They cannot prevent my being myself. What do their ideas or their artmatter to me? I deny them!"

 * * * * *

It is all very fine to deny the world. But the world is not so easilydenied by a young man's boasting. Christophe was sincere, but he was underillusion; he did not know himself. He was not a monk; he had not thetemperament for renouncing the world, and besides he was not old enough todo so. At first he did not suffer much, he was plunged in composition; andwhile his work lasted he did not feel the want of anything. But when hecame to the period of depression which follows the completion of a work andlasts until a new work takes possession of the mind, he looked about himand was horrified by his loneliness. He asked himself why he wrote. Whilea man is writing he never asks himself that question; he must write, thereis no arguing about it. And then he finds himself with the work that he hasbegotten: the great instinct which caused it to spring forth is silent; hedoes not understand why it was born: he hardly recognizes it, it is almosta stranger to him; he longs to forget it. And that is impossible as long asit is not published or played, or living its own life in the world. Tillthen it is like a new-born child attached to its mother, a living thingbound fast to his living flesh; it must be amputated at all costs or itwill not live. The more Christophe composed the more he suffered underthe weight of these creatures who had sprung forth from himself and couldneither live nor die. He was haunted by them. Who could deliver him fromthem? Some obscure impulse would stir in these children of his thoughts;they longed desperately to break away from him to expand into other soulslike the quick and fruitful seed which the wind scatters over the universe. Must he remain imprisoned in his sterility? He raged against it. 

Since every outlet--theaters, concerts--was closed to him, and nothingwould induce him to approach those managers who had once failed him, therewas nothing left but for him to publish his writings, but he could notflatter himself that it would be easier to find a publisher to produce hiswork than an orchestra to play it. The two or three clumsy attempts that hehad made were enough; rather than expose himself to another rebuff, or tobargain with one of these music merchants and put up with his patronizingairs, he preferred to publish it at his own expense. It was an act ofmadness; he had some small savings out of his Court salary and the proceedsof a few concerts, but the source from which the money had come was driedup and it would be a long time before he could find another; and he shouldhave been prudent enough to be careful with his scanty funds which had tohelp him over the difficult period upon which he was entering. Not only didhe not do so; but, as his savings were not enough to cover the expenses ofpublication, he did not shrink from getting into debt. Louisa dared not sayanything; she found him absolutely unreasonable, and did not understand howanybody could spend money for the sake of seeing his name on a book; butsince it was a way of making him be patient and of keeping him with her, she was only too happy for him to have that satisfaction. 

Instead of offering the public compositions of a familiar and undisturbingkind, in which it could feel at home, Christophe chose from among hismanuscripts a suite very individual in character, which he valued highly. They were piano pieces mixed with _Lieder_, some very short and popular instyle, others very elaborate and almost dramatic. The whole formed a seriesof impressions, joyous or mild, linked together naturally and writtenalternately for the piano and the voice, alone or accompanied. "For, " saidChristophe, "when I dream, I do not always formulate what I feel. I suffer, I am happy, and have no words to say; but then comes a moment when I mustsay what I am feeling, and I sing without thinking of what I am doing;sometimes I sing only vague words, a few disconnected phrases, sometimeswhole poems; then I begin to dream again. And so the day goes by; and Ihave tried to give the impression of a day. Why these gathered impressionscomposed only of songs or preludes? There is nothing more false or lessharmonious. One must try to give the free play of the soul. " He had calledhis suite: _A Day_. The different parts of the composition bore sub-titles, shortly indicating the succession of his inward dreams. Christophe hadwritten mysterious dedications, initials, dates, which only he couldunderstand, as they reminded Mm of poetic moments or beloved faces: the gayCorinne, the languishing Sabine, and the little unknown Frenchwoman. 

Besides this work he selected thirty of his _Lieder_--those whichpleased him most, and consequently pleased the public least. He avoidedchoosing the most "melodious" of his melodies, but he did choose themost characteristic. (The public always has a horror of anything"characteristic. " Characterless things are more likely to please them. )

These _Lieder_ were written to poems of old Silesian poets of theseventeenth century that Christophe had read by chance in a popularcollection, and whose loyalty he had loved. Two especially were dear tohim, dear as brothers, two creatures full of genius and both had died atthirty: the charming Paul Fleming, the traveler to the Caucasus and toIspahan, who preserved his soul pure, loving and serene in the midst ofthe savagery of war, the sorrows of life, and the corruption of his time, and Johann Christian Günther, the unbalanced genius who wore himself outin debauchery and despair, casting his life to the four winds. He hadtranslated Günther's cries of provocation and vengeful irony against thehostile God who overwhelms His creatures, his furious curses like those ofa Titan overthrown hurling the thunder back against the heavens. He hadselected Fleming's love songs to Anemone and Basilene, soft and sweet asflowers, and the rondo of the stars, the _Tanzlied_ (dancing song) ofhearts glad and limpid--and the calm heroic sonnet To Himself (_An Sich_), which Christophe used to recite as a prayer every morning. 

The smiling optimism of the pious Paul Gerhardt also had its charm forChristophe. It was a rest for him on recovering from his own sorrows. Heloved that innocent vision of nature as God, the fresh meadows, wherethe storks walk gravely among the tulips and white narcissus, by littlebrooks singing on the sands, the transparent air wherein there pass thewide-winged, swallows and flying doves, the gaiety of a sunbeam piercingthe rain, and the luminous sky smiling through the clouds, and the serenemajesty of the evening, the sweet peace of the forests, the cattle, thebowers and the fields. He had had the impertinence to set to music severalof those mystic canticles which are still sung in Protestant communities. And he had avoided preserving the choral character. Far from it: he hada horror of it; he had given them a free and vivacious character. OldGerhardt would have shuddered at the devilish pride which was breathedforth now in certain lines of his _Song of the Christian Traveler_, orthe pagan delight which made this peaceful stream of his _Song of Summer_bubble over like a torrent. 

The collection was published without any regard for common sense, ofcourse. The publisher whom Christophe paid for printing and storing his_Lieder_ had no other claim to his choice than that of being his neighbor. He was not equipped for such important work; the printing went on formonths; there were mistakes and expensive corrections. Christophe knewnothing about it and the whole thing cost more by a third than it need havedone; the expenses far exceeded anything he had anticipated. Then when itwas done, Christophe found an enormous edition on his hands and did notknow what to do with it. The publisher had no customers; he took no stepsto circulate the work. And his apathy was quite in accord with Christophe'sattitude. When he asked him, to satisfy his conscience, to write him ashort advertisement of it, Christophe replied that "he did not want anyadvertisement; if his music was good it would speak for itself. " Thepublisher religiously respected his wishes; he put the edition away in hiswarehouse. It was well kept; for in six months not a copy was sold. 

 * * * * *

While he was waiting for the public to make up its mind Christophe had tofind some way of repairing the hole he had made in his means; and he couldnot be nice about it, for he had to live and pay his debts. Not only werehis debts larger than he had imagined but he saw that the moneys on whichhe had counted were less than he had thought. Had he lost money withoutknowing it or--what was infinitely more probable--had he reckoned upwrongly? (He had never been able to add correctly. ) It did not matter muchwhy the money was missing; it was missing without a doubt. Louisa had togive her all to help her son. He was bitterly remorseful and tried to payher back as soon as possible and at all costs. He tried to get lessons, though it was painful to him to ask and to put up with refusals. He was outof favor altogether; he found it very difficult to obtain pupils again. Andso when it was suggested that he should teach at a school he was only tooglad. 

It was a semi-religious institution. The director, an astute gentleman, hadseen, though he was no musician, how useful Christophe might be, and howcheaply in his present position. He was pleasant and paid very little. WhenChristophe ventured to make a timid remark the director told him with akindly smile that as he no longer held an official position he could notvery well expect more. 

It was a sad task! It was not so much a matter of teaching the pupils musicas of making their parents and themselves believe that they had learned it. The chief thing was to make them able to sing at the ceremonies to whichthe public were admitted. It did not matter how it was done, Christophewas in despair; he had not even the consolation of telling himself as hefulfilled his task that he was doing useful work; his conscience reproachedhim with it as hypocrisy. He tried to give the children more solidinstruction and to make them acquainted with and love serious music; butthey did not care for it a bit. Christophe could not succeed in making themlisten to it; he had no authority over them; in truth he was not made forteaching children. He took no interest in their floundering; he tried toexplain to them all at once the theory of music. When he had to give apiano lesson he would set his pupil a symphony of Beethoven which he wouldplay as a duet with her. Naturally that could not succeed; he would explodeangrily, drive the pupil from the piano and go on playing alone for a longtime. He was just the same with his private pupils outside the school. Hehad not an ounce of patience; for instance he would tell a young lady whoprided herself on her aristocratic appearance and position, that she playedlike a kitchen maid; or he would even write to her mother and say that hegave it up, that it would kill him if he went on long bothering about agirl so devoid of talent. All of which did not improve his position. Hisfew pupils left him; he could not keep any of them more than a few months. His mother argued with him; he would argue with himself. Louisa made himpromise that at least he would not break with the school he had joined;for if he lost that position he did not know what he should do for aliving. And so he restrained himself in spite of his disgust; he was mostexemplarily punctual. But how could he conceal his thoughts when a donkeyof a pupil blundered for the tenth time in some passages, or when he had tocoach his class for the next concert in some foolish chorus!--(For he wasnot even allowed to choose his programme: his taste was not trusted)--Hewas not exactly zealous about it all. And yet he went stubbornly on, silent, frowning, only betraying his secret wrath by occasionally thumpingon his desk and making his pupils jump in their seats. But sometimes thepill was too bitter; he could not bear it any longer. In the middle of thechorus he would interrupt the singers:

"Oh! Stop! Stop! I'll play you some Wagner instead. "

They asked nothing better. They played cards behind his back. There wasalways someone who reported the matter to the director; and Christophewould be reminded that he was not there to make his pupils like musicbut to make them sing. He received his scoldings with a shudder; but heaccepted them; he did not want to lose his work. Who would have thought afew years before, when his career looked so assured and brilliant (when hehad done nothing), that he would be reduced to such humiliation just as hewas beginning to be worth something?

Among the hurts to his vanity that he came by in his work at the school, one of the most painful was having to call on his colleagues. He paid twocalls at random; and they bored him so that he had not the heart to go on. The two privileged persons were not at all pleased about it, but the otherswere personally affronted. They all regarded Christophe as their inferiorin position and intelligence; and they assumed a patronizing manner towardshim. Sometimes he was overwhelmed by it, for they seemed to be so sure ofthemselves and the opinion they had of him that he began to share it; hefelt stupid with them; what could he have found to say to them? They werefull of their profession and saw nothing beyond it. They were not men. Ifonly they had been books! But they were only notes to books, philologicalcommentaries. 

Christophe avoided meeting them. But sometimes he was forced to do so. Thedirector was at home once a month in the afternoon; and he insisted onall his people being there. Christophe, who had cut the first afternoon, without excuse, in the vain hope that his absence would not be noticed, wasever afterwards the object of sour attention. Next time he was lectured byhis mother and decided to go; he was as solemn about it as though he weregoing to a funeral. 

He found himself at a gathering of the teachers of the school and otherinstitutions of the town, and their wives and daughters. They were allhuddled together in a room too small for them, and grouped hierarchically. They paid no attention to him. The group nearest him was talking ofpedagogy and cooking. All the wives of the teachers had culinary recipeswhich they set out with pedantic exuberance and insistence. The men were noless interested in these matters and hardly less competent. They were asproud of the domestic talents of their wives as they of their husbands'learning. Christophe stood by a window leaning against the wall, notknowing how to look, now trying to smile stupidly, now gloomy with a fixedstare and unmoved features, and he was bored to death. A little away fromhim, sitting in the recess of the window, was a young woman to whom nobodywas talking and she was as bored as he. They both looked at the room andnot at each other. It was only after some time that they noticed eachother just as they both turned away to yawn, both being at the limit ofendurance. Just at that moment their eyes met. They exchanged a look offriendly understanding. He moved towards her. She said in a low voice:

"Are you amused?"

He turned his back on the room, and, looking out of the window, put out histongue. She burst out laughing, and suddenly waking up she signed to himto sit down by her side. They introduced themselves; she was the wife ofProfessor Reinhart, who lectured on natural history at the school, and wasnewly come to the town, where they knew nobody. She was not beautiful; shehad a large nose, ugly teeth, and she lacked freshness; but she had keen, clever eyes and a kindly smile. She chattered like a magpie; he answeredher solemnly; she had an amusing frankness and a droll wit; they laughinglyexchanged impressions out loud without bothering about the people roundthem. Their neighbors, who had not deigned to notice their existence whenit would have been charitable to help them out of their loneliness, nowthrew angry looks at them; it was in bad taste to be so much amused. Butthey did not care what the others might think of them; they were takingtheir revenge in their chatter. 

In the end Frau Reinhart introduced her husband to Christophe. He wasextremely ugly; he had a pale, greasy, pockmarked, rather sinister face, but he looked very kind. He spoke low down in his throat and pronounced hiswords sententiously, stammeringly, pausing between each syllable. 

They had been married a few months only and these two plain people werein love with each other; they had an affectionate way of looking at eachother, talking to each other, taking each other's hands in the presence ofeverybody--which was comic and touching. If one wanted anything the otherwould want it too. And so they invited Christophe to go and sup with themafter the reception. Christophe began jokingly to beg to be excused; hesaid that the best thing to do that evening would be to go to bed; he wasquite worn out with boredom, as tired as though he had walked ten miles. But Frau Reinhart said that he could not be left in that condition; itwould be dangerous to spend the night with such gloomy thoughts. Christophelet them drag him off. In his loneliness he was glad to have met these goodpeople, who were not very distinguished in their manners but were simpleand _gemütlich_. 

 * * * * *

The Reinharts' little house was _gemütlich_ like themselves. It was arather chattering _Gemüt_, a _Gemüt_ with inscriptions. The furniture, theutensils, the china all talked, and went on repeating their joy in seeingtheir "charming guest, " asked after his health, and gave him pleasant andvirtuous advice. On the sofas--which was very hard--was a little cushionwhich murmured amiably:

"Only a quarter of an hour!" (_Nur ein Viertelstündchen_. )

The cup of coffee which was handed to Christophe insisted on his takingmore:

"Just a drop!" (_Noch ein Schlückchen_. )

The plates seasoned the cooking with morality and otherwise the cooking wasquite excellent. One plate said:

"Think of everything: otherwise no good will come to you!"

Another:

"Affection and gratitude please everybody. Ingratitude pleases nobody. "

Although Christophe did not smoke, the ash-tray on the mantelpiece insistedon introducing itself to him:

"A little resting place for burning cigars. " (_Ruheplätzchen für brennendeCigarren. _)

He wanted to wash his hands. The soap on the washstand said:

"For our charming guest. " (_Für unseren lieben Gast. _)

And the sententious towel, like a person who has nothing to say, but thinkshe must say something all the same, gave him this reflection, full of goodsense but not very apposite, that "to enjoy the morning you must riseearly. "

"_Morgenstund hat Gold im Mund. _"

At length Christophe dared not even turn in his chair for fear of hearinghimself addressed by other voices coming from every part of the room. Hewanted to say:

"Be silent, you little monsters! We don't understand each other. "

And he burst out laughing crazily and then tried to explain to his hostand hostess that he was thinking of the gathering at the school. He wouldnot have hurt them for the world, And he was not very sensible of theridiculous. Very soon he grew accustomed to the loquacious cordiality ofthese people and their belongings. He could have tolerated anything inthem! They were so kind! They were not tiresome either; if they had notaste they were not lacking in intelligence. 

They were a little lost in the place to which they had come. Theintolerable susceptibilities of the little provincial town did not allowpeople to enter it as though it were a mill, without having properly askedfor the honor of becoming part of it. The Reinharts had not sufficientlyattended to the provincial code which regulated the duties of new arrivalsin the town towards those who had settled in it before them. Reinhart wouldhave submitted to it mechanically. But his wife, to whom such drudgery wasoppressive--she disliked being put out--postponed her duties from day today. She had selected those calls which bored her least, to be paid first, or she had put the others off indefinitely. The distinguished persons whowere comprised in the last category choked with indignation at such awant of respect. Angelica Reinhart--(her husband called her Lili)--was alittle free in her manners; she could not take on the official tone. Shewould address her superiors in the hierarchy familiarly and make than gored in the face with indignation; and if need be she was not afraid ofcontradicting them. She had a quick tongue and always had to say whateverwas in her head; sometimes she made extraordinarily foolish remarks atwhich people laughed behind her back; and also she could be maliciouswhole-heartedly, and that made her mortal enemies. She would bite hertongue as she was saying rash things and wish she had not said them, but itwas too late. Her husband, the gentlest and most respectful of men, wouldchide her timidly about it. She would kiss him and say that she was a fooland that he was right. But the next moment she would break out again; andshe would always say things at the least suitable moment; she would haveburst if she had not said them. She was exactly the sort of woman to get onwith Christophe. 

Among the many ridiculous things which she ought not to have said, andconsequently was always saying, was her trick of perpetually comparing theway things were done in Germany and the way they were done in France. Shewas a German--(nobody more so)--but she had been brought up in Alsace amongFrench Alsatians, and she had felt the attraction of Latin civilizationwhich so many Germans in the annexed countries, even those who seem theleast likely to feel it, cannot resist. Perhaps, to tell the truth, theattraction had become stronger out of a spirit of contradiction sinceAngelica had married a North German and lived with him in purely Germansociety. 

She opened up her usual subject of discussion on her first evening withChristophe. She loved the pleasant freedom of conversation in France, Christophe echoed her. France to him was Corinne; bright blue eyes, smilinglips, frank free manners, a musical voice; he loved to know more about it. 

Lili Reinhart clapped her hands on finding herself so thoroughly agreeingwith Christophe. 

"It is a pity, " she said, "that my little French friend has gone, but shecould not stand it; she has gone. "

The image of Corinne was at once blotted out. As a match going out suddenlymakes the gentle glimmer of the stars shine out from the dark sky, anotherimage and other eyes appeared. 

"Who?" asked Christophe with a start, "the little governess?"

"What?" said Frau Reinhart, "you knew her too?"

He described her; the two portraits were identical. 

"You knew her?" repeated Christophe. "Oh! Tell me everything you know abouther!. . . "

Frau Reinhart began by declaring that they were bosom friends and had nosecrets from each other. But when she had to go into detail her knowledgewas reduced to very little. They had met out calling. Frau Reinhart hadmade advances to the girl; and with her usual cordiality had invited her tocome and see her. The girl had come two or three times and they had talked. But the curious Lili had not so easily succeeded in finding out anythingabout the life of the little Frenchwoman; the girl was very reserved; shehad had to worm her story out of her, bit by bit. Frau Reinhart knew thatshe was called Antoinette Jeannin; she had no fortune, and no friends, except a younger brother who lived in Paris and to whom she was devoted. She used always to talk of him; he was the only subject about which shecould talk freely; and Lili Reinhart had gained her confidence by showingsympathy and pity for the boy living alone in Paris without relations, without friends, at a boarding school. It was partly to pay for hiseducation that Antoinette had accepted a post abroad. But the two childrencould not live without each other; they wanted to be with each other everyday, and the least delay in the delivery of their letters used to make themquite ill with anxiety. Antoinette was always worrying about her brother, the poor child could not always manage to hide his sadness and lonelinessfrom her; every one of his complaints used to sound through Antoinette'sheart and seemed like to break it; the thought that he was suffering usedto torture her and she used often to imagine that he was ill and would notsay so. Frau Reinhart in her kindness had often had to rebuke her for hergroundless fears, and she used to succeed in restoring her confidence fora moment. She had not been able to find out anything about Antoinette'sfamily or position or her inner self. The girl was wildly shy and usedto draw into herself at the first question. The little she said showedthat she was cultured and intelligent; she seemed to have a precociousknowledge of life; she seemed to be at once naïve and undeceived, pious anddisillusioned. She had not been happy in the town in a tactless and unkindfamily. She used not to complain, but it was easy to see that she used tosuffer--Frau Reinhart did not exactly know why she had gone. It had beensaid that she had behaved badly. Angelica did not believe it; she was readyto swear that it was all a disgusting calumny, worthy of the foolish rottentown. But there had been stories; it did not matter what, did it?

"No, " said Christophe, bowing his head. 

"And so she has gone. "

"And what did she say--anything to you when she went?"

"Ah!" said Lili Reinhart, "I had no chance. I had gone to Cologne for a fewdays just then! When I came back--_Zu spät_" (too late). --She stopped toscold her maid, who had brought her lemon too late for her tea. 

And she added sententiously with the solemnity which the true German bringsnaturally to the performance of the familiar duties of daily life:

"Too late, as one so often is in life!"

(It was not clear whether she meant the lemon or her interrupted story. )

She went on:

"When I returned I found a line from her thanking me for all I had doneand telling me that she was going; she was returning to Paris; she gave noaddress. "

"And she did not write again?"

"Not again. "

Once more Christophe saw her sad face disappear into the night; once morehe saw her eyes for a moment just as he had seen them for the last timelooking at him through the carriage window. 

The enigma of France was once more set before him more insistently thanever. Christophe never tired of asking Frau Reinhart about the countrywhich she pretended to know so well. And Frau Reinhart who had never beenthere was not reluctant to tell him about it. Reinhart, a good patriot, full of prejudices against France, which he knew better than his wife, sometimes used to qualify her remarks when her enthusiasm went too far; butshe would repeat her assertions only the more vigorously, and Christophe, knowing nothing at all about it, backed her up confidently. 

What was more precious even than Lili Reinhart's memories were her books. She had a small library of French books: school books, a few novels, a fewvolumes bought at random. Christophe, greedy of knowledge and ignorant ofFrance, thought them a treasure when Reinhart went and got them for him andput them at his disposal. 

He began with volumes of select passages, old school books, which had beenused by Lili Reinhart or her husband in their school days. Reinhart hadassured him that he must begin with them if he wished to find his way aboutFrench literature, which was absolutely unknown to him. Christophe was fullof respect for those who knew more than himself, and obeyed religiously:and that very evening he began to read. He tried first of all to take stockof the riches in his possession. 

He made the acquaintance of certain French writers, namely: Thédore-HenriBarrau, François Pétis de la Croix, Frédéric Baudry, Émile Delérot, Charles-Auguste-Désiré Filon, Samuel Descombaz, and Prosper Baur. He readthe poetry of Abbé Joseph Reyre, Pierre Lachambaudie, the Duc de Nivernois, André van Hasselt, Andrieux, Madame Colet, Constance-Marie Princesse deSalm-Dyck, Henrietta Hollard, Gabriel-Jean-Baptiste-Ernest-Wilfrid Legouvé, Hippolyte Violeau, Jean Reboul, Jean Racine, Jean de Béranger, FrédéricBéchard, Gustave Nadaud, Édouard Plouvier, Eugène Manuel, Hugo, Millevoye, Chênedollé, James Lacour Delâtre, Félix Chavannes, Francis-Édouard-Joachim, known as François Coppée, and Louis Belmontet. Christophe was lost, drowned, submerged under such a deluge of poetry and turned to prose. Hefound Gustave de Molinari, Fléchier, Ferdinand-Édouard Buisson, Mérimée, Malte-Brun, Voltaire, Lamé-Fleury, Dumas père, J. J. Bousseau, Mézières, Mirabeau, de Mazade, Claretie, Cortambert, Frédéric II, and M. De Vogüé. The most often quoted of French historians was Maximilien Samson-FrédéricSchoell. In the French anthology Christophe found the Proclamation ofthe new German Empire; and he read a description of the Germans byFrédéric-Constant de Rougemont, in which he learned that "_the German wasborn to live in the region of the soul. He has not the light noisy gaietyof the Frenchman. His is a great soul; his affections are tender andprofound. He is indefatigable in toil, and persevering in enterprise. Thereis no more moral or long-lived people. Germany has an extraordinary numberof writers. She has the genius of art. While the inhabitants of othercountries pride themselves on being French, English, Spanish, the German onthe other hand embraces all humanity in his love. And though its positionis the very center of Europe the German nation seems to be at once theheart and the higher reason of humanity_. "

Christophe closed the book. He was astonished and tired. He thought:

"The French are good fellows; but they are not strong. "

He took another volume. It was on a higher plane; it was meant for highschools. Musset occupied three pages, and Victor Duray thirty, Lamartineseven pages and Thiers almost forty. The whole of the _Cid_ wasincluded--or almost the whole:---(ten monologues of Don Diègue and Rodriguehad been suppressed because they were too long. )--Lanfrey exalted Prussiaagainst Napoleon I and so he had not been cut down; he alone occupied morespace than all the great classics of the eighteenth century. Copiousnarrations of the French defeats of 1870 had been extracted from _LaDebâcle_ of Zola. Neither Montaigne, nor La Rochefoucauld, nor La Bruyère, nor Diderot, nor Stendhal, nor Balzac, nor Flaubert appeared. On the otherhand, Pascal, who did not appear in the other book, found a place in thisas a curiosity; and Christophe learned by the way that the convulsionary"_was one of the fathers of Port-Royal, a girls' school, near Paris_. . . "[Footnote: The anthologies of French literature which Jean-Christopheborrowed from his friends the Reinharts were:

I. _Selected French passages for the use of secondary schools_, by HubertH. Wingerath, Ph. D. , director of the real-school of Saint John atStrasburg. Part II: Middle forms. --7th Edition, 1902, Dumont-Schauberg. 

II. L. Herrig and G. F. Burguy: _Literary France_, arranged by F. Tendering, director of the real-gymnasium of the Johanneum, Hamburg. --1904, Brunswick. ]

Christophe was on the point of throwing the book away; his head wasswimming; he could not see. He said to himself: "I shall never get throughwith it. " He could not formulate any opinion. He turned over the leavesidly for hours without knowing what he was reading. He did not read Frencheasily, and when he had labored to make out a passage, it was almost alwayssomething meaningless and highfalutin. 

And yet from the chaos there darted flashes of light, like rapier thrusts, words that looked and stabbed, heroic laughter. Gradually an impressionemerged from his first reading, perhaps through the biased scheme of theselections. Voluntarily or involuntarily the German editors had selectedthose pieces of French which could seem to establish by the testimony ofthe French themselves the failings of the French and the superiority of theGermans. But they had no notion that what they most exposed to the eyes ofan independent mind like Christophe's was the surprising liberty of theseFrenchmen who criticised everything in their own country and praisedtheir adversaries. Michelet praised Frederick II, Lanfrey the English ofTrafalgar, Charras the Prussia of 1813. No enemy of Napoleon had ever daredto speak of him so harshly. Nothing was too greatly respected to escapetheir disparagement. Even under the great King the previous poets had hadtheir freedom of speech. Molière spared nothing, La Fontaine laughed ateverything. Even Boileau gibed at the nobles. Voltaire derided war, floggedreligion, scoffed at his country. Moralists, satirists, pamphleteers, comicwriters, they all vied one with another in gay or somber audacity. Wantof respect was universal. The honest German editors were sometimes scaredby it, they had to throw a rope to their consciences by trying to excusePascal, who lumped together cooks, porters, soldiers, and camp followers;they protested in a note that Pascal would not have written thus if he hadbeen acquainted with the noble armies of modern times. They did not failto remind the reader how happily Lessing had corrected the Fables of LaFontaine by following, for instance, the advice of the Genevese Rousseauand changing the piece of cheese of Master Crow to a piece of poisoned meatof which the vile fox dies. 

"_May you never gain anything but poison. You cursed flatterers!_"

They blinked at naked truth; but Christophe was pleased with it; he lovedthis light. Here and there he was even a little shocked; he was not used tosuch unbridled independence which looks like anarchy to the eyes even ofthe freest of Germans, who in spite of everything is accustomed to orderand discipline. And he was led astray by the way of the French; he tookcertain things too seriously; and other things which were implacabledenials seemed to him to be amusing paradoxes. No matter! Surprised orshocked he was drawn on little by little. He gave up trying to classify hisimpressions; he passed from one feeling to another; he lived. The gaietyof the French stories--Chamfort, Ségur, Dumas père, Mérimée all lumpedtogether--delighted him; and every now and then in gusts there would creepforth from the printed page the wild intoxicating scent of the Revolutions. 

It was nearly dawn when Louisa, who slept in the next room, woke up and sawthe light through the chinks of Christophe's door. She knocked on the walland asked if he were ill. A chair creaked on the floor: the door opened andChristophe appeared, pale, in his nightgown, with a candle and a book inhis hand, making strange, solemn, and grotesque gestures. Louisa was interror and got up in her bed, thinking that he was mad. He began to laugh, and, waving his candle, he declaimed a scene from Molière. In the middle ofa sentence he gurgled with laughter; he sat at the foot of his mother's bedto take breath; the candle shook in his hand. Louisa was reassured, andscolded him forcibly:

"What is the matter with you? What is it? Go to bed. . . . My poor boy, areyou going out of your senses?"

But he began again:

"You must listen to this!"

And he sat by her bedside and read the play, going back to the beginningagain. He seemed to see Corinne; he heard her mocking tones, cutting andsonorous. Louisa protested:

"Go away! Go away! You will catch cold. How tiresome you are. Let me go tosleep!"

He went on relentlessly. He raised his voice, waved his arms, choked withlaughter; and he asked his mother if she did not think it wonderful. Louisaturned her back on him, buried herself in the bedclothes, stopped her ears, and said:

"Do leave me alone!. . . "

But she laughed inwardly at hearing his laugh. At last she gave upprotesting. And when Christophe had finished the act, and asked her, without eliciting any reply, if she did not think what he had readinteresting, he bent over her and saw that she was asleep. Then he smiled, gently kissed her hair, and stole back to his own room. 

 * * * * *

He borrowed more and more books from the Reinharts' library. There were allsorts of books in it. Christophe devoured them all. He wanted so much tolove the country of Corinne and the unknown young woman. He had so muchenthusiasm to get rid of that he found a use for it in his reading. Evenin second-rate works there were sentences and pages which had the effecton him of a gust of fresh air. He exaggerated the effect, especially whenhe was talking to Frau Reinhart, who always went a little better than he. Although she was as ignorant as a fish, she delighted to contrast Frenchand German culture and to decry the German to the advantage of the French, just to annoy her husband and to avenge herself for the boredom she had tosuffer in the little town. 

Reinhart was really amused. Notwithstanding his learning, he had stoppedshort at the ideas he had learned at school. To him the French were aclever people, skilled in practical things, amiable, talkative, butfrivolous, susceptible, and boastful, incapable of being serious, or sincere, or of feeling strongly--a people without music, withoutphilosophy, without poetry (except for _l'Art Poétique_, Béranger andFrançois Coppée)--a people of pathos, much gesticulation, exaggeratedspeech, and pornography. There were not words strong enough for thedenunciation---of Latin Immorality; and for want of a better he always cameback to _frivolity_, which for him, as for the majority of his compatriots, had a particularly unpleasant meaning. And he would end with theusual couplet in praise of the noble German people, --the moral people("_By that_, " Herder has said, "_it is distinguished from all othernations_. ")--the faithful people (_treues Volk . . . Treu_ meaningeverything: sincere, faithful, loyal and upright)--_the People parexcellence_, as Fichte says--German Force, the symbol of justice andtruth--German thought--the German _Gemüt_--the German language, the onlyoriginal language, the only language that, like the race itself, haspreserved its purity--German women, German wine, German song . . . "_Germany, Germany above everything in the world_!"

Christophe would protest. Frau Reinhart would cry out. They would allshout. They did not get on the less for it. They knew quite well that theywere all three good Germans. 

Christophe used often to go and talk, dine and walk with his new friends. Lili Reinhart made much of him, and used to cook dainty suppers for him. She was delighted to have the excuse for satisfying her own greediness. Shepaid him all sorts of sentimental and culinary attentions. For Christophe'sbirthday she made a cake, on which were twenty candles and in the middlea little wax figure in Greek costume which was supposed to representIphigenia holding a bouquet. Christophe, who was profoundly German in spiteof himself, was touched by these rather blunt and not very refined marks oftrue affection. 

The excellent Reinharts found other more subtle ways of showing their realfriendship. On his wife's instigation Reinhart, who could hardly read anote of music, had bought twenty copies of Christophe's _Lieder_--(thefirst to leave the publisher's shop)--he had sent them to different partsof Germany to university acquaintances. He had also sent a certain numberto the libraries of Leipzig and Berlin, with which he had dealings throughhis classbooks. For the moment at least their touching enterprise, ofwhich Christophe knew nothing, bore no fruit. The _Lieder_ which had beenscattered broadcast seemed to miss fire; nobody talked of them; and theReinharts, who were hurt by this indifference, were glad they had not toldChristophe about what they had done, for it would have given him more painthan consolation. But in truth nothing is lost, as so often appears inlife; no effort is in vain. For years nothing happens. Then one day itappears that your idea has made its way. It was impossible to be surethat Christophe's _Lieder_ had not reached the hearts of a few good peopleburied in the country, who were too timid or too tired to tell him so. 

One person wrote to him. Two or three months after the Reinharts had sentthem, a letter came for Christophe. It was warm, ceremonious, enthusiastic, old-fashioned in form, and came from a little town in Thuringia, and wassigned "_Universitäts Musikdirektor Professor Dr. Peter Schulz_. "

It was a great joy for Christophe, and even greater for the Reinharts, whenat their house he opened the letter, which he had left lying in his pocketfor two days. They read it together. Reinhart made signs to his wife whichChristophe did not notice. He looked radiant, until suddenly Reinhart sawhis face grow gloomy, and he stopped dead in the middle of his reading. 

"Well, why do you stop?" he asked. 

(They used the familiar _du_. )

Christophe flung the letter on the table angrily. 

"No. It is too much!" he said. 

"What is?"

"Read!"

He turned away and went and sulked in a corner. 

Reinhart and his wife read the letter, and could find in it only ferventadmiration. 

"I don't see, " he said in astonishment. 

"You don't see? You don't see?. . . " cried Christophe, taking the letter andthrusting it in his face. "Can't you read? Don't you see that he is a'_Brahmin_'"?

And then Reinhart noticed that in one sentence the _UniversitätsMusikdirektor_ compared Christophe's _Lieder_ with those of Brahms. Christophe moaned:

"A friend! I have found a friend at last!. . . And I have hardly found himwhen I have lost him!. . . "

The comparison revolted him. If they had let him, he would have repliedwith a stupid letter, or perhaps, upon reflection, he would have thoughthimself very prudent and generous in not replying at all. Fortunately, theReinharts were amused by his ill-humor, and kept him from committing anyfurther absurdity. They succeeded in making him write a letter of thanks. But the letter, written reluctantly, was cold and constrained. Theenthusiasm of Peter Schulz was not shaken by it. He sent two or threemore letters, brimming, over with affection. Christophe was not a goodcorrespondent, and although he was a little reconciled to his unknownfriend by the sincerity and real sympathy which he could feel behind hiswords, he let the correspondence drop. Schulz wrote no more. Christophenever thought about him. 

 * * * * *

He now saw the Reinharts every day and frequently several times a day. Theyspent almost all the evenings together. After spending the day alone inconcentration he had a physical need of talking, of saying everything thatwas in his mind, even if he were not understood, and of laughing with orwithout reason, of expanding and stretching himself. 

He played for them. Having no other means of showing his gratitude, hewould sit at the piano and play for hours together. Frau Reinhart was nomusician, and she had difficulty in keeping herself from yawning; but shesympathized with Christophe, and pretended to be interested in everythinghe played. Reinhart was not much more of a musician than his wife, but wassometimes touched quite materially by certain pieces of music, certainpassages, certain bars, and then he would be violently moved sometimeseven to tears, and that seemed silly to him. The rest of the time he feltnothing; it was just music to him. That was the general rule. He was nevermoved except by the least good passages of a composition--absolutelyinsignificant passages. Both of them persuaded themselves that theyunderstood Christophe, and Christophe tried to pretend that it was so. Every now and then he would be seized by a wicked desire to make fun ofthem. He would lay traps for them and play things without any meaning, inapt _potpourris_; and he would let them think that he had composed them. Then, when they had admired it, he would tell them what it was. Then theywould grow wary, and when Christophe played them a piece with an air ofmystery, they would imagine that he was trying to catch them again, andthey would criticise it. Christophe would let them go on and back them up, and argue that such music was worthless, and then he would break out:

"Rascals! You are right!. . . It is my own!" He would be as happy as a boy athaving taken them in. Frau Reinhart would be cross and come and give hima little slap; but he would laugh so good-humoredly that they would laughwith him. They did not pretend to be infallible. And as they had no leg tostand on, Lili Reinhart would criticise everything and her husband wouldpraise everything, and so they were certain that one or other of them wouldalways be in agreement with Christophe. 

For the rest, it was not so much the musician that attracted them inChristophe as the crack-brained boy, with his affectionate ways and truereality of life. The ill that they had heard spoken of him had ratherdisposed them in his favor. Like him, they were rather oppressed by theatmosphere of the little town; like him, they were frank, they judged forthemselves, and they regarded him as a great baby, not very clever in theways of life, and the victim of his own frankness. 

Christophe was not under many illusions concerning his new friends, andit made him sad to think that they did not understand the depths of hischaracter, and that they would never understand it. But he was so muchdeprived of friendship and he stood in such sore need of it, that he wasinfinitely grateful to them for wanting to like him a little. He hadlearned wisdom in his experiences of the last year; he no longer thoughthe had the right to be overwise. Two years earlier he would not have beenso patient. He remembered with amusement and remorse his severe judgmentof the honest and tiresome Eulers! Alas! How wisdom had grown in him! Hesighed a little. A secret voice whispered: "Yes, but for how long?"

That made him smile and consoled him a little. What would he not have givento have a friend, one friend who would understand him and share his soul!But although he was still young he had enough experience of the world toknow that his desire was one of those which are most difficult to realizein life, and that he could not hope to be happier than the majority of thetrue artists who had gone before him. He had learned the histories of someof them. Certain books, borrowed from the Reinharts, had told him aboutthe terrible trials through which the German musicians of the seventeenthcentury had passed, and the calmness and resolution with which one ofthese great souls--the greatest of all, the heroic Schutz--had striven, as unshakably he went on his way in the midst of wars and burning towns, and provinces ravaged by the plague, with his country invaded, trampledunderfoot by the hordes of all Europe, and--worst of all--broken, worn out, degraded by misfortune, making no fight, indifferent to everything, longingonly for rest. He thought: "With such as example, what right has any manto complain? They had no audience, they had no future; they wrote forthemselves and God. What they wrote one day would perhaps be destroyed bythe next. And yet they went on writing and they were not sad. Nothing madethem lose their intrepidity, their joviality. They were satisfied withtheir song; they asked nothing of life but to live, to earn their dailybread, to express their ideas, and to find a few honest men, simple, true, not artists, who no doubt did not understand them, but had confidence inthem and won their confidence in return. How dared he have demanded morethan they? There is a minimum of happiness which it is permitted to demand. But no man has the right to more; it rests with a man's self to gain thesurplus of happiness, not with others. "

Such thoughts brought him new serenity, and he loved his good friends theReinharts the more for them. He had no idea that even this affection was tobe denied him. 

 * * * * *

He reckoned without the malevolence of small towns. They are tenaciousin their spite--all the more tenacious because their spite is aimless. Ahealthy hatred which knows what it wants is appeased when it has achievedits end. But men who are mischievous from boredom never lay down theirarms, for they are always bored. Christophe was a natural prey for theirwant of occupation. He was beaten without a doubt; but he was bold enoughnot to seem crushed. He did not bother anybody, but then he did not botherabout anybody. He asked nothing. They were impotent against him. He washappy with his new friends and indifferent to anything that was said orthought of him. That was intolerable. --Frau Reinhart roused even moreirritation. Her open friendship with Christophe in the face of the wholetown seemed, like his attitude, to be a defiance of public opinion. But thegood Lili Reinhart defied nothing and nobody. She had no thought to provokeothers; she did what she thought fit without asking anybody else's advice. That was the worst provocation. 

All their doings were watched. They had no idea of it. He was extravagant, she scatter-brained, and both even wanting in prudence when they went outtogether, or even at home in the evening, when they leaned over the balconytalking and laughing. They drifted innocently into a familiarity of speechand manner which could easily supply food for calumny. 

One morning Christophe received an anonymous letter. He was accused inbasely insulting terms of being Frau Reinhart's lover. His arms fell by hissides. He had never had the least thought of love or even of flirtationwith her. He was too honest. He had a Puritanical horror of adultery. Thevery idea of such a dirty sharing gave him a physical and moral feeling ofnausea. To take the wife of a friend would have been a crime in his eyes, and Lili Reinhart would have been the last person in the world with whom hecould have been tempted to commit such an offense. The poor woman was notbeautiful, and he would not have had even the excuse of passion. 

He went to his friends ashamed and embarrassed. They also were embarrassed. Each of them had received a similar letter, but they had not dared to telleach other, and all three of them were on their guard and watched eachother and dared not move or speak, and they just talked nonsense. If LiliReinhart's natural carelessness took the ascendant for a moment, or ifshe began to laugh and talk wildly, suddenly a look from her husband orChristophe would stop her dead; the letter would cross her mind; she wouldstop in the middle of a familiar gesture and grow uneasy. Christophe andReinhart were in the same plight. And each of them was thinking: "Do theothers know?"

However, they said nothing to each other and tried to go on as thoughnothing had happened. 

But the anonymous letters went on, growing more and mores insulting anddirty. They were plunged into a condition of depression and intolerableshame. They hid themselves when they received the letters, and had not thestrength to burn them unopened. They opened them with trembling hands, andas they unfolded the letters their hearts would sink; and when they readwhat they feared to read, with some new variation on the same theme--theinjurious and ignoble inventions of a mind bent on causing a hurt--theywept in silence. They racked their brains to discover who the wretch mightbe who so persistently persecuted them. . 

One day Frau Reinhart, at the end of her letter, confessed the persecutionof which she was the victim to her husband, and with tears in his eyes heconfessed that he was suffering in the same way. Should they mention itto Christophe? They dared not. But they had to warn him to make him becautious. --At the first words that Frau Reinhart said to him, with a blush, she saw to her horror that Christophe had also received letters. Such uttermalignance appalled them. Frau Reinhart had no doubt that the whole townwas in the secret. Instead of helping each other, they only underminedeach other's fortitude. They did not know what to do. Christophe talked ofbreaking somebody's head. But whose? And besides, that would be to justifythe calumny!. . . Inform the police of the letters?--That would make theirinsinuations public. . . --Pretend to ignore them? It was no longer possible. Their friendly relations were now disturbed. It was useless for Reinhart tohave absolute faith in the honesty of his wife and Christophe. He suspectedthem in spite of himself. He felt that his suspicions were shameful andabsurd, and tried hard not to pay any heed to them, and to leave Christopheand his wife alone together. But he suffered, and his wife saw that he wassuffering. 

It was even worse for her. She had never thought of flirting withChristophe, any more than he had thought of it with her. The calumniousletters brought her imperceptibly to the ridiculous idea that afterall Christophe was perhaps in love with her; and although he was neveranywhere near showing any such feeling for her, she thought she must defendherself, not by referring directly to it, but by clumsy precautions, whichChristophe did not understand at first, though, when he did understand, hewas beside himself. It was so stupid that it made him laugh and cry at thesame time! He in love with the honest little woman, kind enough as she was, but plain and common!. . . And to think that she should believe it!. . . Andthat he could not deny it, and tell her and her husband:

"Come! There is no danger! Be calm!. . . " But no; he could not offend thesegood people. And besides, he was beginning to think that if she held outagainst being loved by him it was because she was secretly on the point ofloving him. The anonymous letters had had the fine result of having givenhim so foolish and fantastic an idea. 

The situation had become at once so painful and so silly that it wasimpossible for this to go on. Besides, Lili Reinhart, who, in spite of herbrave words, had no strength of character, lost her head in the face of thedumb hostility of the little town. They made shamefaced excuses for notmeeting:

"Frau Reinhart was unwell. . . . Reinhart was busy. . . . They were going awayfor a few days. . . . "

Clumsy lies which were always unmasked by chance, which seemed to take amalicious pleasure in doing so. 

Christophe was more frank, and said:

"Let us part, my friends. We are not strong enough. "

The Reinharts wept. --But they were happier when the breach was made. 

The town had its triumph. This time Christophe was quite alone. It hadrobbed him of his last breath of air:--the affection, however humble, without which no heart can live. 

III

DELIVERANCE

He had no one. All his friends had disappeared. His dear Gottfried, who hadcome to his aid in times of difficulty, and whom now he so sorely needed, had gone some months before. This time forever. One evening in the summerof the last year a letter in large handwriting, bearing the address of adistant village, had informed Louisa that her brother had died upon one ofhis vagabond journeys which the little peddler had insisted on making, inspite of his ill health. He was buried there in the cemetery of the place. The last manly and serene friendship which could have supported Christophehad been swallowed up. He was left alone with his old mother, who carednothing for his ideas--could only love him and not understand him. Abouthim was the immense plain of Germany, the green ocean. At every attempt toclimb out of it he only slipped back deeper than ever. The hostile townwatched him drown. . . . 

And as he was struggling a light flashed upon him in the middle of thenight, the image of Hassler, the great musician whom he had loved so muchwhen he was a child. His fame shone over all Germany now. He rememberedthe promises that Hassler had made him then. And he clung to this piece ofwreckage in desperation. Hassler could save him! Hassler must save him!What was he asking? Not help, nor money, nor material assistance of anykind. Nothing but understanding. Hassler had been persecuted like him. Hassler was a free man. He would understand a free man, whom Germanmediocrity was pursuing with its spite and trying to crush. They werefighting the same battle. 

He carried the idea into execution as soon as it occurred to him. He toldhis mother that he would be away for a week, and that very evening he tookthe train for the great town in the north of Germany where Hassler was_Kapellmeister_, He could not wait. It was a last effort to breathe. 

 * * * * *

Hassler was famous. His enemies had not disarmed, but his friends criedthat he was the greatest musician, present, past and future. He wassurrounded by partisans and detractors who were equally absurd. As he wasnot of a very firm character, he had been embittered by the last, andmollified by the first. He devoted his energy to writing things to annoyhis critics and make them cry out. He was like an urchin playing pranks. These pranks were often in the most detestable taste. Not only did hedevote his prodigious talent to musical eccentricities which made thehair of the pontiffs stand on end, but he showed a perverse predilectionfor queer themes, bizarre subjects, and often for equivocal and scabroussituations; in a word, for everything which could offend ordinary goodsense and decency. He was quite happy when the people howled, and thepeople did not fail him. Even the Emperor, who dabbled in art, as everyone knows, with the insolent presumption of upstarts and princes, regardedHassler's fame as a public scandal, and let no opportunity slip of showinghis contemptuous indifference to his impudent works. Hassler was enragedand delighted by such august opposition, which had almost become aconsecration for the advanced paths in German art, and went on smashingwindows. At every new folly his friends went into ecstasies and cried thathe was a genius. 

Hassler's coterie was chiefly composed of writers, painters, and decadentcritics who certainly had the merit of representing the party of revoltagainst the reaction--always a menace in North Germany--of the pietisticspirit and State morality; but in the struggle the independence had beencarried to a pitch of absurdity of which they were unconscious. For, ifmany of them were not lacking in a rude sort of talent, they had littleintelligence and less taste. They could not rise above the fastidiousatmosphere which they had created, and like all cliques, they had ended bylosing all sense of real life. They legislated for themselves and hundredsof fools who read their reviews and gulped down everything they werepleased to promulgate. Their adulation had been fatal to Hassler, for ithad made him too pleased with himself. He accepted without examinationevery musical idea that came into his head, and he had a privateconviction, however he might fall below his own level, he was stillsuperior to that of all other musicians. And though that idea was only tootrue in the majority of cases, it did not follow that it was a very fitstate of mind for the creation of great works. At heart Hassler had asupreme contempt for everybody, friends and enemies alike; and this bitterjeering contempt was extended to himself and life in general. He wasall the more driven back into his ironic skepticism because he had oncebelieved in a number of generous and simple things. As he had not beenstrong enough to ward off the slow destruction of the passing of the days, nor hypocritical enough to pretend to believe in the faith he had lost, hewas forever gibing at the memory of it. He was of a Southern German nature, soft and indolent, not made to resist excess of fortune or misfortune, ofheat or cold, needing a moderate temperature to preserve its balance. Hehad drifted insensibly into a lazy enjoyment of life. He loved good food, heavy drinking, idle lounging, and sensuous thoughts. His whole art smackedof these things, although he was too gifted for the flashes of his geniusnot still to shine forth from his lax music which drifted with the fashion. No one was more conscious than himself of his decay. In truth, he wasthe only one to be conscious of it--at rare moments which, naturally, heavoided. Besides, he was misanthropic, absorbed by his fearful moods, hisegoistic preoccupations, his concern about his health--he was indifferentto everything which had formerly excited his enthusiasm or hatred. 

 * * * * *

Such was the man to whom Christophe came for assistance, With what joy andhope he arrived, one cold, wet morning, in the town wherein then livedthe man who symbolized for him the spirit of independence in his art! Heexpected words of friendship and encouragement from him--words that heneeded to help him to go on with the ungrateful, inevitable battle whichevery true artist has to wage against the world until he breathes his last, without even for one day laying down his arms; for, as Schiller has said, "_the only relation with the public of which a man never repents--is war_. "

Christophe was so impatient that he just left his bag at the first hotel hecame to near the station, and then ran to the theater to find out Hassler'saddress. Hassler lived some way from the center of the town, in one of thesuburbs. Christophe took an electric train, and hungrily ate a roll. Hisheart thumped as he approached his goal. 

The district in which Hassler had chosen his house was almost entirelybuilt in that strange new architecture into which young Germany has thrownan erudite and deliberate barbarism struggling laboriously to have genius. In the middle of the commonplace town, with its straight, characterlessstreets, there suddenly appeared Egyptian hypogea, Norwegian chalets, cloisters, bastions, exhibition pavilions, pot-bellied houses, fakirs, buried in the ground, with expressionless faces, with only one enormouseye; dungeon gates, ponderous gates, iron hoops, golden cryptograms onthe panes of grated windows, belching monsters over the front door, blueporcelain tiles plastered on in most unexpected places; variegated mosaicsrepresenting Adam and Eve; roofs covered with tiles of jarring colors;houses like citadels with castellated walls, deformed animals on the roofs, no windows on one side, and then suddenly, close to each other, gapingholes, square, red, angular, triangular, like wounds; great stretches ofempty wall from which suddenly there would spring a massive balcony withone window--a balcony supported by Nibelungesque Caryatides, balconies fromwhich there peered through the stone balustrade two pointed heads of oldmen, bearded and long-haired, mermen of Boecklin. On the front of one ofthese prisons--a Pharaohesque mansion, low and one-storied, with two nakedgiants at the gate--the architect had written:

 Let the artist show his universe, Which never was and yet will ever be. 

 _Seine Welt zeige der Künstler, Die niemals war noch jemals sein wird. _

Christophe was absorbed by the idea of seeing Hassler, and looked with theeyes of amazement and under no attempt to understand. He reached the househe sought, one of the simplest--in a Carolingian style. Inside was richluxury, commonplace enough. On the staircase was the heavy atmosphere ofhot air. There was a small lift which Christophe did not use, as he wantedto gain time to prepare himself for his call by going up the four flightsof stairs slowly, with his legs giving and his heart thumping with hisexcitement. During that short ascent his former interview with Hassler, hischildish enthusiasm, the image of his grandfather were as clearly in hismind as though it had all been yesterday. 

It was nearly eleven when he rang the bell. He was received by a sharpmaid, with a _serva padrona_ manner, who looked at him impertinently andbegan to say that "Herr Hassler could not see him, as Herr Hassler wastired. " Then the naïve disappointment expressed in Christophe's face amusedher; for after making an unabashed scrutiny of him from head to foot, shesoftened suddenly and introduced him to Hassler's study, and said she wouldgo and see if Herr Hassler would receive him. Thereupon she gave him alittle wink and closed the door. 

On the walls were a few impressionist paintings and some gallant Frenchengravings of the eighteenth century: for Hassler pretended to someknowledge of all the arts, and Manet and Watteau were joined together inhis taste in accordance with the prescription of his coterie. The samemixture of styles appeared in the furniture, and a very fine Louis XVbureau was surrounded by new art armchairs and an oriental divan with amountain of multi-colored cushions. The doors were ornamented with mirrors, and Japanese bric-a-brac covered the shelves and the mantelpiece, on whichstood a bust of Hassler. In a bowl on a round table was a profusion ofphotographs of singers, female admirers and friends, with witty remarks andenthusiastic interjections. The bureau was incredibly untidy. The piano wasopen. The shelves were dusty, and half-smoked cigars were lying abouteverywhere. 

In the next room Christophe heard a cross voice grumbling, It was answeredby the shrill tones of the little maid. It was dear that Hassler was notvery pleased at having to appear. It was clear, also, that the young womanhad decided that Hassler should appear; and she answered him with extremefamiliarity and her shrill voice penetrated the walls. Christophe wasrather upset at hearing some of the remarks she made to her master. ButHassler did not seem to mind. On the contrary, it rather seemed as thoughher impertinence amused him; and while he went on growling, he chaffed thegirl and took a delight in exciting her. At last Christophe heard a dooropen, and, still growling and chaffing, Hassler came shuffling. 

He entered. Christophe's heart sank. He recognized him. Would to God he hadnot! It was Hassler, and yet it was not he. He still had his great smoothbrow, his face as unwrinkled as that of a babe; but he was bald, stout, yellowish, sleepy-looking; his lower lip drooped a little, his mouth lookedbored and sulky. He hunched his shoulders, buried his hands in the pocketsof his open waistcoat; old shoes flopped on his feet; his shirt was baggedabove his trousers, which he had not finished buttoning. He looked atChristophe with his sleepy eyes, in which there was no light as the youngman murmured his name. He bowed automatically, said nothing, nodded towardsa chair, and with a sigh, sank down on the divan and piled the cushionsabout himself. Christophe repeated:

"I have already had the honor. . . . You were kind enough. . . . My name isChristophe Krafft. . . . "

Hassler lay back on the divan, with his legs crossed, his lands claspedtogether on his right knee, which he held up to his chin as he replied:

"I don't remember. "

Christophe's throat went dry, and he tried to remind him of their formermeeting. Under any circumstances it would have been difficult for him totalk of memories so intimate; now it was torture for him. He bungled hissentences, could not find words, said absurd things which made him blush. Hassler let him flounder on and never ceased to look at him with his vague, indifferent eyes. When Christophe had reached the end of his story, Hasslerwent on rocking his knee in silence for a moment, as though he were waitingfor Christophe to go on. Then he said:

"Yes. . . . That does not make us young again. . . . " and stretched his legs. 

After a yawn he added:

". . . I beg pardon. . . . Did not sleep. . . . Supper at the theater lastnight. . . . " and yawned again. 

Christophe hoped that Hassler would make some reference to what he hadjust told him, but Hassler, whom the story had not interested at all, saidnothing about it, and he did not ask Christophe anything about his life. When he had done yawning he asked:

"Have you been in Berlin long?"

"I arrived this morning, " said Christophe. 

"Ah!" said Hassler, without any surprise. "What hotel?"

He did not seem to listen to the reply, but got up lazily and pressed anelectric bell. 

"Allow me, " he said. 

The little maid appeared with her impertinent manner. 

"Kitty, " said he, "are you trying to make me go without breakfast thismorning?"

"You don't think I am going to bring it here while you have some one withyou?"

"Why not?" he said, with a wink and a nod in Christophe's direction. "Hefeeds my mind: I must feed my body. "

"Aren't you ashamed to have some one watching you eat--like an animal in amenagerie?"

Instead of being angry, Hassler began to laugh and corrected her:

"Like a domestic animal, " he went on. "But do bring it. I'll eat my shamewith it. "

Christophe saw that Hassler was making no attempt to find out what hewas doing, and tried to lead the conversation back. He spoke of thedifficulties of provincial life, of the mediocrity of the people, thenarrow-mindedness, and of his own isolation. He tried to interest him inhis moral distress. But Hassler was sunk deep in the divan, with his headlying back on a cushion and his eyes half closed, and let him go on talkingwithout even seeming to listen; or he would raise his eyelids for a momentand pronounce a few coldly ironical words, some ponderous jest at theexpense of provincial people, which cut short Christophe's attempts to talkmore intimately. Kitty returned with the breakfast tray: coffee, butter, ham, etc. She put it down crossly on the desk in the middle of the untidypapers. Christophe waited until she had gone before he went on with hissad story which he had such difficulty in continuing. Hassler drew thetray towards himself. He poured himself out some coffee and sipped at it. Then in a familiar and cordial though rather contemptuous way he stoppedChristophe in the middle of a sentence to ask if he would take a cup. 

Christophe refused. He tried to pick up the thread of his sentence, but hewas more and more nonplussed, and did not know what he was saying. He wasdistracted by the sight of Hassler with his plate under his chin, like achild, gorging pieces of bread and butter and slices of ham which he heldin his fingers. However, he did succeed in saying that he composed, that hehad had an overture in the _Judith_ of Hebbel performed. Hassler listenedabsently. 

"_Was_?" (What?) he asked. 

Christophe repeated the title. 

"_Ach! So, so!_" (Ah! Good, good!) said Hassler, dipping his bread and hisfingers into his cup. That was all. 

Christophe was discouraged and was on the point of getting up and going, but he thought of his long journey in vain, and summoning up all hiscourage he murmured a proposal that he should play some of his works toHassler. At the first mention of it Hassler stopped him. 

"No, no. I don't know anything about it, " he said, with his chaffing andrather insulting irony. "Besides, I haven't the time. "

Tears came to Christophe's eyes. But he had vowed not to leave until he hadHassler's opinion about his work. He said, with a mixture of confusion andanger:

"I beg your pardon, but you promised once to hear me. I came to see you forthat from the other end of Germany. You shall hear me. "

Hassler, who was not used to such ways, looked at the awkward young man, who was furious, blushing, and near tears. That amused him, and wearilyshrugging his shoulders, he pointed to the piano, and said with an air ofcomic resignation:

"Well, then!. . . There you are!"

On that he lay back on his divan, like a man who is going to sleep, smoothed out his cushions, put them under his outstretched arms, halfclosed his eyes, opened them for a moment to take stock of the size of theroll of music which Christophe had brought from one of his pockets, gave alittle sigh, and lay back to listen listlessly. 

Christophe was intimidated and mortified, but he began to play. It was notlong before Hassler opened his eyes and ears with the professional interestof the artist who is struck in spite of himself by a beautiful thing. Atfirst he said nothing and lay still, but his eyes became less dim and hissulky lips moved. Then he suddenly woke up, growling his surprise andapprobation. He only gave inarticulate interjections, but the form of themleft no doubt as to his feelings, and they gave Christophe an inexpressiblepleasure. Hassler forgot to count the number of pages that had been playedand were left to be played. When Christophe had finished a piece, he said:

"Go on!. . . Go on!. . . "

He was beginning to use human language. 

"That's good! Good!" he exclaimed to himself. "Famous!. . . Awfully famous!(_Schrecklich famos!_) But, damme!" He growled in astonishment. "What isit?"

He had risen on his seat, was stretching for wind, making a trumpet withhis hand, talking to himself, laughing with pleasure, or at certain oddharmonies, just putting out his tongue as though to moisten his lips. Anunexpected modulation had such an effect on him that he got up suddenlywith an exclamation, and came and sat at the piano by Christophe's side. Hedid not seem to notice that Christophe was there. He was only concernedwith the music, and when the piece was finished he took the book and beganto read the page again, then the following pages, and went on ejaculatinghis admiration and surprise as though he had been alone in the room. 

"The devil!" he said. "Where did the little beast find that?. . . "

He pushed Christophe away with his shoulders and himself played certainpassages. He had a charming touch on the piano, very soft, caressing andlight. Christophe noticed his fine long, well-tended hands, which were alittle morbidly aristocratic and out of keeping with the rest. Hasslerstopped at certain chords and repeated them, winking, and clicking with histongue. He hummed with his lips, imitating the sounds of the instruments, and went on interspersing the music with his apostrophes in which pleasureand annoyance were mingled. He could not help having a secret initiative, an unavowed jealousy, and at the same time he greedily enjoyed it all. 

Although he went on talking to himself as though Christophe did not exist, Christophe, blushing with pleasure, could not help taking Hassler'sexclamations to himself, and he explained what he had tried to do. At firstHassler seemed not to pay any attention to what the young man was saying, and went on thinking out loud; then something that Christophe said struckhim and he was silent, with his eyes still fixed on the music, which heturned over as he listened without seeming to hear. Christophe grew moreand more excited, and at last he plumped into confidence, and talked withnaïve enthusiasm about his projects and his life. 

Hassler was silent, and as he listened he slipped hack into his irony. Hehad let Christophe take the book from his hands; with his elbow on therack of the piano and his hand on his forehead, he looked at Christophe, who was explaining; his work with youthful ardor and eagerness. And hesmiled bitterly as he thought of his own beginning, his own hopes, and ofChristophe's hopes, and all the disappointments that lay in wait for him. 

Christophe spoke with his eyes cast down, fearful of losing the thread ofwhat he had to say. Hassler's silence encouraged him. He felt that Hasslerwas watching him and not missing a word that he said, and he thought he hadbroken the ice between them, and he was glad at heart. When he had finishedhe shyly raised his head--confidently, too--and looked at Hassler. All thejoy welling in him was frozen on the instant, like too early birds, when hesaw the gloomy, mocking eyes that looked into his without kindness. He wassilent. 

After an icy moment, Hassler spoke dully. He had changed once more; heaffected a sort of harshness towards the young man. He teased him cruellyabout his plans, his hopes of success, as though he were trying to chaffhimself, now that he had recovered himself. He set himself coldly todestroy his faith in life, his faith in art, his faith in himself. Bitterlyhe gave himself as an example, speaking of his actual works in an insultingfashion. 

"Hog-waste!" he said. "That is what these swine want. Do you think thereare ten people in the world who love music? Is there a single one?"

"There is myself!" said Christophe emphatically. Hassler looked at him, shrugged his shoulders, and said wearily:

"You will be like the rest. You will do as the rest have done. You willthink of success, of amusing yourself, like the rest. . . . And you will beright. . . . "

Christophe tried to protest, but Hassler cut him short; he took the musicand began bitterly to criticise the works which he had first been praising, Not only did he harshly pick out the real carelessness, the mistakes inwriting, the faults of taste or of expression which had escaped the youngman, but he made absurd criticisms, criticisms which might have been madeby the most narrow and antiquated of musicians, from which he himself, Hassler, had had to suffer all his life. He asked what was the sense of itall. He did not even criticise: he denied; it was as though he were tryingdesperately to efface the impression that the music had made on him inspite of himself. 

Christophe was horrified and made no attempt to reply. How could he replyto absurdities which he blushed to hear on the lips of a man whom heesteemed and loved? Besides, Hassler did not listen to him. He stopped atthat, stopped dead, with the book in his hands, shut; no expression in hiseyes and his lips drawn down in bitterness. At last he said, as though hehad once more forgotten Christophe's presence:

"Ah! the worst misery of all is that there is not a single man who canunderstand you!"

Christophe was racked with emotion. He turned suddenly, laid his hand onHassler's, and with love in his heart he repeated:

"There is myself!"

But Hassler did not move his hand, and if something stirred in his heartfor a moment at that boyish cry, no light shone in his dull eyes, as theylooked at Christophe. Irony and evasion were in the ascendant. He made aceremonious and comic little bow in acknowledgment. 

"Honored!" he said. 

He was thinking:

"Do you, though? Do you think I have lost my life for you?"

He got up, threw the book on the piano, and went with his long spindle legsand sat on the divan again. Christophe had divined his thoughts and hadfelt the savage insult in them, and he tried proudly to reply that a mandoes not need to be understood by everybody; certain souls are worth awhole people; they think for it, and what they have thought the people haveto think. --But Hassler did not listen to him. He had fallen back into hisapathy, caused by the weakening of the life slumbering in him. Christophe, too sane to understand the sudden change, felt that he had lost. But hecould not resign himself to losing after seeming to be so near victory. Hemade desperate efforts to excite Hassler's attention once more. He tookup his music book and tried to explain the reason, for the irregularitieswhich Hassler had remarked. Hassler lay back on the sofa and preserved agloomy silence. He neither agreed nor contradicted; he was only waiting forhim to finish. 

Christophe saw that there was nothing more to be done. He stopped short inthe middle of a sentence. He rolled up his music and got up. Hassler gotup, too. Christophe was shy and ashamed, and murmured excuses. Hasslerbowed slightly, with a certain haughty and bored distinction, coldly heldout his hand politely, and accompanied him to the door without a word ofsuggestion that he should stay or come again. 

 * * * * *

Christophe found himself in the street once more, absolutely crushed. Hewalked at random; he did not know where he was going. He walked downseveral streets mechanically, and then found himself at a station of thetrain by which he had come. He went back by it without thinking of what hewas doing. He sank down on the seat with his arms and legs limp. It wasimpossible to think or to collect his ideas; he thought of nothing, he didnot try to think. He was afraid to envisage himself. He was utterly empty. It seemed to him that there was emptiness everywhere about him in thattown. He could not breathe in it. The mists, the massive houses stifledhim. He had only one idea, to fly, to fly as quickly as possible, --as if byescaping from the town he would leave in it the bitter disillusion which hehad found in it. 

He returned to his hotel. It was half-past twelve. It was two hours sincehe had entered it, --with what a light shining in his heart! Now it wasdead. 

He took no lunch. He did not go up to his room. To the astonishment of thepeople of the hotel, he asked for his bill, paid as though he had spent thenight there, and said that he was going. In vain did they explain to himthat there was no hurry, that the train he wanted to go by did not leavefor hours, and that he had much better wait in the hotel. He insisted ongoing to the station at once. He was like a child. He wanted to go by thefirst train, no matter which, and not to stay another hour in the place. After the long journey and all the expense he had incurred, --although hehad taken his holiday not only to see Hassler, but the museums, and to hearconcerts and to make certain acquaintances--he had only one idea in hishead: To go. . . . 

He went back to the station. As he had been told, his train did not leavefor three hours. And also the train was not express--(for Christophe had togo by the cheapest class)--stopped on the way. Christophe would have donebetter to go by the next train, which went two hours later and caughtup the first. But that meant spending two more hours in the place, andChristophe could not bear it. He would not even leave the station while hewas waiting. --A gloomy period of waiting in those vast and empty halls, dark and noisy, where strange shadows were going in and out, always busy, always hurrying; strange shadows who meant nothing to him, all unknownto him, not one friendly face. The misty day died down. The electriclamps, enveloped in fog, flushed the night and made it darker than ever. Christophe grew more and more depressed as time went on, waiting in agonyfor the time to go. Ten times an hour he went to look at the trainindicators to make sure that he had not made a mistake. As he was readingthem once more from end to end to pass the time, the name of a place caughthis eye. He thought he knew it. It was only after a moment that heremembered that it was where old Schulz lived, who had written him suchkind and enthusiastic letters. In his wretchedness the idea came to him ofgoing to see his unknown friend. The town was not on the direct line onhis way home, but a few hours away, by a little local line. It meant awhole night's journey, with two or three changes and interminable waits. Christophe never thought about it. He decided suddenly to go. He had aninstinctive need of clinging to sympathy of some sort. He gave himself notime to think, and telegraphed to Schulz to say that he would arrive nextmorning. Hardly had he sent the telegram than he regretted it. He laughedbitterly at his eternal illusions. Why go to meet a new sorrow?--But it wasdone now. It was too late to change his mind. 

These thoughts filled his last hour of waiting--his train at last wasready. He was the first to get into it, and he was so childish that he onlybegan to breathe again when the train shook, and through the carriagewindow he could see the outlines of the town fading into the gray sky underthe heavy downpour of the night. He thought he must have died if he hadspent the night in it. 

At the very hour--about six in the evening--a letter from Hassler came forChristophe at his hotel. Christophe's visit stirred many things in him. The whole afternoon he had been thinking of it bitterly, and not withoutsympathy for the poor boy who had come to him with such eager affectionto be received so coldly. He was sorry for that reception and a littleangry with himself. In truth, it had been only one of those fits of sulkywhimsies to which he was subject. He thought to make it good by sendingChristophe a ticket for the opera and a few words appointing a meetingafter the performance--Christophe never knew anything about it. When he didnot see him, Hassler thought:

"He is angry. So much the worse for him!"

He shrugged his shoulders and did not wait long for him. 

Next day Christophe was far away--so far that all eternity would not havebeen enough to bring them together. And, they were both separated forever. 

 * * * * *

Peter Schulz was seventy-five. He had always had delicate health, and agehad not spared him. He was fairly tail, but stooping, and his head hungdown to his chest. He had a weak throat and difficulty in breathing. Asthma, catarrh, bronchitis were always upon him, and the marks of thestruggles he had to make--many a night sitting up in his bed, bendingforward, dripping with sweat in the effort to force a breath of airinto his stifling lungs--were in the sorrowful lines on his long, thin, clean-shaven face. His nose was long and a little swollen at the top. Deeplines came from under his eyes and crossed his cheeks, that were hollowfrom his toothlessness. Age and infirmity had not been the only sculptorsof that poor wreck of a man: the sorrows of life also had had their sharein its making. --And in spite of all he was not sad. There was kindness andserenity in his large mouth. But in his eyes especially there was thatwhich gave a touching softness to the old face. They were light gray, limpid, and transparent. They looked straight, calmly and frankly. They hidnothing of the soul. Its depths could be read in them. 

His life had been uneventful. He had been alone for years. His wife wasdead. She was not very good, or very intelligent, and she was not at allbeautiful. But he preserved a tender memory of her. It was twenty-fiveyears since he had lost her, and he had never once failed a night to have alittle imaginary conversation, sad and tender, with her before he went tosleep. He shared all his doings with her. --He had had no children. That wasthe great sorrow of his life. He had transferred his need of affection tohis pupils, to whom he was attached as a father to his sons. He had foundvery little return. An old heart can feel very near to a young heart andalmost of the same age; knowing how brief are the years that lie betweenthem. But the young man never has any idea of that. To him an old man is aman of another age, and besides, he is absorbed by his immediate anxietiesand instinctively turns away from the melancholy end of all his efforts. Old Schulz had sometimes found gratitude in his pupils who were touchedby the keen and lively interest he took in everything good or ill thathappened to them. They used to come and see him from time to time. Theyused to write and thank him when they left the university. Some of themused to go on writing occasionally during the years following. And then oldSchulz would hear nothing more of them except in the papers which kept himinformed of their advancement, and he would be as glad of their successas though it was his own. He was never hurt by their silence. He found athousand excuses for it. He never doubted their affection and used toascribe even to the most selfish the feelings that he had for them. 

But his books were his greatest refuge. They neither forgot nor deceivedhim. The souls which he cherished in them had risen above the flood oftime. They were inscrutable, fixed for eternity in the love they inspiredand seemed to feel, and gave forth once more to those who loved them. Hewas Professor of Æsthetics and the History of Music, and he was like an oldwood quivering with the songs of birds. Some of these songs sounded veryfar away. They came from the depths of the ages. But they were not theleast sweet and mysterious of all. --Others were familiar and intimate tohim, dear companions; their every phrase reminded him of the joys andsorrows of his past life, conscious or unconscious:--(for under every daylit by the light of the sun there are unfolded other days lit by a lightunknown)--And there were some songs that he had never yet heard, songswhich said the things that he had been long awaiting and needing; and hisheart opened to receive them like the earth to receive rain. And so oldSchulz listened, in the silence of his solitary life, to the forest filledwith birds, and, like the monk of the legend, who slept in the ecstasy ofthe song of the magic bird, the years passed over him and the evening oflife was come, but still he had the heart of a boy of twenty. 

He was not only rich in music. He loved the poets--old and new. He had apredilection for those of his own country, especially for Goethe; but healso loved those of other countries. He was a learned man and could readseveral languages. In mind he was a contemporary of Herder and the great_Weltbürger_--the "citizens of the world" of the end of the eighteenthcentury. He had lived through the years of bitter struggle which precededand followed seventy, and was immersed in their vast idea. And althoughhe adored Germany, he was not "vainglorious" about it. He thought, withHerder, that "_among all vainglorious men, he who is vainglorious of hisnationality is the completest fool_, " and, with Schiller, that "_it is apoor ideal only to write for one nation_. " And he was timid of mind, buthis heart was large, and ready to welcome lovingly everything beautiful inthe world. Perhaps he was too indulgent with mediocrity; but his instinctnever doubted as to what was the best; and if he was not strong enoughto condemn the sham artists admired by public opinion, he was alwaysstrong enough to defend the artists of originality and power whom publicopinion disregarded. His kindness often led him astray. He was fearful ofcommitting any injustice, and when he did not like what others liked, henever doubted but that it must be he who was mistaken, and he would manageto love it. It was so sweet to him to love! Love and admiration were evenmore necessary to his moral being than air to his miserable lungs. And sohow grateful he was to those who gave him a new opportunity of showingthem!--Christophe could have no idea of what his _Lieder_ had been to him. He himself had not felt them nearly so keenly when he had written them. Hissongs were to him only a few sparks thrown out from his inner fire. He hadcast them forth and would cast forth others. But to old Schulz they were awhole world suddenly revealed to him--a whole world to be loved. His lifehad been lit up by them. 

 * * * * *

A year before he had had to resign his position at the university. Hishealth, growing more and more precarious, prevented his lecturing. He wasill and in bed when Wolf's Library had sent him as usual a parcel of thelatest music they had received, and in it were Christophe's _Lieder_. Hewas alone. He was without relatives. The few that he had had were longsince dead. He was delivered into the hands of an old servant, who profitedby his weakness to make him do whatever she liked. A few friends hardlyyounger than himself used to come and see him from time to time, but theywere not in very good health either, and when the weather was bad they toostayed indoors and missed their visits. It was winter then and the streetswere covered with melting snow. Schulz had not seen anybody all day. It wasdark in the room. A yellow fog was drawn over the windows like a screen, making it impossible to see out. The heat of the stove was thick andoppressive. From the church hard by an old peal of bells of the seventeenthcentury chimed every quarter of an hour, haltingly and horribly out oftune, scraps of monotonous chants, which seemed grim in their heartiness toSchulz when he was far from gay himself. He was coughing, propped up by aheap of pillows. He was trying to read Montaigne, whom he loved; but nowhe did not find as much pleasure in reading him as usual. He let the bookfall, and was breathing with difficulty and dreaming. The parcel of musicwas on the bed. He had not the courage to open it. He was sad at heart. Atlast he sighed, and when he had very carefully untied the string, he puton his spectacles and began to read the pieces of music. His thoughts wereelsewhere, always returning to memories which he was trying to thrustaside. 

The book he was holding was Christophe's. His eyes fell on an old canticlethe words of which Christophe had taken from a simple, pious poet of theseventeenth century, and had modernized them. The _Christliches Wanderlied_(The Christian Wanderer's Song) of Paul Gerhardt. 

 _Hoff! O du arme Seele, Hoff! und sei unverzagt. 

 Enwarte nur der Zeit, So wirst du schon erblicken Die Sonne der schönsten Freud. _

 Hope, oh! thou wretched soul, Hope, hope and be valiant!

 * * * * *

 Only wait then, wait, And surely thou shalt see The sun of lovely Joy. 

Old Schulz knew the ingenuous words, but never had they so spoken to him, never so nearly. . . . It was not the tranquil piety, soothing and lulling thesoul by its monotony. It was a soul like his own. It was his own soul, butyounger and stronger, suffering, striving to hope, striving to see, andseeing, Joy. His hands trembled, great tears trickled down his cheeks. Heread on:

 _Auf! Auf! gieb deinem Schmerze Und Sorgen gute Nacht! Lass fahren was das Herze Betrübt und traurig macht!_

 Up! Up! and give thy sorrow And all thy cares good-night; And all that grieves and saddens Thy heart be put to flight. 

Christophe brought to these thoughts a boyish and valiant ardor, and theheroic laughter in it showed forth in the last naïve and confident verses:

 _Bist du doch nicht Regente, Der alles führen, soll, Gott sitzt im Regimente, Und führet alles wohl. _

 Not thou thyself art ruler Whom all things must obey, But God is Lord decreeing-- All follows in His way. 

And when there came the superbly defiant stanzas which in his youthfulbarbarian insolence he had calmly plucked from their original position inthe poem to form the conclusion of his _Lied_:

 _Und obgleich alle Teufel Hier wollten wiederstehn, So wird doch ohne Zweifel, Gott nicht zurücke gehn. 

 Was er ihm vorgenommen, Und was er haben will, Das muss doch endlich Rommen Zu seinem Zweck und Ziel. _

 And even though all Devils Came and opposed his will, There were no cause for doubting, God will be steadfast still:

 What He has undertaken, All His divine decree-- Exactly as He ordered At last shall all things be. 

. . . Then there were transports of delight, the intoxication of war, thetriumph of a Roman _Imperator_. 

The old man trembled all over. Breathlessly he followed the impetuous musiclike a child dragged along by a companion. His heart beat. Tears trickleddown. He stammered:

"Oh! My God!. . . Oh! My God!. . . "

He began to sob and he laughed; he was happy. He choked. He was attacked bya terrible fit of coughing. Salome, the old servant, ran to him, and shethought the old man was going to die. He went on crying, and coughing, andsaying over and over again:

"Oh! My God!. . . My God!. . . "

And in the short moments of respite between the fits of coughing he laugheda little hysterically. 

Salome thought he was going mad. When at last she understood the cause ofhis agitation, she scolded him sharply:

"How can anybody get into such a state over a piece of foolery!. . . Give itme! I shall take it away. You shan't see it again. "

But the old man held firm, in the midst of his coughing, and he cried toSalome to leave him alone. As she insisted, he grew angry, swore, andchoked himself with his oaths. Never had she known him to be angry and tostand out against her. She was aghast and surrendered her prize. But shedid not mince her words with him. She told him he was an old fool and saidthat hitherto she had thought she had to do with a gentleman, but that nowshe saw her mistake; that he said things which would make a plowman blush, that his eyes were starting from his head, and if they had been pistolswould have killed her. . . . She would have gone on for a long time in thatstrain if he had not got up furiously on his pillow and shouted at her:

"Go!" in so peremptory a voice that she went, slamming the door anddeclaring that he might call her as much as he liked, only she would notput herself out and would leave him alone to kick the bucket. 

Then silence descended upon the darkening room. Once more the bells pealedplacidly and grotesquely through the calm evening. A little ashamed of hisanger, old Schulz was lying on his back, motionless, waiting, breathless, for the tumult in his heart to die down. He was clasping the precious_Lieder_ to his breast and laughing like a child. 

 * * * * *

He spent the following days of solitude in a sort of ecstasy. He thought nomore of his illness, of the winter, of the gray light, or of hisloneliness. Everything was bright and filled with love about him. So nearto death, he felt himself living again in the young soul of an unknownfriend. 

He tried to imagine Christophe. He did not see him as anything like whathe was. He saw him rather as an idealized version of himself, as he wouldhave liked to be: fair, slim, with blue eyes, and a gentle, quiet voice, soft, timid and tender. He idealized everything about him: his pupils, his neighbors, his friends, his old servant. His gentle, affectionatedisposition and his want of the critical faculty--in part voluntary, so asto avoid any disturbing thought--surrounded him with serene, pure imageslike himself. It was the kindly lying which he needed if he were to live. He was not altogether deceived by it, and often in his bed at night hewould sigh as he thought of a thousand little things which had happenedduring the day to contradict his idealism. He knew quite well that oldSalome used to laugh at him behind his back with her gossips, and thatshe used to rob him regularly every week. He knew that his pupils wereobsequious with him while they had need of him, and that after they hadreceived all the services they could expect from him they deserted him. He knew that his former colleagues at the university had forgotten himaltogether since he had retired, and that his successor attacked him in hisarticles, not by name, but by some treacherous allusion, and by quotingsome worthless thing that he had said or by pointing out his mistakes--(aprocedure very common in the world of criticism). He knew that his toldfriend Kunz had lied to him that very afternoon, and that he would neversee again the books which his other friend, Pottpetschmidt, had borrowedfor a few days, --which was hard for a man who, like himself, was asattached to his books as to living people. Many other sad things, old ornew, would come to him. He tried not to think of them, but they were thereall the same. He was conscious of them. Sometimes the memory of them wouldpierce him like some rending sorrow. 

"Oh! My God! My God!. . . "

He would groan in the silence of the night. --And then fee would discardsuch hurtful thoughts; he would deny them; he would try to be confident, and optimistic, and to believe in human truth; and he would believe. How often had his illusions been brutally destroyed!--But always othersspringing into life, always, always. . . . He could not do without them. 

The unknown Christophe became a fire of warmth to his life. The first cold, ungracious letter which he received from him would have hurt him--(perhapsit did so)--but he would not admit it, and it gave him a childish joy. Hewas so modest and asked so little of men that the little he received fromthem was enough to feed his need of loving and being grateful to them. Tosee Christophe was a happiness which he had never dared to hope for, forhe was too old now to journey to the banks of the Rhine, and as for askingChristophe to come to him, the idea had never even occurred to him. 

Christophe's telegram reached him in the evening, just as he was sittingdown to dinner. He did not understand at first. He thought he did not knowthe signature. He thought there was some mistake, that the telegram was notfor him. He read it three times. In his excitement his spectacles would notstay on his nose. The lamp gave a very bad light, and the letters dancedbefore his eyes. When he did understand he was so overwhelmed that heforgot to eat. In vain did Salome shout at him. He could not swallow amorsel. He threw his napkin on the table, unfolded, --a thing he never did. He got up, hobbled to get his hat and stick, and went out. Old Schulz'sfirst thought on receiving such good news was to go and share it withothers, and to tell his friends of Christophe's coming. 

He had two friends who were music mad like himself, and he had succeeded inmaking them share his enthusiasm for Christophe. Judge Samuel Kunz and thedentist, Oscar Pottpetschmidt, who was an excellent singer. The three oldfriends had often talked about Christophe, and they had played all hismusic that they could find. Pottpetschmidt sang, Schulz accompanied, andKunz listened. They would go into ecstasies for hours together. How oftenhad they said while they were playing:

"Ah! If only Krafft were here!"

Schulz laughed to himself in the street for the joy he had and was going togive. Night was falling, and Kunz lived in a little village half an houraway from the town. But the sky was clear; it was a soft April evening. The nightingales were singing. Old Schulz's heart was overflowing withhappiness. He breathed without difficulty, he walked like a boy. He strodealong gleefully, without heeding the stones against which he kicked in thedarkness. He turned blithely into the side of the road when carts camealong, and exchanged a merry greeting with the drivers, who looked at himin astonishment when the lamps showed the old man climbing up the bank ofthe road. 

Night was fully come when he reached Kunz's house, a little way out of thevillage in a little garden. He drummed on the door and shouted at the topof his voice. A window was opened and Kunz appeared in alarm. He peeredthrough the door and asked:

"Who is there? What is it?"

Schulz was out of breath, but he called gladly:

"Krafft--Krafft is coming to-morrow. . . . " Kunz did not understand; but herecognized the voice:

"Schulz!. . . What! At this hour? What is it?" Schulz repeated:

"To-morrow, he is coming to-morrow morning!. . . '

"What?" asked Kunz, still mystified. 

"Krafft!" cried Schulz. 

Kunz pondered the word for a moment; then a loud exclamation showed that hehad understood. 

"I am coming down!" he shouted. 

The window was closed. He appeared on the steps with a lamp in his hand andcame down into the garden. He was a little stout old man, with a large grayhead, a red beard, red hair on his face and hands. He took little steps andhe was smoking a porcelain pipe. This good natured, rather sleepy littleman had never worried much about anything. For all that, the news broughtby Schulz excited him; he waved his short arms and his lamp and asked:

"What? Is it him? Is he really coming?"

"To-morrow morning!" said Schulz, triumphantly waving the telegram. 

The two old friends went and sat on a seat in the arbor. Schulz took thelamp. Kunz carefully unfolded the telegram and read it slowly in a whisper. Schulz read it again aloud over his shoulder. Kunz went on looking at thepaper, the marks on the telegram, the time when it had been sent, the timewhen it had arrived, the number of words. Then he gave the precious paperback to Schulz, who was laughing happily, looked at him and wagged his headand said:

"Ah! well . . . Ah! well!. . . "

After a moment's thought and after drawing in and expelling a cloud oftobacco smoke he put his hand on Schulz's knee and said:

"We must tell Pottpetschmidt. "

"I was going to him, " said Schulz. 

"I will go with you, " said Kunz. 

He went in and put down his lamp and came back immediately. The two old menwent on arm in arm. Pottpetschmidt lived at the other end of the village. Schulz and Kunz exchanged a few absent words, but they were both ponderingthe news. Suddenly Kunz stopped and whacked on the ground with his stick:

"Oh! Lord!" he said. . . . "He is away!"

He had remembered that Pottpetschmidt had had to go away that afternoon foran operation at a neighboring town where he had to spend the night and staya day or two. Schulz was distressed. Kunz was equally put out. They wereproud of Pottpetschmidt; they would have liked to show him off. They stoodin the middle of the road and could not make up their minds what to do. 

"What shall we do? What shall we do?" asked Kunz. 

"Krafft absolutely must hear Pottpetschmidt, " said Schulz. 

He thought for a moment and said:

"We must sent him a telegram. "

They went to the post office and together they composed a long and excitedtelegram of which it was very difficult to understand a word, Then theywent back. Schulz reckoned:

"He could be here to-morrow morning if he took the first train. "

But Kunz pointed out that it was too late and that the telegram would notbe sent until the morning. Schulz nodded, and they said:

"How unfortunate!"

They parted at Kunz's door; for in spite of his friendship for Schulz itdid not go so far as to make him commit the imprudence of accompanyingSchulz outside the village, and even to the end of the road by which hewould have had to come back alone in the dark. It was arranged that Kunzshould dine on the morrow with Schulz. Schulz looked anxiously at the sky:

"If only it is fine to-morrow!"

And his heart was a little lighter when Kunz, who was supposed to have awonderful knowledge of meteorology, looked gravely at the sky--(for he wasno less anxious than Schulz that Christophe should see their littlecountryside in all its beauty)--and said:

"It will be fine to-morrow. "

 * * * * *

Schulz went along the road to the town and came to it not without havingstumbled more than once in the ruts and the heaps of stones by the wayside. Before he went home he called in at the confectioner's to order a certaintart which was the envy of the town. Then he went home, but just as he wasgoing in he turned back to go to the station to find out the exact timeat which the train arrived. At last he did go home and called Salome anddiscussed at length the dinner for the morrow. Then only he went to bedworn out; but he was as excited as a child on Christmas Eve, and all nighthe turned about and about and never slept a wink. About one o'clock in themorning he thought of getting up to go and tell Salome to cook a stewedcarp for dinner; for she was marvelously successful with that dish. He didnot tell her; and it was as well, no doubt. But he did get up to arrangeall sorts of things in the room he meant to give Christophe; he tooka thousand precautions so that Salome should not hear him, for he wasafraid of being scolded. All night long he was afraid of missing the trainalthough Christophe could not arrive before eight o'clock. He was up veryearly. He first looked at the sky; Kunz had not made a mistake; it wasglorious weather. On tiptoe Schulz went down to the cellar; he had not beenthere for a long time, fearing the cold and the steep stairs; he selectedhis best wines, knocked his head hard against the ceiling as he came upagain, and thought he was going to choke when he reached the top of thestairs with his full basket. Then he went to the garden with his shears;ruthlessly he cut his finest roses and the first branches of lilac inflower. Then he went up to his room again, shaved feverishly, and cuthimself more than once. He dressed carefully and set out for the station. It was seven o'clock. Salome had not succeeded in making him take so muchas a drop of milk, for he declared that Christophe would not have hadbreakfast when he arrived and that they would have breakfast together whenthey came from the station. 

He was at the station three-quarters of an hour too soon. He waited andwaited for Christophe and finally missed him. Instead of waiting patientlyat the gate he went on to the platform and lost his head in the crowd ofpeople coming and going. In spite of the exact information of the telegramhe had imagined, God knows why, that Christophe would arrive by a differenttrain from that which brought him; and besides it had never occurred tohim that Christophe would get out of a fourth-class carriage. He stayedon for more than half an hour waiting at the station, when Christophe, who had long since arrived, had gone straight to his house. As a crowningmisfortune Salome had just gone out to do her shopping; Christophe foundthe door shut. The woman next door whom Salome had told to say, in caseany one should ring, that she would soon be back, gave the message withoutany addition to it. Christophe, who had not come to see Salome and didnot even know who she was, thought it a very bad joke; he asked if _HerrUniversitäts Musikdirektor_ Schulz was not at home. He was told "Yes, " butthe woman could not tell him where he was. Christophe was furious and wentaway. 

When old Schulz came back with a face an ell long and learned from Salome, who had just come in too, what had happened he was in despair; he almostwept. He stormed at his servant for her stupidity in going out while he wasaway and not having even given instructions that Christophe was to be keptwaiting. Salome replied in the same way that she could not imagine that hewould be so foolish as to miss a man whom he had gone to meet. But the oldman did not stay to argue with her; without losing a moment he hobbled outof doors again and went off to look for Christophe armed with the veryvague clues given him by his neighbors. 

Christophe had been offended at finding nobody and not even a word ofexcuse. Not knowing what to do until the next train he went and walkedabout the town and the fields, which, he thought very pretty. It wasa quiet reposeful little town sheltered between gently sloping hills;there were gardens round the houses, cherry-trees and flowers, greenlawns, beautiful shady trees, pseudo-antique ruins, white busts of bygoneprincesses on marble columns in the midst of the trees, with gentleand pleasing faces. All about the town were meadows, and hills. In theflowering trees blackbirds whistled joyously, for many little orchestrasof flutes gay and solemn. It was not long before Christophe's ill-humorvanished; he forgot Peter Schulz. 

The old man rushed vainly through the streets questioning people; he wentup to the old castle on the hill above the town, and was coming back indespair when, with his keen, far-sighted eyes, he saw some distance away aman lying in a meadow in the shade of a thorn. He did not know Christophe;he had no means of being sure that it was he. Besides, the man's backwas turned towards him and his face was half hidden in the grass. Schulzprowled along the road and about the meadow with his heart beating:

"It is he . . . No, it is not he. . . "

He dared not call to him. An idea struck him; he began to sing the lastbars of Christophe's _Lied_:

"_Auf! Auf!_. . . " (Up! Up!. . . )

Christophe rose to it like a fish out of the water and shouted thefollowing bars at the top of his voice. He turned gladly. His face was redand there was grass in his hair. They called to each other by name and rantogether. Schulz strode across the ditch by the road; Christophe leaped thefence. They shook hands warmly and went back to the house laughing andtalking loudly. The old man told how he had missed him. Christophe, who amoment before had decided to go away without making any further attempt tosee Schulz, was at once conscious of his kindness and simplicity and beganto love him. Before they arrived they had already confided many things toeach other. 

When they reached the house they found Kunz, who, having learned thatSchulz had gone to look for Christophe, was waiting quietly. They weregiven _café au lait_. But Christophe said that he had breakfasted at aninn. The old man was upset; it was a real grief to him that Christophe'sfirst meal in the place should not have been in his house; such smallthings were of vast importance to his fond heart. Christophe, whounderstood him, was amused by it secretly, and loved him the more for it. And to console him he assured him that he had appetite enough for twobreakfasts; and he proved his assertion. 

All his troubles had gone from his mind; he felt that he was among truefriends and he began to recover. He told them about his journey and hisrebuffs in a humorous way; he looked like a schoolboy on holiday. Schulzbeamed and devoured him with his eyes and laughed heartily. 

It was not long before conversation turned upon the secret bond thatunited the three of them: Christophe's music. Schulz was longing to hearChristophe play some of his compositions; but he dared not ask him to doso. Christophe was striding about the room and talking. Schulz watched himwhenever he went near the open piano; and he prayed inwardly that he mightstop at it. The same thought was in Kunz. Their hearts beat when they sawhim sit down mechanically on the piano stool, without stopping talking, andthen without looking at the instrument run his fingers over the keys atrandom. As Schulz expected hardly had Christophe struck a few arpeggiosthan the sound took possession of him; he went on striking chords and stilltalking; then there came whole phrases; and then he stopped talking andbegan to play. The old men exchanged a meaning glance, sly and happy. 

"Do you know that?" asked Christophe, playing one of his _Lieder_. 

"Do I know it?" said Schulz delightedly. Christophe said without stopping, half turning his head:

"Euh! It is not very good. Your piano!" The old man was very contrite. Hebegged pardon:

"It is old, " he said humbly. "It is like myself. " Christophe turned roundand looked at the old man, who seemed to be asking pardon for his age, tookboth his hands, and laughed. He looked into his honest eyes:

"Oh!" he said, "you are younger than I. " Schulz laughed aloud and spoke ofhis old body and his infirmities. 

"Ta, ta, ta!" said Christophe, "I don't mean that; I know what I am saying. It is true, isn't it, Kunz?"

(They had already suppressed the "_Herr_. ")

Kunz agreed emphatically. 

Schulz tried to find the same indulgence for his piano. "It has still somebeautiful notes, " he said timidly. 

And he touched them-four or five notes that were fairly true, half anoctave in the middle register of the instrument, Christophe understood thatit was an old friend and he said kindly, --thinking of Schulz's eyes:

"Yes. It still has beautiful eyes. "

Schulz's face lit up. He launched out on an involved eulogy of his oldpiano, but he dropped immediately, for Christophe had begun to play again. _Lieder_ followed _Lieder_; Christophe sang them softly. With tears inhis eyes Schulz followed his every movement. With his hands folded on hisstomach Kunz closed his eyes the better to enjoy it. From time to timeChristophe turned beaming towards the two old men who were absolutelydelighted, and he said with a naïve enthusiasm at which they never thoughtof laughing:

"Hein! It is beautiful I. . . And this! What do you say about this?. . . Andthis again!. . . This is the most beautiful of all. . . . Now I will play yousomething which will make your hair curl. . . . "

As he was finishing a dreamy fragment the cuckoo clock began to call. Christophe started and shouted angrily. Kunz was suddenly awakened androlled his eyes fearfully. Even Schulz did not understand at first. Thenwhen he saw Christophe shaking his fist at the calling bird and shoutingto someone in the name of Heaven to take the idiot and throw it away, theventriloquist specter, he too discovered for the first time in his lifethat the noise was intolerable; and he took a chair and tried to mount itto take down the spoil-sport. But he nearly fell and Kunz would not let himtry again; he called Salome. She came without hurrying herself, as usual, and was staggered to find the clock thrust into her hands, which Christophein his impatience had taken down himself. 

"What am I to do with it?" she asked. 

"Whatever you like. Take it away! Don't let us see it again!" said Schulz, no less impatient than Christophe. 

(He wondered how he could have borne such a horror for so long. )

Salome thought that they were surely all cracked. 

The music went on. Hours passed. Salome came and announced that dinner wasserved. Schulz bade her be silent. She came again ten minutes later, thenonce again, ten minutes after that; this time she was beside herself andboiling with rage while she tried to look unperturbed; she stood firmlyin, the middle of the room and in spite of Schulz's desperate gestures sheasked in a brazen voice:

"Do the gentlemen prefer to eat their dinner cold or burned? It does notmatter to me. I only await your orders. "

Schulz was confused by her scolding and tried to retort; but Christopheburst out laughing. Kunz followed his example and at length Schulz laughedtoo. Salome, satisfied with the effect she had produced, turned on herheels with the air of a queen who is graciously pleased to pardon herrepentant subjects. 

"That's a good creature!" said Christophe, getting up from the piano. "Sheis right. There is nothing so intolerable as an audience arriving in themiddle of a concert. "

They sat at table. There was an enormous and delicious repast. Schulz hadtouched Salome's vanity and she only asked an excuse to display her art. There was no lack of opportunity for her to exercise it. The old friendswere tremendous feeders. Kunz was a different man at table; he expandedlike a sun; he would have done well as a sign for a restaurant. Schulzwas no less susceptible to good cheer; but his ill health imposed morerestraint upon him. It is true that generally he did not pay much heed tothat; and he had to pay for it. In that event he did not complain, if hewere ill at least he knew why. Like Kunz he had recipes of his own handeddown from father to son for generations. Salome was accustomed thereforeto work for connoisseurs. But on this occasion, she had contrived toinclude all her masterpieces in one menu; it was like an exhibition of theunforgettable cooking of Germany, honest and unsophisticated, with allthe scents of all the herbs, and thick sauces, substantial soups, perfectstews, wonderful carp, sauerkraut, geese, plain cakes, aniseed and carawayseed bread. Christophe was in raptures with his mouth full, and he ate likean ogre; he had the formidable capacity of his father and grandfather, who would have devoured a whole goose. But he could live just as well fora whole week on bread and cheese, and cram when occasion served. Schulzwas cordial and ceremonious and watched him with kind eyes, and pliedhim with all the wines of the Rhine. Kunz was shining and recognized himas a brother. Salome's large face was beaming happily. At first she hadbeen deceived when Christophe came. Schulz had spoken about him so muchbeforehand that she had fancied him as an Excellency, laden with lettersand honors. When she saw him she cried out:

"What! Is that all?"

But at table Christophe won her good graces; she had never seen anybody sosplendidly do justice to her talent. Instead of going back to her kitchenshe stayed by the door to watch Christophe, who was saying all sorts ofabsurd things without missing a bite, and with her hands on her hips sheroared with laughter. They were all glad and happy. There vas only oneshadow over their joy: the absence of Pottpetschmidt. They often returnedto it. 

"Ah! If he were here! How he would eat! How he would drink! How he wouldsing!"

Their praises of him were inexhaustible. 

"If only Christophe could see him!. . . But perhaps he would be able to. Perhaps Pottpetschmidt would return in the evening, on that night atlatest. . . . "

"Oh! I shall be gone to-night, " said Christophe. 

A shadow passed over Schulz's beaming face. 

"What! Gone!" he said in a trembling voice. "But you are not going. "

"Oh, yes, " said Christophe gaily. "I must catch the train to-night. "

Schulz was in despair. He had counted on Christophe spending the night, perhaps several nights, in his house. He murmured:

"No, no. You can't go!. . . "

Kunz repeated:

"And Pottpetschmidt!. . . "

Christophe looked at the two of them; he was touched by the dismay on theirkind friendly faces and said:

"How good you are!. . . If you like I will go to-morrow morning. "

Schulz took him by the hand. 

"Ah!" he said. "How glad I am! Thank you! Thank you!"

He was like a child to whom to-morrow seems so far, so far, that it willnot bear thinking on. Christophe was not going to-day; to-day was theirs;they would spend the whole evening together; he would sleep under his roof;that was all that Schulz saw; he would not look further. 

They became merry again. Schulz rose suddenly, looked very solemn, andexcitedly and slowly proposed the toast of their guest, who had givenhim the immense joy and honor of visiting the little town and his humblehouse; he drank to his happy return, to his success, to his glory, to everyhappiness in the world, which with all his heart he wished him. And thenhe proposed another toast "to noble music, "--another to his old friendKunz, --another to spring, --and he did not forget Pottpetschmidt. Kunz inhis turn drank to Schulz and the others, and Christophe, to bring thetoasts to an end, proposed the health of dame Salome, who blushed crimson. Upon that, without giving the orators time to reply, he began a familiarsong which the two old men took up; after that another, and then anotherfor three parts which was all about friendship and music and wine; thewhole was accompanied by loud laughter and the clink of glasses continuallytouching. 

It was half-past three when they got up from the table. They were ratherdrowsy. Kunz sank into a chair; he was longing to have a sleep. Schulz'slegs were worn out by his exertions of the morning and by standing for histoasts. They both hoped that Christophe would sit at the piano again and goon playing for hours. But the terrible boy, who was in fine form, firststruck two or three chords on the piano, shut it abruptly, looked out ofthe window, and asked if they could not go for a walk until supper. Thecountry attracted him. Kunz showed little enthusiasm, but Schulz at oncethought it an excellent idea and declared that he must show their guest thewalk round the _Schönbuchwälder_. Kunz made a face; but he did not protestand got up with the others; he was as desirous as Schulz of showingChristophe the beauties of the country. 

They went out. Christophe took Schulz's arm and made him walk a littlefaster than the old man liked. Kunz followed mopping his brow. They talkedgaily. The people standing at their doors watched them pass and thoughtthat _Herr Professor_ Schulz looked like a young man. When they left thetown they took to the fields. Kunz complained of the heat. Christophe wasmerciless and declared that the air was exquisite. Fortunately for the twoold men, they stopped frequently to argue and they forgot the length of thewalk in their conversation. They went into the woods. Schulz recited versesof Goethe and Mörike. Christophe loved poetry, but he could not rememberany, and while he listened he stepped into a vague dream in which musicreplaced the words and made him forget them. He admired Schulz's memory. What a difference there was between the vivacity of mind of this poor richold man, almost impotent, shut up in his room for a great part of the year, shut up in his little provincial town almost all his life, --and Hassler, young, famous, in the very thick of the artistic movement, and touring overall Europe for his concerts and yet interested in nothing and unwilling toknow anything! Not only was Schulz in touch with every manifestation of theart of the day that Christophe knew, but he knew an immense amount aboutmusicians of the past and of other countries of whom Christophe had neverheard. His memory was a great reservoir in which all the beautiful watersof the heavens were collected. Christophe never wearied of dipping into it, and Schulz was glad of Christophe's interest. He had sometime? foundwilling listeners or docile pupils, but he had never yet found a young andardent heart with which he could share his enthusiasms, which sometimes soswelled in him that he was like to choke. 

They had become the best friends in the world when unhappily the old manchanced to express his admiration for Brahms. Christophe was at once coldlyangry; he dropped Schulz's arm and said harshly that anyone who lovedBrahms could not be his friend. That threw cold water on their happiness. Schulz was too timid to argue, too honest to lie, and murmured and tried toexplain. But Christophe stopped him:

"Enough?"

It was so cutting that it was impossible to reply. There was an icysilence. They walked on. The two old men dared not look at each other. Kunzcoughed and tried to take up the conversation again and to talk of thewoods and the weather; but Christophe sulked and would not talk and onlyanswered with monosyllables. Kunz, finding no response from him, tried tobreak the silence by talking to Schulz; but Schulz's throat was dry, hecould not speak. Christophe watched him out of the corner of his eyesand he wanted to laugh; he had forgiven him already. He had never beenseriously angry with him; he even thought it brutal to make the poor oldman sad; but he abused his power and would not appear to go back on what hehad said. They remained so until they left the woods; nothing was to beheard but the weary steps of the two downcast old men; Christophe whistledthrough his teeth and pretended not to see them. Suddenly he could bear itno longer. He burst out laughing, turned towards Schulz and gripped hisarm:

"My dear good old Schulz!" he said, looking at him affectionately. "Isn'tit beautiful? Isn't it beautiful?"

He was speaking of the country and the fine day, but his laughing eyesseemed to say:

"You are good. I am a brute. Forgive me! I love you much. "

The old man's heart melted. It was as though the sun had shone againafter an eclipse. But a short time passed before he could utter a word. Christophe took his arm and went on talking to him more amiably than ever;in his eagerness he went faster and faster without noticing the strain uponhis two companions. Schulz did not complain; he did not even notice hisfatigue; he was so happy. He knew that he would have to pay for that day'srashness; but he thought:

"So much the worse for to-morrow! When _he_ is gone I shall have plenty oftime to rest. "

But Kunz, who was not so excited, followed fifteen yards behind and lookeda pitiful object. Christophe noticed it at last. He begged his pardonconfusedly and proposed that they should lie down in a meadow in the shadeof the poplars. Of course Schulz acquiesced without a thought for theeffect it might have on his bronchitis. Fortunately Kunz thought of it forhim; or at least he made it an excuse for not running any risk from themoisture of the grass when he was in such a perspiration. He suggested thatthey should take the train back to the town from a station close by. Theydid so. In spite of their fatigue they had to hurry, so as not to be late, and they reached the station just as the train came in. 

At the sight of them a big man threw himself out of the door of a carriageand roared the names of Schulz and Kunz, together with all their titles andqualities, and he waved his arms like a madman. Schulz and Kunz shouted inreply and also waved their arms; they rushed to the big man's compartmentand he ran to meet them, jostling the people on the platform. Christophewas amazed and ran after them asking:

"What is it?"

And the others shouted exultantly:

"It is Pottpetschmidt!"

The name did not convey much to him. He had forgotten the toasts atdinner. Pottpetschmidt in the carriage and Schulz and Kunz on the step weremaking a deafening noise, they were marveling at their encounter. Theyclimbed into the train as it was going. Schulz introduced Christophe. Pottpetschmidt bowed as stiff as a poker and his features lost allexpression; then when the formalities were over he caught hold ofChristophe's hand and shook it five or six times, as though he were tryingto pull his arm out, and then began to shout again. Christophe was able tomake out that he thanked God and his stars for the extraordinary meeting. That did not keep him from slapping his thigh a moment later and crying outupon the misfortune of having had to go away--he who never went away--justwhen the _Herr Kapellmeister_ was coming. Schulz's telegram had onlyreached him that morning an hour after the train went; he was asleep whenit arrived and they had not thought it worth while to wake him. He hadstormed at the hotel people all morning. He was still storming. He had senthis patients away, cut his business appointments and taken the first trainin his haste to return, but the infernal train had missed the connection onthe main line; Pottpetschmidt had had to wait three hours at a station; hehad exhausted all the expletives in his vocabulary and fully twenty timeshad narrated his misadventures to other travelers who were also waiting, and a porter at the station. At last he had started again. He was fearfulof arriving too late . . . But, thank God! Thank God!. . . 

He took Christophe's hands again and crushed them in his vast paws withtheir hairy fingers. He was fabulously stout and tall in proportion; he hada square head, close cut red hair, a clean-shaven pock-marked face, bigeyes, large nose, thin lips, a double chin, a short neck, a monstrouslywide back, a stomach like a barrel, arms thrust out by his body, enormousfeet and hands; a gigantic mass of flesh, deformed by excess in eating anddrinking; one of those human tobacco-jars that one sees sometimes rollingalong the streets in the towns of Bavaria, which keep the secret of thatrace of men that is produced by a system of gorging similar to that of theStrasburg geese. He listened with joy and warmth like a pot of butter, andwith his two hands on his outstretched knees, or on those of his neighbors, he never stopped talking, hurling consonants into the air like a catapultand making them roll along. Occasionally he would have a fit of laughingwhich made him shake all over; he would throw back his head, open hismouth, snorting, gurgling, choking. His laughter would infect Schulz andKunz and when it was over they would look at Christophe as they dried theireyes. They seemed to be asking him:

"Hein!. . . And what do you say?"

Christophe said nothing; he thought fearfully:

"And this monster sings my music?"

They went home with Schulz. Christophe hoped to avoid Pottpetschmidt'ssinging and made no advances in spite of Pottpetschmidt's hints. He wasitching to be heard. But Schulz and Kunz were too intent oh showing theirfriend off; Christophe had to submit. He sat at the piano ratherungraciously; he thought:

"My good man, my good man, you don't know what is in store for you; have acare! I will spare you nothing. "

He thought that he would hurt Schulz and he was angry at that; but hewas none the less determined to hurt him rather than have this Falstaffmurdering his music. He was spared the pain of hurting his old friend: thefat man had an admirable voice. At the first bars Christophe gave a startof surprise. Schulz, who never took his eyes off him, trembled; he thoughtthat Christophe was dissatisfied; and he was only reassured when he saw hisface grow brighter and brighter as he went on playing. He was lit up bythe reflection of Christophe's delight; and when the song was finished andChristophe turned round and declared that he had never heard any of hissongs sung so well, Schulz found a joy in all sweeter and greater thanChristophe's in his satisfaction, sweeter and greater than Pottpetschmidt'sin his triumph; for they had only their own pleasure, and Schulz had thatof his two friends. They went on with the music. Christophe cried aloud; hecould not understand how so ponderous and common a creature could succeedin reading the idea of his _Lieder_. No doubt there were not exactly allthe shades of meaning, but there was the impulse and the passion which hehad never quite succeeded in imparting to professional singers. He lookedat Pottpetschmidt and wondered:

"Does he really feel that?"

But he could not see in his eyes any other light than that of satisfiedvanity. Some unconscious force stirred in that solid flesh. The blindpassion was like an army fighting without knowing against whom or why. Thespirit of the _Lieder_ took possession of it and it obeyed gladly, for ithad need of action; and, left to itself, it never would have known how. 

Christophe fancied that on the day of the Creation the Great Sculptordid not take very much trouble to put in order the scattered members ofhis rough-hewn creatures, and that He had adjusted them anyhow withoutbothering to find out whether they were suited to each other, and so everyone was made up of all sorts of pieces; and one man was scattered amongfive or six different men; his brain was with one, his heart with another, and the body belonging to his soul with yet another; the instrument wason one side, the performer on the other. Certain creatures remained likewonderful violins, forever shut up in their cases, for want of anyone withthe art to play them. And those who were fit to play them were found alltheir lives to put up with wretched scraping fiddles. He had all the morereason for thinking so as he was furious with himself for never having beenable properly to sing a page of music. He had an untuned voice and couldnever hear himself without disgust. 

However, intoxicated by his success, Pottpetschmidt began to "putexpression" into Christophe's _Lieder_, that is to say he substituted hisown for Christophe's. Naturally he did not think that the music gained bythe change, and he grew gloomy. Schulz saw it. His lack of the criticalfaculty and his admiration for his friends would not have allowed him ofhis own accord to set it down to Pottpetschmidt's bad taste. But hisaffection for Christophe made him perceptive of the young man's finestshades of thought; he was no longer in himself, he was in Christophe;and he too suffered from Pottpetschmidt's affectations. He tried hardto stop his going down that perilous slope. It was not easy to silencePottpetschmidt. Schulz found it enormously difficult, when the singer hadexhausted Christophe's repertory, to keep him from breaking out into thelucubrations of mediocre compositions at the mention of whose namesChristophe curled up and bristled like a porcupine. 

Fortunately the announcement of supper muzzled Pottpetschmidt. Anotherfield for his valor was opened for him; he had no rival there; andChristophe, who was a little weary with his exploits in the afternoon, madeno attempt to vie with him. 

It was getting late. They sat round the table and the three friends watchedChristophe; they drank in his words. It seemed very strange to Christopheto find himself in the remote little town among these old men whom he hadnever seen until that day and to be more intimate with them than if theyhad been his relations. He thought how fine it would be for an artist if hecould know of the unknown friends whom his ideas find in the world, --howgladdened his heart would be and how fortified he would be in his strength. But he is rarely that; every one lives and dies alone, fearing to say whathe feels the more he feels and the more he needs to express it. Vulgarflatterers have no difficulty in speaking. Those who love most have toforce their lips open to say that they love. And so he must be gratefulindeed to those who dare to speak; they are unconsciously collaboratorswith the artist. --Christophe was filled with gratitude for old Schulz. Hedid not confound him with his two friends; he felt that he was the soulof the little group; the others were only reflections of that living fireof goodness and love. The friendship that Kunz and Pottpetschmidt had forhim was very different. Kunz was selfish; music gave him a comfortablesatisfaction like a fat cat when it is stroked. Pottpetschmidt found init the pleasure of tickled vanity and physical exercise. Neither of themtroubled to understand him. But Schulz absolutely forgot himself; he loved. 

It was late. The two friends went away in the night. Christophe was leftalone with Schulz. He said:

"Now I will play for you alone. "

He sat at the piano and played, --as he knew how to play when he had someone dear to him by his side. He played his latest compositions. The oldman was in ecstasies. He sat near Christophe and never took his eyes fromhim and held his breath. In the goodness of his heart he was incapable ofkeeping the smallest happiness to himself, and in spite of himself he said:

"Ah! What a pity Kunz is not here!"

That irritated Christophe a little. 

An hour passed; Christophe was still playing; they had not exchanged aword. When Christophe had finished neither spoke a word. There was silence, the house, the street, was asleep. Christophe turned and saw that theold man was weeping; he got up and went and embraced him. They talked inwhispers in the stillness of the night. The clock ticked dully in the nextroom. Schulz talked in a whisper, with his hands clasped, and leaningforward; he was telling Christophe, in answer to his questions, about hislife and his sorrow; at every turn he was ashamed of complaining and had tosay:

"I am wrong . . . I have no right to complain . . . Everybody has been verygood to me. . . . "

And indeed he was not complaining; it was only an involuntary melancholyemanating from the dull story of his lonely life. At the most sorrowfulmoments he wove into it professions of faith vaguely idealistic and verysentimental which amazed Christophe, though it would have been too cruel tocontradict him. At bottom there was in Schulz not so much a firm belief asa passionate desire to believe--an uncertain hope to which he clung as toa buoy. He sought the confirmation of it in Christophe's eyes. Christopheunderstood the appeal in the eyes of his friend, who clung to him withtouching confidence, imploring him, --and dictating his answer. Then hespoke of the calm faith or strength, sure of itself, words which the oldman was expecting, and they comforted him. The old man and the young hadforgotten the years that lay between, them; they were near each other, likebrothers of the same age, loving and helping each other; the weaker soughtthe support of the stronger; the old man took refuge in the young man'ssoul. 

They parted after midnight; Christophe had to get up early to catch thetrain by which he had come. And so he did not loiter as he undressed. Theold man had prepared his guests room as though for a visit of severalmonths. He had put a bowl of roses on the table and a branch of laurel. Hehad put fresh blotting paper on the bureau. During the morning he had hadan upright piano carried up. On the shelf by the bed he had placed bookschosen from among his most precious and beloved. There was no detail thathe had not lovingly thought out. But it was a waste of trouble: Christophesaw nothing. He flung himself on his bed and went sound asleep at once. 

Schulz could not sleep. He was pondering the joy that he had had and thesorrow he must have at the departure of his friend. He was turning overin his mind the words that had been spoken. He was thinking that his dearChristophe was sleeping near him on the other side of the wall againstwhich his bed lay. He was worn out, stiff all over, depressed; he felt thathe had caught cold during the walk and that he was going to have a relapse;but he had only one thought:

"If only I can hold out until he has gone!" And he was fearful of having afit of coughing and waking Christophe. He was full of gratitude to God, andbegan to compose verses to the song of old Simeon: "_Nunc dimittis . . . _"He got up in a sweat to write the verses down and sat at his desk untilhe had carefully copied them out with an affectionate dedication, and hissignature, and the date and hour. Then he lay down again with a shiver andcould not get warm all night. 

Dawn came. Schulz thought regretfully of the dawn of the day before. But hewas angry with himself for spoiling with such thoughts the few minutes ofhappiness left to him; he knew that on the morrow he would regret the timefleeting then, and he tried not to waste any of it. He listened, eagerfor the least sound in the next room. But Christophe did not stir. He laystill just as he had gone to bed; he had not moved. Half-past six rang andhe still slept. Nothing would have been easier than to make him miss thetrain, and doubtless he would have taken it with a laugh. But the old manwas too scrupulous to use a friend so without his consent. In vain did hesay to himself:

"It will not be my fault. I could not help it. It will be enough to saynothing. And if he does not wake in time I shall have another whole daywith him. "

He answered himself:

"No, I have no right. "

And he thought it his duty to go and wake him. He knocked at his door. Christophe did not hear at first; he had to knock again. That made the oldman's heart thump as he thought: "Ah! How well he sleeps! He would staylike that till mid-day!. . . "

At last Christophe replied gaily through the partition. When he learned thetime he cried out; he was heard bustling about his room, noisily dressinghimself, singing scraps of melody, while he chattered with Schulz throughthe wall and cracked Jokes while the old man laughed in spite of hissorrow. The door opened; Christophe appeared, fresh, rested, and happy; hehad no thought of the pain he was causing. In reality there was no hurryfor him to go; it would have cost him nothing to stay a few days longer;and it would have given Schulz so much pleasure! But Christophe could notknow that. Besides, although he was very fond of the old man, he was gladto go; he was worn out by the day of perpetual conversation, by thesepeople who clung to him in desperate fondness. And then he was young, hethought there would be plenty of time to meet again; he was not going tothe other ends of the earth!--The old man knew that he would soon be muchfarther than the other ends of the earth, and he looked at Christophe forall eternity. 

In spite of hit extreme weariness he took him to the station. A fine coldrain was falling noiselessly. At the station when he opened his purseChristophe found that he had not enough money to buy his ticket home. Heknew that Schulz would gladly lead him the money, but he would not ask himfor it. . . . Why? Why deny those who love you the opportunity--the happinessof doing you a service?. . . He would not out of discretion--perhaps out ofvanity. He took a ticket for a station on the way, saying that he would dothe rest of the journey on foot. 

The time for leaving came. They embraced on the footboard of the carriage. Schulz slipped the poem he had written during the night into Christophe'shand. He stayed on the platform below the compartment. They had nothingmore to say to each other, as usual when good-byes are too long drawn out, but Schulz's eyes went on speaking, they never left Christophe's face untilthe train went. 

The carriage disappeared round a curve. Schulz was left alone. He went backby the muddy path; he dragged along; suddenly he felt all his weariness, the cold, the melancholy of the rainy day. He was hardly able to reach homeand to go upstairs again. Hardly had he reached his room than he was seizedwith an attack of asthma and coughing. Salome came to his aid. Through hisinvoluntary groans, he said:

"What luck!. . . What luck that I was prepared for it. . . . " He felt very ill. He went to bed. Salome fetched the doctor. In bed he became as limp as arag. He could not move; only his breast was heaving and panting like amillion billows. His head was heavy and feverish. He spent the whole day inliving through the day before, minute by minute; he tormented himself, andthen was angry with himself for complaining after so much happiness. Withhis hands clasped and his heart big with love he thanked God. 

 * * * * *

Christophe was soothed by his day and restored to confidence in himself bythe affection that he had left behind him, --so he returned home. When hehad gone as far as his ticket would take him he got out blithely and tookto the road on foot. He had sixty kilometers to do. He was in no hurry anddawdled like a school-boy. It was April. The country was not very far on. The leaves were unfolding like little wrinkled hands at the ends of theHack branches; the apple trees were in flower, and along the hedges thefrail eglantine smiled. Above the leafless forest, where a soft greenishdown was beginning to appear, on the summit of a little hill, like a trophyon the end of a lance, there rose an old Romanic castle. Three black cloudssailed across the soft blue sky. Shadows chased over the country in spring, showers passed, then the bright sun shone forth again and the birds sang. 

Christophe found that for some time he had been thinking of UncleGottfried. He had not thought of the poor man for a long time, and hewondered why the memory of him should so obstinately obsess him now; he washaunted by it as he walked along a path along a canal that reflected thepoplars; and the image of his uncle was so actual that as he turned a greatwall he thought he saw him coming towards him. 

The sky grew dark. A heavy downpour of rain and hail fell, and thunderrumbled in the distance. Christophe was near a village; he could see itspink walls and red roofs among the clumps of trees. He hurried and tookshelter under the projecting roof of the nearest house. The hail-stonescame lashing down; they rang out on the tiles and fell down into the streetlike pieces of lead. The ruts were overflowing. Above the blossomingorchards a rainbow flung its brilliant garish scarf over the dark blueclouds. 

On the threshold a girl was standing knitting. She asked Christophe toenter. He accepted the invitation. The room into which he stepped was usedas a kitchen, a dining-room, and a bed-room. At the back a stew-pot hungover a great fire. A peasant woman who was cleaning vegetables wishedChristophe good-day, and bade him go near the fire to dry himself. The girlfetched a bottle of wine and gave him to drink. She sat on the other sideof the table and went on knitting, while at the same time she looked aftertwo children who were playing at testing each other's eyes with thosegrasses which are known in the country as "thiefs" or "sweeps. " She beganto talk to Christophe. It was only after a moment that he saw that she wasblind. She was not pretty. She was a big girl, with red cheeks, whiteteeth, and strong arms, but her features were irregular; she had thesmiling, rather expressionless air of many blind people, and also theirmania for talking of things and people as though they could see them. Atfirst Christophe was startled and wondered if she were making fun of himwhen she said that he looked well and that the country was looking verypretty. But after looking from the blind girl to the woman who was cleaningthe vegetables, he saw that nobody was surprised and that it was nojoke--(there was nothing to joke about indeed). --The two women askedChristophe friendly questions as to whither he was going and whence he hadcome. The blind girl joined in the conversation with a rather exaggeratedeagerness; she agreed with, or commented on, Christophe's remarks about theroad and the fields. Naturally her observations were often wide of themark. She seemed to be trying to pretend that she could see as well as he. 

Other members of the family came in: a healthy peasant of thirty and hisyoung wife. Christophe talked to them all, and watched the clearing sky, waiting for the moment to set out again. The blind girl hummed an air whileshe plied her knitting needles. The air brought back all sorts of oldmemories to Christophe. 

"What!" he said. "You know that. " (Gottfried had taught her it. )

He hummed the following notes. The girl began to laugh. She sang the firsthalf of the phrases and he finished them. He had just got up to go and lookat the weather and he was walking round the room, mechanically taking stockof every corner of it, when near the dresser he saw an object which madehim start. It was a long twisted stick, the handle of which was roughlycarved to represent a little bent man bowing. Christophe knew it well, hehad played with it as a child. He pounced on the stick and asked in achoking voice:

"Where did you get this?. . . Where did you get it?" The man looked up andsaid:

"A friend left it here--an old friend who is dead. "

Christophe cried:

"Gottfried?"

They all turned and asked:

"How do you know . . . ?"

And when Christophe told them that Gottfried was his uncle, they were allgreatly excited. The blind girl got up; her ball of wool rolled across theroom; she stopped her work and took Christophe's hands and said in a greatstate of emotion:

"You are his nephew?"

They all talked at once. Christophe asked:

"But how . . . How do you come to know him?" The man replied:

"It was here that he died. "

They sat down again, and when the excitement had gone down a little, themother told, as she went on with her work, that Gottfried used to go to thehouse for many years; he always used to stay there on his way to and frofrom his journeys. The last time he came--(it was in last July)--he seemedvery tired, and when he took off his pack it was some time before he couldspeak a word, but they did not take any notice of it because they were usedto seeing him like that when he arrived and knew that he was short ofbreath. He did not complain either. He never used to complain; he alwaysused to find some happiness in the most unpleasant things. When he wasdoing some exhausting work he used to be glad thinking how good it would bein bed at night, and when he was ill he used to say how good it would bewhen he was not ill any longer. . . . 

"And, sir, it is wrong to be always content, " added the woman, "for if youaxe not sorry for yourself, nobody will pity you. I always complain. . . . "

Well, nobody had paid any attention to him. They had even chaffed him aboutlooking so well and Modesta--(that was the blind girl's name)--who had justrelieved him of his pack had asked him if he was never going to be tired ofrunning like a young man. He smiled in reply, for he could not speak. Hesat on the seat by the door. Everybody went about their work, the men tothe fields, the woman to her cooking. Modesta went near the seat, she stoodleaning against the door with her knitting in her hands and talked toGottfried. He did not reply; she did not ask him for any reply and toldhim everything that had happened since his last visit. He breathed withdifficulty and she heard him trying hard to speak. Instead of being anxiousabout him she said:

"Don't speak. Just rest. You shall talk presently. . . . How can people tirethemselves out like that!. . . "

And then he did not talk or even try to talk. She went on with her storythinking that he was listening. He sighed and said nothing. When themother came a little later she found Modesta still talking and Gottfriedmotionless on the seat with his head flung back facing the sky; for someminutes Modesta had been talking to a dead man. She understood then thatthe poor man had been trying to say a few words before he died but had notbeen able to; then with his sad smile he had accepted that and had closedhis eyes in the peace of the summer evening. . . . 

The rain had ceased. The daughter-in-law went to the stables, the son tookhis mattock and cleared the little gutter in front of the door which themud had obstructed. Modesta had disappeared at the beginning of the story. Christophe was left alone in the room with the mother, and was silentand much moved. The old woman, who was rather talkative, could not beara prolonged silence; and she began to tell him the whole history of heracquaintance with Gottfried. It went far back. When she was quite youngGottfried loved her. He dared not tell her, but it became a joke; she madefun of him, everybody made fun of him, --(it was; the custom wherever hewent)--Gottfried used to come faithfully every year. It seemed naturalto him that people should make fun of him, natural that she should havemarried and been happy with another man. She had been too happy, she hadboasted too much of her happiness; then unhappiness came. Her husbanddied suddenly. Then his daughter, --a fine strong girl whom everybodyadmired, who was to be married to the son of the richest farmer of thedistrict, --lost her sight as the result of an accident. One day when shehad climbed to the great pear tree behind the house to pick the fruit theladder slipped; as she fell a broken branch struck a blow near the eye. At first it was thought that she would escape with a scar, but later, shehad had unceasing pains in her forehead; one eye lost its sight, then theother; and all their remedies had been useless. Of course the marriage wasbroken off; her betrothed had vanished without any explanation, and of allthe young men who a month before had actually fought for a dance with her, not one had the courage--(it is quite comprehensible)--to take a blind girlto his arms. And so Modesta, who till then had been careless and gay, hadfallen into such despair that she wanted to die. She refused to eat; shedid nothing but weep from morning to evening, and during the night theyused to hear her still moaning in her bed. They did not know what to do, they could only join her in her despair; and she only wept the more. At last they lost patience with her moaning; then they scolded her andshe talked of throwing herself into the canal. The minister would comesometimes; he would talk of the good God, and eternal things, and the meritshe was gaining for the next world by bearing her sorrows, but that did notconsole her at all. One day Gottfried came. Modesta had never been verykind to him. Not that she was naturally unkind, but she was disdainful, and besides she never thought; she loved to laugh, and there was no malicein what she said or did to him. When he heard of her misfortune he was asoverwhelmed by it as though he were a member of the family. However he didnot let her see it the first time he saw her. He went and sat by her side, made no allusion to her accident and began to talk quietly as he had alwaysdone before. He had no word of pity for her; he even seemed not to noticethat she was blind. Only he never talked to her of things she could notsee; he talked to her about what she could hear or notice in her blindness;and he did it quite simply as though it were a natural thing; it was asthough he too were blind. At first she did not listen and went on weeping. But next day she listened better and even talked to him a little. . . . 

"And, " the woman went on, "I do not know what he can have said to her. Forwe were hay-making and I was too busy to notice her. But in the eveningwhen we came in from the fields we found her talking quietly. And afterthat she went on getting better. She seemed to forget her affliction. Butevery now and then she would think of it again; she would weep alone or tryto talk to Gottfried of sad things; but he seemed not to hear, or he wouldnot reply in the same tone; he would go on talking gravely or merrily ofthings which soothed and interested her. At last he persuaded her to goout of the house, which she had never left since her accident. He made hergo a few yards round the garden at first, and then for a longer distancein the fields. And at last she learned to find her way everywhere and tomake out everything as though she could see. She even notices things towhich we never pay any attention, and she is interested in everything, whereas before she was never interested in much outside herself. Thattime Gottfried stayed with us longer than usual. We dared not ask him topostpone his departure, but he stayed of his own accord until he saw thatshe was calmer. And one day--she was out there in the yard, --I heard herlaughing. I cannot tell you what an effect that had on me. Gottfried lookedhappy too. He was sitting near me. We looked at each other, and I am notashamed to tell you, sir, that I kissed him with all my heart. Then he saidto me:

"'Now I think I can go. I am not needed any more. '

"I tried to keep him. But he said:

"'No. I must go now. I cannot stay any longer. '

"Everybody knew that he was like the Wandering Jew: he could not stayanywhere; we did not insist. Then he went, but he arranged to come heremore often, and every time it was a great joy for Modesta; she was alwaysbetter after his visits. She began to work in the house again; her brothermarried; she looks after the children; and now she never complains andalways looks happy. I sometimes wonder if she would be so happy if she hadher two eyes. Yes, indeed, sir, there are days, when I think that it wouldbe better to be like her and not to see certain ugly people and certainevil things. The world is growing very ugly, it grows worse every day. . . . And yet I should be very much afraid of God taking me at my word, and formy part I would rather go on seeing the world, ugly as it is. . . . "

Modesta came back and the conversation changed. Christophe wished to gonow that the weather was fair again, but they would not let him. He had toagree to stay to supper and to spend the night with them. Modesta sat nearChristophe and did not leave him all the evening. He would have liked totalk intimately to the girl whose lot filled him with pity. But she gavehim no opportunity. She would only try to ask him about Gottfried. WhenChristophe told her certain things she did not know, she was happy and alittle jealous. She was a little unwilling to talk of Gottfried herself;it was apparent that she did not tell everything, and when she did telleverything she was sorry for it at once; her memories were her property, she did not like sharing them with another; in her affection she was aseager as a peasant woman in her attachment to her land; it hurt her tothink that anybody could love Gottfried as much as she. It is true thatshe refused to believe it; and Christophe, understanding, left her thatsatisfaction. As he listened to her he saw that, although she had seenGottfried and had even seen him with indulgent eyes, since her blindnessshe had made of him an image absolutely different from the reality, and shehad transferred to the phantom of her mind all the hunger for love that wasin her. Nothing had disturbed her illusion. With the bold certainty of theblind, who calmly invent what they do not know, she said to Christophe:

"You are like him. "

He understood that for years she had grown used to living in a house withclosed shutters through which the truth could not enter. And now thatshe had learned to see in the darkness that surrounded her, and even toforget the darkness, perhaps she would have been afraid of a ray of lightfiltering through the gloom. With Christophe she recalled a number ofrather silly trivialities in a smiling and disjointed conversation in whichChristophe could not be at his ease. He was irritated by her chatter; hecould not understand how a creature who had suffered so much had not becomemore serious in her suffering, and he could not find tolerance for suchfutility; every now and then he tried to talk of graver things, but theyfound no echo; Modesta could not--or would not--follow him. 

They went to bed. It was long before Christophe could sleep. He wasthinking of Gottfried and trying to disengage him from the image ofModesta's childish memories. He found it difficult and was irritated. Hisheart ached at the thought that Gottfried had died there and that his bodyhad no doubt lain in that very bed. He tried to live through the agonyof his last moments, when he could neither speak nor make the blind girlunderstand, and had closed his eyes in death. He longed to have been ableto raise his eyelids and to read the thoughts hidden under them, themystery of that soul, which had gone without making itself known, perhapseven without knowing itself! It never tried to know itself, and all itswisdom lay in not desiring wisdom, or in not trying to impose its will oncircumstance, but in abandoning itself to the force of circumstance, inaccepting it and loving it. So he assimilated the mysterious essence ofthe world without even thinking of it. And if he had done so much good tothe blind girl, to Christophe, and doubtless to many others who would beforever unknown, it was because, instead of bringing the customary words ofthe revolt of man against nature, he brought something of the indifferentpeace of Nature, and reconciled the submissive soul with her. He did goodlike the fields, the woods, all Nature with which he was impregnated. Christophe remembered the evenings he had spent with Gottfried in thecountry, his walks as a child, the stories and songs in the night. Heremembered also the last walk he had taken with his uncle, on the hillabove the town, on a cold winter's morning, and the tears came to his eyesonce more. He did not try to sleep, so as to remain with his memories. Hedid not wish to lose one moment of that night in the little place, filledwith the soul of Gottfried, to which he had been led as though impelled bysome unknown force. But while he lay listening to the irregular tricklingof the fountain and the shrill cries of the bats, the healthy fatigue ofyouth mastered his will, and he fell asleep. 

When he awoke the sun was shining: everybody on the farm was already atwork. In the hall he found only the old woman and the children. The youngcouple were in the fields, sand Modesta had gone to milk. They looked forher in vain. She was nowhere to be found. Christophe said he would not waitfor her return. He did not much want to see her, and he said that he was ina hurry. He set out after telling the old woman to bid the others good-byefor him. 

As he was leaving the village at a turn of the road he the blind girlsitting on a bank under a hawthorn hedge. She got up as she heard himcoming, approached him smiling, took his hand, and said:

"Come. "

They climbed up through meadows to a little shady flowering field filledwith tombstones, which looked down on the village. She led him to a graveand said:

"He is there. "

They both knelt down. Christophe remembered another grave by which he hadknelt with Gottfried, and he thought:

"Soon it will be my turn. "

But there was no sadness in his thought. A great peace was ascending fromthe earth. Christophe leaned over the grave and said, in a whisper toGottfried:

"Enter into me!. . . "

Modesta was praying, with her hands clasped and her lips moving in silence. Then she went round the grave on her knees, feeling the ground and thegrass and the flowers with her hands. She seemed to caress them, her quickfingers seemed to see. They gently plucked the dead stalks of the ivy andthe faded violets. She laid her hand on the curb to get up. Christophe sawher fingers pass furtively over Gottfried's name, lightly touching eachletter. She said:

"The earth is sweet this morning. "

She held out her hand to him. He gave her his. She made him touch the moistwarm earth. He did not loose her hand. Their locked fingers plunged intothe earth. He kissed Modesta. She kissed him, too. 

They both rose to their feet. She held out to him a few fresh violets shehad gathered, and put the faded ones into her bosom. They dusted theirknees and left the cemetery without a word. In the fields the larks weresinging. White butterflies danced about their heads. They sat down in ameadow a few yards away from each other. The smoke of the village wasascending direct to the sky that was washed by the rain. The still canalglimmered between the poplars. A gleaming blue mist wrapped the meadows andwoods in its folds. 

Modesta broke the silence. She spoke in a whisper of the beauty of the dayas though she could see it. She drank in the air through her half-openlips; she listened for the sounds of creatures and things. Christophe alsoknew the worth of such music. He said what she was thinking and could nothave said. He named certain of the cries and imperceptible tremors thatthey could hear in the grass, in the depths of the air. She said:

"Ah! You see that, too?"

He replied that Gottfried had taught him to distinguish them. 

"You, too?" she said a little crossly. 

He wanted to say to her:

"Do not be jealous. "

But he saw the divine light smiling all about them: he looked at her blindeyes and was filled with pity. 

"So, " he asked, "it was Gottfried taught you?"

She said "Yes, " and that they gave her more delight than ever before. . . . She did not say before "what. " She never mentioned the words "eyes" or"blind. "

They were silent for a moment. Christophe looked at her in pity. She feltthat he was looking at her. He would have liked to tell her how much hepitied her. He would have liked her to complain, to confide in him. Heasked kindly:

"You have been very unhappy?"

She sat dumb and unyielding. She plucked the blades of grass and munchedthem in silence. After a few moments, --(the song of a lark was goingfarther and farther from them in the sky), --Christophe told her how hetoo had been unhappy, and how Gottfried had helped him. He told her allhis sorrows, his trials, as though he were thinking aloud or talking toa sister. The blind girl's face lit up as he told his story, which shefollowed eagerly. Christophe watched her and saw that she was on the pointof speaking. She made a movement to come near him and hold his hand. Hemoved, too--but already she had relapsed into her impassiveness, and whenhe had finished, she only replied with a few banal words. Behind her broadforehead, on which there was not a line, there was the obstinacy of apeasant, hard as a stone. She said that she must go home to look after herbrothers children. She talked of them with a calm smile. 

He asked her:

"You are happy?"

She seemed to be more happy to hear him say the word. She said she washappy and insisted on the reasons she had for being so: she was trying topersuade herself and him that it was so. She spoke of the children, and thehouse, and all that she had to do. . . . 

"Oh! yes, " she said, "I am very happy!" Christophe did not reply. She roseto go. He rose too. They said good-bye gaily and carelessly. Modesta's handtrembled a little in Christophe's. She said:

"You will have fine weather for your walk to-day. " And she told him ofa crossroads where he must not go wrong. It was as though, of the two, Christophe were the blind one. 

They parted. He went down the hill. When he reached the bottom heturned. She was standing at the summit in the same place. She waved herhandkerchief and made signs to him as though she saw him. 

There was something heroic and absurd in her obstinacy in denying hermisfortune, something which touched Christophe and hurt him. He felt howworthy Modesta was of pity and even of admiration, --and he could not havelived two days with her. As he went his way between flowering hedges hethought of dear old Schulz, and his old eyes, bright and tender, beforewhich so many sorrows had passed which they refused to see, for they wouldnot see hurtful realities. 

"How does he see me, I wonder?" thought Christophe. "I am so different fromhis idea of me! To him I am what he wants me to be. Everything is in hisown image, pure and noble like himself. He could not bear life if he saw itas it is. "

And he thought of the girl living in darkness who denied the darkness, andtried to pretend that what was was not, and that what was not was. 

Then he saw the greatness of German idealism, which he had so often loathedbecause in vulgar souls it is a source of hypocrisy and stupidity. He sawthe beauty of the faith which Begets a world within the world, differentfrom the world, like a little island in the ocean. --But he could not bearsuch a faith for himself, and refused to take refuge upon such an Islandof the Dead. Life! Truth! He would not be a lying hero. Perhaps thatoptimistic lie which a German Emperor tried to make law for all hispeople was indeed necessary for weak creatures if they were to live. AndChristophe would have thought it a crime to snatch from such poor wretchesthe illusion which upheld them. But for himself he never could haverecourse to such subterfuges. He would rather die than live by illusion. Was not Art also an illusion? No. It must not be. Truth! Truth! Byes wideopen, let him draw in through every pore the all-puissant breath of life, see things as they are, squarely face his misfortunes, --and laugh. 

 * * * * *

Several months passed. Christophe had lost all hope of escaping from thetown. Hassler, the only man who could have saved him, had refused to helphim. And old Schulz's friendship had been taken from him almost as soon asit had been given. 

He had written once on his return, and he had received two affectionateletters, but from sheer laziness, and especially because of the difficultyhe had expressing himself in a letter, he delayed thanking him for his kindwords. He put off writing from day to day. And when at last he made uphis mind to write he had a word from Kunz announcing the death of his oldfriend. Schulz had had a relapse of his bronchitis which had developedinto pneumonia. He had forbidden them to bother Christophe, of whom he wasalways talking. In spite of his extreme weakness and many years of illness, he was not spared a long and painful end. He had charged Kunz to conveythe tidings to Christophe and to tell him that he had thought of him up tothe last hour; that he thanked him for all the happiness he owed him, andthat his blessing would be on Christophe as long as he lived. Kunz did nottell him that the day with Christophe had probably been the reason of hisrelapse and the cause of his death. 

Christophe wept in silence, and he felt them all the worth of the friendhe had lost, and how much he loved him, and he was grieved not to havetold him more of how he loved him. It was too late now. And what was leftto him? The good Schulz had only appeared enough to make the void seemmore empty, the night more black after he ceased to be. As for Kunz andPottpetschmidt, they had no value outside the friendship they had forSchulz and Schulz for them. Christophe valued them at their proper worth. He wrote to them once and their relation ended there. He tried also towrite to Modesta, but she answered with a commonplace letter in which shespoke only of trivialities. He gave up the correspondence. He wrote tonobody and nobody wrote to him. 

Silence. Silence. From day to day the heavy cloak of silence descended uponChristophe. It was like a rain of ashes falling on him. It seemed alreadyto be evening, and Christophe was losing his hold on life. He would notresign himself to that. The hour of sleep was not yet come. He must live. 

And he could not live in Germany. The sufferings of his genius cramped bythe narrowness of the little town lashed him into injustice. His nerveswere raw: everything drew blood. He was like one of those wretched wildanimals who perished of boredom in the holes and cages in which they wereimprisoned in the _Stadtgarten_ (town gardens). Christophe used often to goand look at them in sympathy. He used to look at their wonderful eyes, inwhich there burned--or every day grew fainter--a fierce and desperate fire. Ah! How they would have loved the brutal bullet which sets free, or theknife that strikes into their bleeding hearts! Anything rather than thesavage indifference of those men who prevented them from either living ordying!

Not the hostility of the people was the hardest for Christophe to bear, buttheir inconsistency, their formless, shallow natures. There was no knowinghow to take them. The pig-headed opposition of one of those stiff-necked, bard races who refuse to understand any new thought were much better. Against force it is possible to oppose force--the pick and the minewhich hew away and blow up the hard rock. But what can be done againstan amorphous mass which gives like a jelly, collapses under the leastpressure, and retains no imprint of it? All thought and energy andeverything disappeared in the slough. When a stone fell there were hardlymore than a few ripples quivering on the surface of the gulf: the monsteropened and shut its maw, and there was left no trace of what had been. 

They were not enemies. Dear God! if they only had been enemies! Theywere people who had not the strength to love or hate, or believe ordisbelieve, --in religion, in art, in politics, in daily life; and alltheir energies were expended in trying to reconcile the irreconcilable. Especially since the German victories they had been striving to make acompromise, a revolting intrigue between their new power and their oldprinciples. The old idealism had not been renounced. There should have beena new effort of freedom of which they were incapable. They were contentwith a forgery, with making it subservient to German interests. Like theserene and subtle Schwabian, Hegel, who had waited until after Leipzigand Waterloo to assimilate the cause of his philosophy with the PrussianState--their interests having changed, their principles had changed too. When they were defeated they said that Germany's ideal was humanity. Nowthat they had defeated others, they said that Germany was the ideal ofhumanity. When other countries were more powerful, they said, with Lessing, that "_patriotism is a heroic weakness which it is well to be without_" andthey called themselves "_citizens of the world_. " Now that they were in theascendant, they could not enough despise the Utopias "_à la Française_. "Universal peace, fraternity, pacific progress, the rights of man, naturalequality: they said that the strongest people had absolute rights againstthe others, and that the others, being weaker, had no rights againstthemselves. It was the living God and the Incarnate Idea, the progress ofwhich is accomplished by war, violence, and oppression. Force had becomeholy now that it was on their side. Force had become the only idealism andthe only intelligence. 

In truth, Germany had suffered so much for centuries from having idealismand no fame that she had every excuse after so many trials for makingthe sorrowful confession that at all costs Force must be hers. But whatbitterness was hidden in such a confession from the people of Herder andGoethe! And what an abdication was the German victory, what a degradationof the German ideal! Alas! There were only too many facilities for such anabdication in the deplorable tendency even of the best Germans to submit. 

"_The chief characteristic of Germany_, " said Moser, more than a centuryago, "_is obedience_. " And Madame de Staël:

"_They have submitted doughtily. They find philosophic reasons forexplaining the least philosophic theory in the world: respect for powerand the chastening emotion of fear which changes that respect intoadmiration. _"

Christophe found that feeling everywhere in Germany, from the highestto the lowest--from the William Tell of Schiller, that limited littlebourgeois with muscles like a porter, who, as the free Jew Börne says, "_toreconcile honor and fear passes before the pillar of dear Herr Gessler, with his eyes down so as to be able to say that he did not see the hat;did not disobey_, "--to the aged and respectable Professor Weisse, a man ofseventy, and one of the most honored mea of learning in the town, who, whenhe saw a _Herr Lieutenant_ coming, would make haste to give him the pathand would step down into the road. Christophe's blood boiled whenever hesaw one of these small acts of daily servility. They hurt him as much asthough he had demeaned himself. The arrogant manners of the officers whomhe met in the street, their haughty insolence, made him speechless withanger. He never would make way for them. Whenever he passed them hereturned their arrogant stare. More than once he was very near causing ascene. He seemed to be looking for trouble. However, he was the first tounderstand the futility of such bravado; but he had moments of aberration, the perpetual constraint which he imposed on himself and the accumulationof force in him that had no outlet made him furious. Then he was ready togo any length, and he had a feeling that if he stayed a year longer in theplace he would be lost. He loathed the brutal militarism which he feltweighing down upon him, the sabers clanking on the pavement, the piles ofarms, and the guns placed outside the barracks, their muzzles gaping downon the town, ready to fire. Scandalous novels, which were then making agreat stir, denounced the corruption of the garrisons, great and small:the officers were represented as mischievous creatures, who, outsidetheir automatic duties, were only idle and spent their time in drinking, gambling, getting into debt, living on their families, slandering oneanother, and from top to bottom of the hierarchy they abused theirauthority at the expense of their inferiors. The idea that he would oneday have to obey them stuck in Christophe's throat. He could not, no, hecould never bear it, and lose his own self-respect by submitting to theirhumiliations and injustice. . . . He had no idea of the moral strength in someof them, or of all that they might be suffering themselves: lost illusions, so much strength and youth and honor and faith, and passionate desire forsacrifice, turned to ill account and spoiled, --the pointlessness of acareer, which, if it is only a career, if it has not sacrifice as its end, is only a grim activity, an inept display, a ritual which is recitedwithout belief in the words that are said. . . . 

His country was not enough for Christophe. He felt in himself that unknownforce which wakes suddenly, irresistibly, in certain species of birds, atdefinite times, like the ebb and flow of the tides:--the instinct of thegreat migrations. As he read the volumes of Herder and Fichte which oldSchulz had left him, he found souls like his own, not "_sons of the soil_"slavishly bound to the globe, but "_spirits, sons of the sun_" turninginvincibly to the light wheresoever it comes. 

Whither should he go? He did not know. But instinctively his eyes turned tothe Latin South. And first to France--France, the eternal refuge of Germanyin distress. How often had German thought turned to France, without ceasingto slander her! Even since seventy, what an attraction emanated from thetown which had been shattered and smoking under the German guns! The mostrevolutionary and the most reactionary forms of thought and art had foundalternately and sometimes at once example and inspiration there. Like somany other great German musicians in distress, Christophe turned towardsParis. . . . What did he know of the French? Two women's faces and some chancereading. That was enough for him to imagine a country of light, of gaiety, of courage, and even of a little Gallic boasting, which does not sort illwith the bold youth of the heart. He believed it all, because he needed tobelieve it all, because, with all his soul, he would have liked it to beso. 

 * * * * *

He made up his mind to go. But he could not go because of his mother. 

Louisa was growing old. She adored her son, who was her only joy, and shewas all that he most loved on earth. And yet they were always hurting eachother. She hardly understood Christophe, and did not try to understand him. She was only concerned to love him. She had a narrow, timid, dull mind, anda fine heart; an immense need of loving and being loved in which there wassomething touching and sad. She respected her son because he seemed to herto be very learned; but she did all she could to stifle his genius. Shethought he would stay all his life with her in their little town. Theyhad lived together for years, and she could not imagine that he would notalways be the same. She was happy: why should he not be happy, too? All herdreams for him soared no higher than seeing him married to some prosperouscitizen of the town, hearing him play the organ at church on Sundays, andnever having him leave her. She regarded her son as though he were stilltwelve years old. She would have liked him never to be more than that. Innocently she inflicted torture on the unhappy man who was suffocated inthat narrow world. 

And yet there was much truth--moral greatness--in that unconsciousphilosophy of the mother, who could not understand ambition and saw all thehappiness of life in the family affections and the accomplishment of humbleduties. She was a creature who wished to love and only to love. Soonerrenounce life, reason, logic, the material world, everything, ratherthan love! And that love was infinite, suppliant, exacting: it gaveeverything--it wished to be given everything; it renounced life for love, and it desired that renunciation from others, from the beloved. What apower is the love of a simple soul! It makes it find at once what thegroping reasoning of an uncertain genius like Tolstoy, or the too refinedart of a dying civilization, discovers after a lifetime--ages--of bitterstruggle and exhausting effort! But the imperious world which was seethingin Christophe had very different laws and demanded another wisdom. 

For a long time he had been wanting to announce his determination to hismother. But he was fearful of the grief it would bring to her, and justas he was about to speak he would lose his courage and put it off. Two orthree times he did timidly allude to his departure, but Louisa did not takehim seriously:--perhaps she preferred not to take him seriously, so as topersuade him that he was talking in jest. Then he dared not go on; but hewould remain gloomy and thoughtful, or it was apparent that he had somesecret burden upon his soul. And the poor woman, who had an intuition as tothe nature of that secret, tried fearfully to delay the confession of it. Sometimes in the evening, when they were sitting, silent, in the light ofthe lamp, she would suddenly feel that he was going to speak, and then interror she would begin to talk, very quickly, at random, about nothing inparticular. She hardly knew what she was saying, but at all costs she mustkeep him from speaking. Generally her instinct made her find the best meansof imposing silence on him: she would complain about her health, aboutthe swelling of her hands and feet, and the cramps in her legs. She wouldexaggerate her sickness: call herself an old, useless, bed-ridden woman. Hewas not deceived by her simple tricks. He would look at her sadly in dumbreproach, and after a moment he would get up, saying that he was tired, andgo to bed. 

But all her devices could not save Louisa for long. One evening, when sheresorted to them once more, Christophe gathered his courage and put hishand on his mother's and said:

"No, mother. I have something to say to you. " Louisa was horrified, but shetried to smile and say chokingly:

"What is it, my dear?"

Christophe stammered out his intention of going. She tried to take it as ajoke and to turn the conversation as usual, but he was not to be put off, and went on so deliberately and so seriously that there was no possibilityof doubt. Then she said nothing. Her pulse stopped, and she sat there dumb, frozen, looking at him with terror in her eyes. Such sorrow showed in hereyes as he spoke that he too stopped, and they sat, both speechless. Whenat last she was able to recover her breath, she said--(her lipstrembled)--:

"It is impossible. . . . It is impossible. . . . "

Two large tears trickled down her cheeks. He turned his head away indespair and hid his face in his hands. They wept. After some time he wentto his room and shut himself up until the morrow. They made no reference towhat had happened, and as he did not speak of it again she tried to pretendthat he had abandoned the project. But she lived on tenterhooks. 

There came a time when he could hold himself in no longer. He had to speakeven if it broke his heart: he was suffering too much. The egoism of hissorrow mastered the idea of the suffering he would bring to her. He spoke. He went through with it, never looking at his mother, for fear of being toogreatly moved. He fixed the day for his departure so as to avoid a seconddiscussion--(he did not know if he could again win the sad courage that wasin him that day). Louisa cried:

"No, no! Stop, stop!. . . "

He set his teeth and went on implacably. When he had finished (she wassobbing) he took her hands and tried to make her understand how it wasabsolutely necessary for his art and his life for him to go away for sometime. She refused to listen. She wept and said:

"No, no!. . . I will not. . . . "

After trying to reason with her, in vain, he left her, thinking that thenight would bring about a change in her ideas. But when they met next dayat breakfast he began once more to talk of his plans. She dropped the pieceof bread she was raising to her lips and said sorrowfully andreproachfully:

"Why do you want to torture me?"

He was touched, but he said:

"Dear mother, I must. "

"No, no!" she replied. "You must not. . . . You want to hurt me. . . . It is amadness. . . . "

They tried to convince each other, but they did not listen to each other. He saw that argument was wasted; it would only make her suffer more, and hebegan ostentatiously to prepare for his departure. 

When she saw that no entreaty would stop him, Louisa relapsed into a gloomystupor. She spent her days locked up in her room and without a light, whenevening came. She did not speak or eat. At night he could hear her weeping. He was racked by it. He could have cried out in his grief, as he lay allnight twisting and turning in his bed, sleeplessly, a prey to his remorse. He loved her so. Why must he make her suffer?. . . Alas! She would not be theonly one: he saw that clearly. . . . Why had destiny given him the desire andstrength of a mission which must make those whom he loved suffer?

"Ah!" he thought. "If I were free, if I were not drawn on by the cruel needof being what I must be, or else of dying in shame and disgust with myself, how happy would I make you--you whom I love! Let me live first; do, fight, suffer, and then I will come hack to you and love you more than ever. How Iwould like only to love, love, love!. . . "

He never could have been strong enough to resist the perpetual reproachof the grief-stricken soul had that reproach been strong enough to remainsilent. But Louisa, who was weak and rather talkative, could not keep thesorrow that was stifling her to herself. She told her neighbors. She toldher two other sons. They could not miss such a fine opportunity of puttingChristophe in the wrong. Rodolphe especially, who had never ceased to bejealous of his elder brother, although there was little enough reason forit at the time--Rodolphe, who was cut to the quick by the least praiseof Christophe, and was secretly afraid of his future success, though henever dared admit so base a thought--(for he was clever enough to feelhis brother's force, and to be afraid that others would feel it, too), Rodolphe was only too happy to crush Christophe beneath the weight of hissuperiority. He had never worried much about his mother, though he knew herstraitened circumstances: although he was well able to afford to help her, he left it all to Christophe. But when he heard of Christophe's intentionhe discovered at once hidden treasures of affection. He was furious athis proposing to leave his mother and called it monstrous egoism. He wasimpudent enough to tell Christophe so. He lectured him loftily like a childwho deserves smacking: he told him stiffly of his duty towards his motherand of all that she had sacrificed for him. Christophe almost burst withrage. He kicked Rodolphe out and called him a rascal and a hypocrite. Rodolphe avenged himself by feeding his mother's indignation. Excited byhim, Louisa began to persuade herself that Christophe was behaving like abad son. She tried to declare that he had mo right to go, and she was onlytoo willing to believe it. Instead of using only her tears, which were herstrongest weapon, she reproached Christophe bitterly and unjustly, anddisgusted him. They said cruel things to each other: the result was thatChristophe, who, till then, had been hesitating, only thought of hasteninghis preparations for his departure. He knew that the charitable neighborswere commiserating his mother and that in the opinion of the neighborhoodshe was regarded as a victim and himself as a monster. He set his teeth andwould not go back on his resolve. 

The days passed. Christophe and Louisa hardly spoke to each other. Insteadof enjoying to the last drop their last days together, these two who lovedeach other wasted the time that was left--as too often happens--in one ofthose sterile fits of sullenness in which so many affections are swallowedup. They only met at meals, when they sat opposite each other, not lookingat each other, never speaking, forcing themselves to eat a few mouthfuls, not so much for the sake of eating as for the sake of appearances. Christophe would contrive to mumble a few words, but Louisa would notreply; and when she tried to talk he would be silent. This state of thingswas intolerable to both of them, and the longer it went on the moredifficult it became to break it. Were they going to part like that? Louisaadmitted that she had been unjust and awkward, but she was suffering toomuch to know how to win back her son's love, which she thought she hadlost, and at all costs to prevent his departure, the idea of which sherefused to face. Christophe stole glances at his mother's pale, swollenface and he was torn by remorse; but he had made up his mind to go, andknowing that he was going forever out of her life, he wished cowardly to begone to escape his remorse. 

His departure was fixed for the next day but one. One of their sad mealshad just come to an end. When they finished their supper, during which theyhad not spoken a word, Christophe withdrew to his room; and sitting at hisdesk, with his head in his hands--he was incapable of working--he becamelost in thought. The night was drawing late: it was nearly one o'clock inthe morning. Suddenly he heard a noise, a chair upset in the next room. Thedoor opened and his mother appeared in her nightgown, barefooted, and threwher arms round his neck and sobbed. She was feverish. She kissed her sonand moaned through her despairing sobs:

"Don't go! Don't go! I implore you! I implore you! My dear, don't go!. . . Ishall die. . . . I can't, I can't bear it!. . . "

He was alarmed and upset. He kissed her and said: "Dear mother, calmyourself, please, please!"

But she went on:

"I can't bear it . . . I have only you. If you go, what will become of me? Ishall die if you go. I don't want to die away from you. I don't want to diealone. Wait until I am dead!. . . "

Her words rent his heart. He did not know what to say to console her. Whatarguments could hold good against such an outpouring of love and sorrow!He took her on his knees and tried to calm her with kisses and littleaffectionate words. The old woman gradually became silent and wept softly. When she was a little comforted, he said:

"Go to bed. You will catch cold. "

She repeated: "Don't go!"

He said in a low voice: "I will not go. "

She trembled and took his hand. "Truly?" she said. "Truly?"

He turned his head away sadly. "To-morrow, " he answered, "I will tell youto-morrow. . . . Leave me now, please!. . . "

She got up meekly and went back to her room. Next morning she was ashamedof her despairing outburst which had come upon her like a madness in themiddle of the night, and she was fearful of what her son would say to her. She waited for him, sitting in a corner of the room. She had taken up someknitting for occupation, but her hands refused to hold it. She let it fall. Christophe entered. They greeted each other in a whisper, without lookingat each other. He was gloomy, and went and stood by the window, with hisback to his mother, and he stayed without speaking. There was a greatstruggle in him. He knew the result of it already, and was trying to delaythe issue. Louisa dared not speak a word to him and provoke the answerwhich she expected and feared. She forced herself to take up her knittingagain, but she could not see what she was doing, and she dropped herstitches. Outside it was raining. After a long silence Christophe came toher. She did not stir, but her heart was beating. Christophe stood stilland looked at her, then, suddenly, he went down on his knees and hid hisface in his mother's dress, and without saying a word, he wept. Then sheunderstood that he was going to stay, and her heart was filled with amortal agony of joy--but at once she was seized by remorse, for she feltall that her son was sacrificing for her, and she began to suffer all thatChristophe had suffered when it was she whom he sacrificed. She bent overhim and covered his brow and his hair with kisses. In silence their tearsand their sorrow mingled. At last he raised his head, and Louisa took hisface in her hands and looked into his eyes. She would have liked to say tohim:

"Go!"

But she could not. 

He would have liked to say to her:

"I am glad to stay. "

But he could not. 

The situation was hopeless; neither of them could alter it. She sighed inher sorrow and love:

"Ah! if we could all be born and all die together!" Her simple way filledhim with tenderness; he dried his tears and tried to smile and said:

"We shall all die together. "

She insisted:

"Truly you will not go?"

He got up:

"I have said so. Don't let us talk about it. There is nothing more to besaid. "

Christophe kept his word; he never talked of going again, but he could nothelp thinking of it. He stayed, but he made his mother pay dearly for hissacrifice by his sadness and bad temper. And Louisa tactlessly--much moretactlessly than she knew, never failing to do what she ought not to havedone--Louisa, who knew only too well the reason of his grief, insisted onhis telling her what it was. She worried him with her affection, uneasy, vexing, argumentative, reminding him every moment that they were verydifferent from each other--and that he was trying to forget. How oftenhe had tried to open his heart to her! But just as he was about to speakthe Great Wall of China would rise between them, and he would keep hissecrets buried in himself. She would guess, but she never dared invite hisconfidence, or else she could not. When she tried she would succeed only inflinging back in him those secrets which weighed so sorely on him and whichhe was so longing to tell. 

A thousand little things, harmless tricks, cut her off from him andirritated Christophe. The good old creature was doting. She had to talkabout the local gossip, and she had that nurse's tenderness which willrecall all the silly little things of the earliest years, and everythingthat is associated with the cradle. We have such difficulty in issuingfrom it and growing into men and women! And Juliet's nurse must foreverbe laying before us our duty-swaddling clothes, commonplace thoughts, the whole unhappy period in which the growing soul struggles against theoppression of vile matter or stifling surroundings!

And with it all she had little outbursts of touching tenderness--as thoughto a little child--which used to move him greatly and he would surrender tothem--like a little child. 

The worst of all to bear was living from morning to night as they did, together, always together, isolated from the rest of the world. When twopeople suffer and cannot help each other's suffering, exasperation isfatal; each in the end holds the other responsible for the suffering; andeach in the end believes it. It were better to be alone; alone insuffering. 

It was a daily torment for both of them. They would never have broken freeif chance had not come to break the cruel indecision, against which theywere struggling, in a way that seemed unfortunate--but it was reallyfortunate. 

It was a Sunday in October. Four o'clock in the afternoon. The weather wasbrilliant. Christophe had stayed in his room all day, chewing the cud ofmelancholy. 

He could bear it no longer; he wanted desperately to go out, to walk, toexpend his energy, to tire himself out, so as to stop thinking. 

Relations with his mother had been strained since the day before. He wasjust going out without saying good-bye to her; but on the stairs he thoughthow it would hurt her the whole evening when she was left alone. He wentback, making an excuse of having left something in his room. The door ofhis mother's room was ajar. He put his head in through the aperture. Hewatched his mother for a, few moments. . . . (What a place those two secondswere to fill in his life ever after!). . . 

Louisa had just come in from vespers. She was sitting in her favoriteplace, the recess of the window. The wall of the house opposite, dirtywhite and cracked, obstructed the view, but from the corner where she satshe could see to the right through the yards of the next houses a littlepatch of lawn the size of a pocket-handkerchief. On the window-sill apot of convolvulus climbed along its threads and over this frail ladderstretched its tendrils which were caressed by a ray of sunlight. Louisa wassitting in a low chair bending over her great Bible which was open on herlap, but she was not reading. Her hands were laid flat on the book--herhands with their swollen veins, worker's nails, square and a littlebent--and she was devouring with loving eyes the little plant and the patchof sky she could see through it. A sunbeam, basking on the green goldleaves, lit up her tired face, with its rather blotchy complexion, herwhite, soft, and rather thick hair, and her lips, parted in a smile. Shewas enjoying her hour of rest. It was the best moment of the week to her. She made use of it to sink into that state so sweet to those who suffer, when thoughts dwell on nothing, and in torpor nothing speaks save the heartand that is half asleep. 

"Mother, " he said, "I want to go out. I am going by Buir. I shall be ratherlate. "

Louisa, who was dozing off, trembled a little. Then she turned her headtowards him and looked at him with her calm, kind eyes. 

"Yes, my dear, go, " she said. "You are right; make use of the fineweather. "

She smiled at him. He smiled at her. They looked at each other for amoment, then they said good-night affectionately, nodding and smiling withthe eyes. 

He closed the door softly. She slipped back into her reverie, which herson's smile had lit up with a bright ray of light like the sunbeam on thepale leaves of the convolvulus. 

So he left her--forever. 

 * * * * *

An October evening. A pale watery sun. The drowsy country is sinking tosleep. Little village bells are slowly ringing in the silence of thefields. Columns of smoke rise slowly in the midst of the plowed fields. Afine mist hovers in the distance. The white fogs are awaiting the coming ofthe night to rise. . . . A dog with his nose to the ground was running incircles in a field of beet. Great flocks of crows whirled against the graysky. 

Christophe went on dreaming, having no fixed object, but yet instinctivelyhe was walking in a definite direction. For several weeks his walks roundthe town had gravitated whether he liked it or not towards another villagewhere he was sure to meet a pretty girl who attracted him. It was only anattraction, but it was very vivid and rather disturbing. Christophe couldhardly do without loving some one; and his heart was rarely left empty;it always had some lovely image for its idol. Generally it did not matterwhether the idol knew of his love; his need was to love, the fire mustnever be allowed to go out; there must never be darkness in his heart. 

The object of this new flame was the daughter of a peasant whom he had met, as Eliézer met Rebecca, by a well; but she did not give him to drink; shethrew water in his face. She was kneeling by the edge of a stream in ahollow in the bank between two willows, the roots of which made a sort ofnest about her; she was washing linen vigorously; and her tongue was notless active than her arms; she was talking and laughing loudly with othergirls of the village who were washing opposite her or the other side of thestream. Christophe was lying in the grass a few yards away, and, with hischin resting in his hands, he watched them. They were not put out by it;they went on chattering in a style which sometimes did not lack bluntness. He hardly listened; he heard only the sound of their merry voices, minglingwith the noise of their washing pots, and with the distant lowing of thecows in the meadows, and he was dreaming, never taking his eyes off thebeautiful washerwoman. A bright young face would make him glad for a wholeday. It was not long before the girls made out which of them he was lookingat; and they made caustic remarks to each other; the girl he preferred wasnot the least cutting in the observations she threw at him. As he did notbudge, she got up, took a bundle of linen washed and wrung, and began tolay it out on the bushes near him so as to have an excuse for looking athim. As she passed him she continued to splash him with her wet clothesand she looked at him boldly and laughed. She was thin and strong: she hada fine chin, a little underhung, a short nose, arching eyebrows, deep-setblue eyes, bold, bright and hard, a pretty mouth with thick lips, pouting alittle like those of a Greek maid, a mass of fair hair turned up in a knoton her head, and a full color. She carried her head very erect, tittered atevery word she said and even when she said nothing, and walked like a man, swinging her sunburned arms. She went on laying out hey linen while shelooked at Christophe with a provoking smile--waiting for him to speak. Christophe stared at her too; but he had no desire to talk to her. At lastshe burst out laughing to his face and turned back towards her companions. He stayed lying where he was until evening fell and he saw her go with herbundle on her back and her bare arms crossed, her back bent under her load, still talking and laughing. 

He saw her again a few days later at the town market among heaps of carrotsand tomatoes and cucumbers and cabbages. He lounged about watching thecrowd of women, selling, who were standing in a line by their basketslike slaves for sale. The police official went up to each of them withhis satchel and roll of tickets, receiving a piece of money and giving apaper. The coffee seller went from row to row with a basket full of littlecoffee pots. And an old nun, plump and jovial, went round the market withtwo large baskets on her arms and without any sort of humility beggedvegetables, or talked of the good God. The women shouted: the old scaleswith their green painted pans jingled and clanked with the noise of theirchains; the big dogs harnessed to the little carts barked loudly, proud oftheir importance. In the midst of the rabble Christophe saw Rebecca. --Herreal name was Lorchen (Eleanor). --On her fair hair she had placed a largecabbage leaf, green and white, which made a dainty lace cap for her. Shewas sitting on a basket by a heap of golden onions, little pink turnips, haricot beans, and ruddy apples, and she was munching her own apples oneafter another without trying to sell them. She never stopped eating. Fromtime to time she would dry her chin and wipe it with her apron, brush backher hair with her arm, rub her cheek against her shoulder, or her nose withthe back of her hand. Or, with her hands on her knees, she would go on andon throwing a handful of shelled peas from one to the other. And she wouldlook to right and left idly and indifferently. But she missed nothing ofwhat was going on about her. And without seeming to do so she marked everyglance cast in her direction. She saw Christophe. As she talked to hercustomers she had a way of raising her eyebrows and looking at her admirerover their heads. She was as dignified and serious as a Pope; but inwardlyshe was laughing at Christophe. And he deserved it; he stood there a fewyards away devouring her with his eyes, then he went away without speakingto her. He had not the least desire to do so. 

He came back more than once to prowl round the market and the village whereshe lived. She would be about the yard of the farm; he would stop on theroad to look at her. He did not admit that he came to see her, and indeedhe did so almost unconsciously. When, as often happened, he was absorbed bythe composition of some work he would be rather like a somnambulist: whilehis conscious soul was following its musical ideas the rest of him would bedelivered up to the other unconscious soul which is forever watching forthe smallest distraction of the mind to take the freedom of the fields. Hewas often bewildered by the buzzing of his musical ideas when he was faceto face with her; and he would go on dreaming as he watched her. He couldnot have said that he loved her; he did not even think of that; it gave himpleasure to see her, nothing more. He did not take stock of the desirewhich was always bringing him back to her. 

His insistence was remarked. The people at the farm joked about it, forthey had discovered who Christophe was. But they left him in peace; for hewas quite harmless. He looked silly enough in truth; but he never botheredabout it. 

 * * * * *

There was a holiday in the village. Little boys were crushing crackersbetween stones and shouting "God save the Emperor!" ("_Kaiser lebe!Hoch!_"). A cow shut up in the barn and the men drinking at the inn wereto be heard. Kites with long tails like comets dipped and swung in the airabove the fields. The fowls were scratching frantically in the straw andthe golden dung-heap; the wind blew out their feathers like the skirts ofan old lady. A pink pig was sleeping voluptuously on his side in the sun. 

Christophe made his way towards the red roof of the inn of the _ThreeKings_ above which floated a little flag. Strings of onions hung by thedoor, and the windows were decorated with red and yellow flowers. He wentinto the saloon, filled with tobacco smoke, where yellowing chromos hung onthe walls and in the place of honor a colored portrait of the Emperor-Kingsurrounded with a wreath of oak leaves. People were dancing. Christophe wassure his charmer would be there. He sat in a corner of the room from whichhe could watch the movement of the dancers undisturbed. But in spite of allthis care to pass unnoticed Lorchen spied him out in his corner. While shewaltzed indefatigably she threw quick glances at him over her partner'sshoulder to make sure that he was still looking at her; and it amused herto excite him; she coquetted with the young men of the village, laughingthe while with her wide mouth. She talked a great deal and said sillythings and was not very different from the girls of the polite world whothink they must laugh and move about and play to the gallery when anybodylooks at them, instead of keeping their foolishness to themselves. But theyare not so very foolish either; for they know quite well that the galleryonly looks at them and does not listen to what they say. --With his elbowson the table and his chin in his hands Christophe watched the girl's trickswith burning, furious eyes; his mind was free enough not to be taken in byher wiles, but he was not enough himself not to be led on by them; and hegrowled with rage and he laughed in silence and shrugged his shoulders infalling into the snare. 

Not only the girl was watching him; Lorchen's father also had his eyeson him. Thick-set and short, bald-headed--a big head with a shortnose--sunburned skull with a fringe of hair that had been fair and hung inthick curls like Dürer's St. John, clean-shaven, expressionless face, witha long pipe in the corner of his mouth, he was talking very deliberatelyto some other peasants while all the time he was watching Christophe'spantomime out of the corner of his eye; and he laughed softly. After amoment he coughed and a malicious light shone in his little gray eyes andhe came and sat at Christophe's table. Christophe was annoyed and turnedand scowled at him; he met the cunning look of the old man, who addressedChristophe familiarly without taking his pipe from his lips. Christopheknew him; he knew him for a common old man; but his weakness for hisdaughter made him indulgent towards the father and even gave him a queerpleasure in being with him; the old rascal saw that. After talking aboutrain and fine weather and some chaffing reference to the pretty girls inthe room, and a remark on Christophe's not dancing he concluded thatChristophe was right not to put himself out and that it was much better tosit at table with a mug in his hand; without ceremony he invited himself tohave a drink. While he drank the old man went on talking deliberately asalways. He spoke about his affairs, the difficulty of gaining a livelihood, the bad weather and high prices. Christophe hardly listened and onlyreplied with an occasional grunt; he was not interested; he was looking atLorchen. Christophe wondered what had procured him the honor of the oldman's company and confidences. At last he understood. When the old man hadexhausted his complaints he passed on to another chapter; he praised thequality of his produce, his vegetables, his fowls, his eggs, his milk, andsuddenly he asked if Christophe could not procure him the custom of thePalace. Christophe started:

"How the devil did he know?. . . He knew him then?"

"Oh, yes, " said the old man. "Everything is known . . . " He did not add:

". . . When you take the trouble to make enquiries. "

But Christophe added it for him. He took a wicked pleasure in telling himthat although everything was known, he was no doubt unaware that he hadjust quarreled with the Court and that if he had ever been able to flatterhimself on having some credit with the servants' quarters and butchers ofthe Palace--(which he doubted strongly)--that credit at present was deadand buried. The old man's lips twitched imperceptibly. However, he wasnot put out and after a moment he asked if Christophe could not at leastrecommend him to such and such a family. And he mentioned all those withwhom Christophe had had dealings; for he had informed himself of them atthe market, and there was no danger of his forgetting any detail that mightbe useful to him. Christophe would have been furious at such spying uponhim had he not rather wanted to laugh at the thought that the old man wouldbe robbed in spite of all his cunning (for he had no doubt of the value ofthe recommendation he was asking--a recommendation more likely to make himlose his customers than to procure him fresh ones). So he let him emptyall his bag of clumsy tricks and answered neither "Yes" nor "No. " But thepeasant persisted and finally he came down to Christophe and Louisa whom hehad kept for the end, and expressed his keen desire to provide them withmilk, butter and cream. He added that as Christophe was a musician nothingwas so good for the voice as a fresh egg swallowed raw morning and evening;and he tried hard to make him let him provide him with these, warm from thehen. The idea of the old peasant taking him for a singer made Christopheroar with laughter. The peasant took advantage of that to order anotherbottle. And then having got all he could out of Christophe for the timebeing he went away without further ceremony. 

Night had fallen. The dancing had become more and more excited. Lorchen hadceased to pay any attention to Christophe; she was too busy turning thehead of a young lout of the village, the son of a rich farmer, for whom allthe girls were competing. Christophe was interested by the struggle; theyoung women smiled at each other and would have been only too pleased toscratch each other. Christophe forgot himself and prayed for the triumphof Lorchen. But when her triumph was won he felt a little downcast. He wasenraged by it. He did not love Lorchen; he did not want to be loved by her;it was natural that she should love anybody she liked. --No doubt. But itwas not pleasant to receive so little sympathy himself when he had so muchneed of giving and receiving. Here, as in the town, he was alone. All thesepeople were only interested in him while they could make use of him andthen laugh at him. He sighed, smiled as he looked at Lorchen, whom her joyin the discomfiture of her rivals had made ten times prettier than ever, and got ready to go. It was nearly nine. He had fully two miles to go tothe town. 

He got up from the table when the door opened and a handful of soldiersburst in. Their entry dashed the gaiety of the place. The people began towhisper. A few couples stopped dancing to look uneasily at the newarrivals. The peasants standing near the door deliberately turned theirbacks on them and began to talk among themselves; but without seeming to doso they presently contrived to leave room for them to pass. For some timepast the whole neighborhood had been at loggerheads with the garrisons ofthe fortresses round it. The soldiers were bored to death and wreaked theirvengeance on the peasants. They made coarse fun of them, maltreated them, and used the women as though they were in a conquered country. The weekbefore some of them, full of wine, had disturbed a feast at a neighboringvillage and had half killed a farmer. Christophe, who knew these things, shared the state of mind of the peasant, and he sat down again and waitedto see what would happen. 

The soldiers were not worried by the ill-will with which their entry wasreceived, and went noisily and sat down at the full tables, jostling thepeople away from them to make room; it was the affair of a moment. Most ofthe people, went away grumbling. An old man sitting at the end of a benchdid not move quickly enough; they lifted the bench and the old man toppledover amid roars of laughter. Christophe felt the blood rushing to his head;he got up indignantly; but, as he was on the point of interfering, he sawthe old man painfully pick himself up and instead of complaining humblycrave pardon. Two of the soldiers came to Christophe's table; he watchedthem come and clenched his fists. But he did not have to defend himself. They were two tall, strong, good-humored louts, who had followed sheepishlyone or two daredevils and were trying to imitate them. They wereintimidated by Christophe's defiant manner, and when he said curtly: "Thisplace is taken, " they hastily begged his pardon and withdrew to their endof the bench so as not to disturb him. There had been a masterfulinflection in his voice; their natural servility came to the fore. They sawthat Christophe was not a peasant. 

Christophe was a little mollified by their submission, and was able towatch things more coolly. It was not difficult to see that the gang wereled by a non-commissioned officer--a little bull-dog of a man with hardeyes--with a rascally, hypocritical and wicked face; he was one of theheroes of the affray of the Sunday before. He was sitting at the table nextto Christophe. He was drunk already and stared at the people and threwinsulting sarcasms at them which they pretended not to hear. He attackedespecially the couples dancing, describing their physical advantages ordefects with a coarseness of expression which made his companions laugh. The girls blushed and tears came to their eyes; the young men ground theirteeth and raged in silence. Their tormentor's eyes wandered slowly roundthe room, sparing nobody; Christophe saw them moving towards himself. Heseized his mug, and clenched his fist on the table and waited, determinedto throw the liquor at his head on the first insult. He said to himself:

"I am mad. It would be better to go away. They will slit me up; and then ifI escape they will put me in prison; the game is not worth the candle. I'dbetter go before he provokes me. "

But his pride would not let him, he would not seem to be running away fromsuch brutes as these. The officer's cunning brutal stare was fixed on him. Christophe stiffened and glared at him angrily. The officer looked at himfor a moment; Christophe's face irritated him; he nudged his neighbor andpointed out the young man with a snigger; and he opened his lips to insulthim. Christophe gathered himself together and was just about to fling hismug at him. . . . Once more chance saved him. Just as the drunken man wasabout to speak an awkward couple of dancers bumped into him and made himdrop his glass. He turned furiously and let loose a flood of insults. Hisattention was distracted; he forgot Christophe. Christophe waited for a fewminutes longer; then seeing that his enemy had no thought of going on withhis remarks he got up, slowly took his hat and walked leisurely towards thedoor. He did not take his eyes off the bench where the other was sitting, just to let him feel that he was not giving in to him. But the officer hadforgotten him altogether; no one took any notice of him. 

He was just turning the handle of the door; in a few seconds he would havebeen outside. But it was ordered that he should not leave so soon. An angrymurmur rose at the end of the room. When the soldiers had drunk they haddecided to dance. And as all the girls had their cavaliers they drove awaytheir partners, who submitted to it. But Lorchen was not going to put upwith that. It was not for nothing that she had her bold eyes and her firmchin which so charmed Christophe. She was waltzing like a mad thing whenthe officer who had fixed his choice upon her came and pulled her partneraway from her. She stamped with her foot, screamed, and pushed the soldieraway, declaring that she would never dance with such a boor. He pursuedher. He dispersed with his fists the people behind whom she was trying tohide. At last she took refuge behind a table; and then protected from himfor a moment she took breath to scream abuse at him; she saw that all herresistance would be useless and she stamped with rage and groped for themost violent words to fling at him and compared his face to that of variousanimals of the farm-yard. He leaned towards her over the table, smiledwickedly, and his eyes glittered with rage. Suddenly he pounced and jumpedover the table. He caught hold of her. She struggled with feet and fistslike the cow-woman she was. He was not too steady on his legs and almostlost his balance. In his fury he flung her against the wall and slapped herface. He had no time to do it again; some one had jumped on his back, andwas cuffing him and kicking him back into the crowd. It was Christophe whohad flung himself on him, overturning tables and people without stopping tothink of what he was doing. Mad with rage, the officer turned and drew hissaber. Before he could make use of it Christophe felled him with a stool. The whole thing had been So sudden that none of the spectators had time tothink of interfering. The other soldiers ran to Christophe drawing theirsabers. The peasants flung themselves at them. The uproar became general. Mugs flew across the room; the tables were overturned. The peasants wokeup; they had old scores to pay off. The men rolled about on the ground andbit each other savagely. Lorchen's partner, a stolid farm-hand, had caughthold of the head of the soldier who had just insulted him and was bangingit furiously against the wall. Lorchen, armed with a cudgel, was strikingout blindly. The other girls ran away screaming, except for a few wantonswho joined in heartily. One of them--a fat little fair girl--seeing agigantic soldier--the same who had sat at Christophe's table--crushing inthe chest of his prostrate adversary with his boot, ran to the fire, cameback, dragged the brute's head backwards and flung a handful of burningashes into his eyes. The man bellowed. The girl gloated, abused thedisarmed enemy, whom the peasants now thwacked at their ease. At last thesoldiers finding themselves on the losing side rushed away leaving two oftheir number on the floor. The fight went on in the village street. Theyburst into the houses crying murder, and trying to smash everything. Thepeasants followed them with forks, and set their savage dogs on them. Athird soldier fell with his belly cleft by a fork. The others had to flyand were hunted out of the village, and from a distance they shouted asthey ran across the fields that they would fetch their comrades and comeback immediately. 

The peasants, left masters of the field, returned to the inn; they wereexultant; it was a revenge for all the outrages they had suffered for solong. They had as yet no thought of the consequences of the affray. Theyall talked at once and boasted of their prowess. They fraternized withChristophe, who was delighted to feel in touch with them. Lorchen came andtook his hand and held it for a moment in her rough paw while she giggledat him. She did not think him ridiculous for the moment. 

They looked to the wounded. Among the villagers there were only a few teethknocked out, a few ribs broken and a few slight bruises and scars. But itwas very different with the soldiers. They were seriously injured: thegiant whose eyes had been burned had had his shoulder half cut off with ahatchet; the man whose belly had been pierced was dying; and there was theofficer who had been knocked down by Christophe. They were laid out by thehearth. The officer, who was the least injured of the three, had justopened his eyes. He took a long look at the ring of peasants leaning overhim, a look filled with hatred. Hardly had he regained consciousness ofwhat had happened than he began to abuse them. He swore that he would beavenged and would settle their hash, the whole lot of them; he choked withrage; it was palpable that if he could he would exterminate them. Theytried to laugh, but their laughter was forced. A young peasant shouted tothe wounded man:

"Hold your gab or I'll kill you. "

The officer tried to get up, and he glared at the man who had just spokento him with blood-shot eyes:

"Swine!" he said. "Kill me! They'll cut your heads off. "

He went on shouting. The man who had been ripped up screamed like ableeding pig. The third was stiff and still like a dead man. A crushingterror came over the peasants. Lorchen and some women carried the woundedmen to another room. The shouts of the officer and the screams of the dyingman died away. The peasants were silent; they stood fixed in the circle asthough the three bodies were still lying at their feet; they dared notbudge and looked at each other in panic. At last Lorchen's father said:

"You have done a fine piece of work!"

There was an agonized murmuring; their throats were dry. Then they beganall to talk at once. At first they whispered as though they were afraid ofeavesdroppers, but soon they raised their voices and became more vehement;they accused each other; they blamed each other for the blows they hadstruck. The dispute became acrid; they seemed to be on the point of goingfor each other. Lorchen's father brought them to unanimity. With his armsfolded he turned towards Christophe and jerked his chin at him:

"And, " he said, "what business had this fellow here?"

The wrath of the rabble was turned on Christophe:

"True! True!" they cried. "He began it! But for him nothing would havehappened. "

Christophe was amazed. He tried to reply:

"You know perfectly that what I did was for you, not for myself. "

But they replied furiously:

"Aren't we capable of defending ourselves? Do you think we need a gentlemanfrom the town to tell us what we should do? Who asked your advice? Andbesides who asked you to come? Couldn't you stay at home?"

Christophe shrugged his shoulders and turned towards the door. ButLorchen's father barred the way, screaming:

"That's it! That's it!" he shouted. "He would like to cut away now aftergetting us all into a scrape. He shan't go!"

The peasants roared:

"He shan't go! He's the cause of it all. He shall pay for it all!"

They surrounded him and shook their fists at him. Christophe saw the circleof threatening faces closing in upon him; fear had infuriated them. He saidnothing, made a face of disgust, threw his hat on the table, went and satat the end of the room, and turned his back on them. 

But Lorchen was angry and flung herself at the peasants. Her pretty facewas red and scowling with rage. She pushed back the people who werecrowding round Christophe:

"Cowards! Brute beasts!" she cried. "Aren't you ashamed? You want topretend that he brought it all on you! As if they did not see you all! Asif there was a single one of you who had not hit out his hand as hecould!. . . If there had been a man who had stayed with his arms folded whilethe others were fighting I would spit in his face and call him: Coward!Coward!. . . "

The peasants, surprised by this unexpected outburst, stayed for a moment insilence; they began to shout again:

"He began it! Nothing would have happened but for him. "

In vain did Lorchen's father make signs to his daughter. She went on:

"Yes. He did begin it! That is nothing for you to boast about. But for himyou would have let them insult you. You would have let them insult you. Youcowards! You funks!"

She abused her partner:

"And you, you said nothing. Your heart was in your mouth; you held out yourbottom to be kicked. You would have thanked them for it! Aren't youashamed?. . . Aren't you all ashamed? You are not men! You're as brave assheep with your noses to the ground all the time! He had to give you anexample!--And now you want to make him bear everything?. . . Well, I tellyou, that shan't happen! He fought for us. Either you save him or you'llsuffer along with him. I give you my word for it!"

Lorchen's father caught her arm. He was beside himself and shouted:

"Shut up! Shut up!. . . Will you shut up, you bitch!"

But she thrust him away and went on again. The peasants yelled. She shoutedlouder than they in a shrill, piercing scream:

"What have you to say to it all? Do you think I did not see you just nowkicking the man who is lying half dead in the next room? And you, show meyour hands!. . . There's blood on them. Do you think I did not see you withyour knife? I shall tell everything I saw if you do the least thing againsthim. I will have you all condemned. "

The infuriated peasants thrust their faces into Lorchen's and bawled ather. One of them made as though to box her ears, but Lorchen's lover seizedhim by the scruff of the neck and they jostled each other and were on thepoint of coming to blows. An old man said to Lorchen:

"If we are condemned, you will be too. "

"I shall be too, " she said, "I am not so cowardly as you. "

And she burst out again. 

They did not know what to do. They turned to her father:

"Can't you make her be silent?"

The old man had understood that it was not wise to push Lorchen too far. Hesigned to them to be calm. Silence came. Lorchen went on talking alone;then as she found no response, like a fire without fuel, she stopped. Aftera moment her father coughed and said:

"Well, then, what do you want? You don't want to ruin us. "

She said:

"I want him to be saved. "

They began to think. Christophe had not moved from where he sat; he wasstiff and proud and seemed not to understand that they were discussing him;but he was touched by Lorchen's intervention. Lorchen seemed not to beaware of his presence; she was leaning against the table by which he wassitting, and glaring defiantly at the peasants, who were smoking andlooking down at the ground. At last her father chewed his pipe for a littleand said:

"Whether we say anything or not, --if he stays he is done for. The sergeantmajor recognized him; he won't spare him. There is only one thing for himto do--to get away at once to the other side of the frontier. "

He had come to the conclusion it would be better for them all If Christopheescaped; in that way he would admit his guilt, and when he was no longerthere to defend himself it would not be difficult to put upon him theburden of the affair. The others agreed. They understood each otherperfectly. --Now that they had come to a decision they were all in a hurryfor Christophe to go. Without being in the least embarrassed by what theyhad been saying a moment before they came up to him and pretended to bedeeply interested in his welfare. 

"There is not a moment to lose, sir, " said Lorchen's father. "They willcome back. Half an hour to go to the fortress. Half an hour to comeback. . . . There is only just time to slip away. "

Christophe had risen. He too had been thinking. He knew that if he stayedhe was lost. But to go, to go without seeing his mother?. . . No. It wasimpossible. He said that he would first go back to the town and would stillhave time to go during the night and cross the frontier. But they protestedloudly. They had barred the door just before to prevent his going; now theywanted to prevent his not going. If he went back to the town he was certainto be caught; they would know at the fortress before he got there; theywould await him at home. --He insisted. Lorchen had understood him:

"You want to see your mother?. . . I will go instead of you. "

"When?"

"To-night. "

"Really! You will do that?"

"I will go. "

She took her shawl and put it round her head. 

"Write a letter. I will take it to her. Come with me. I will give you someink. "

She took him into the inner room. At the door she turned, and addressingher lover:

"And do you get ready, " she said. "You must take him. You must not leavehim until you have seen him over the frontier. "

He was as eager as anybody to see Christophe over into France and fartherif possible. 

Lorchen went into the next room with Christophe. He was still hesitating. He was torn by grief at the thought that he would not be able to embracehis mother. When would he see her again? She was so old, so worn out, solonely! This fresh blow would be too much for her. What would become of herwithout him?. . . But what would become of him if he stayed and werecondemned and put in prison for years? Would not that even more certainlymean destitution and misery for her? If he were free, though far away, hecould always help her, or she could come to him. --He had not time to seeclearly in his mind. Lorchen took his hands--she stood near him and lookedat him; their faces were almost touching; she threw her arms round his neckand kissed his mouth:

"Quick! Quick!" she whispered, pointing to the table, He gave up trying tothink. He sat down. She tore a sheet of squared paper with red lines froman account book. 

He wrote:

"My DEAR MOTHER: Forgive me. I am going to hurt you much. I cannot dootherwise. I have done nothing wrong. But now I must fly and leave thecountry. The girl who brings you this letter will tell you everything. Iwanted to say good-bye to you. They will not let me. They say that I shouldbe arrested. I am so unhappy that I have no will left. I am going over thefrontier but I shall stay near it until you have written to me; the girlwho brings you my letter will bring me your reply. Tell me what to do. Iwill do whatever you say. Do you want me to come back? Tell me to comeback! I cannot bear the idea of leaving you alone. What will you do tolive? Forgive me! Forgive me! I love you and I kiss you. . . . "

"Be quick, sir, or we shall be too late, " said Lorchen's swain, pushing thedoor open. 

Christophe wrote his name hurriedly and gave the letter to Lorchen. 

"You will give it to her yourself?"

"I am going, " she said. 

She was already ready to go. 

"To-morrow, " she went on, "I will bring you her reply; you must wait for meat Leiden, --(the first station beyond the German frontier)--on theplatform. "

(She had read Christophe's letter over his shoulder as he wrote. )

"You will tell me everything and how she bore the blow and everything shesays to you? You will not keep anything from me?" said Christophebeseechingly. 

"I will tell you everything. "

They were not so free to talk now, for the young man was at the doorwatching them:

"And then, Herr Christophe, " said Lorchen, "I will go and see her sometimesand I will send you news of her; do not be anxious. "

She shook hands with him vigorously like a man. 

"Let us go!" said the peasant. 

"Let us go!" said Christophe. 

All three went out. On the road they parted. Lorchen went one way andChristophe, with his guide, the other. They did not speak. The crescentmoon veiled in mists was disappearing behind the woods. A pale lighthovered over the fields. In the hollows the mists had risen thick and milkywhite. The shivering trees were bathed in the moisture of the air. --Theywere not more than a few minutes gone from the village when the peasantflung back sharply and signed to Christophe to stop. They listened. On theroad in front of them they heard the regular tramp of a troop of soldierscoming towards them. The peasant climbed the hedge into the fields. Christophe followed him. They walked away across the plowed fields. Theyheard the soldiers go by on the road. In the darkness the peasant shook hisfist at them. Christophe's heart stopped like a hunted animal that hearsthe baying of the hounds. They returned to the road again, avoiding thevillages and isolated farms where the barking of the dogs betrayed them tothe countryside. On the slope of a wooded hill they saw in the distance thered lights of the railway. They took the direction of the signals anddecided to go to the first station. It was not easy. As they came down intothe valley they plunged into the fog. They had to jump a few streams. Soonthey found themselves in immense fields of beetroot and plowed land; theythought they would never be through. The plain was uneven; there werelittle rises and hollows into which they were always in danger of falling. At last after walking blindly through the fog they saw suddenly a few yardsaway the signal light of the railway at the top of an embankment. Theyclimbed the bank. At the risk of being run over they followed the railsuntil they were within a hundred yards of the station; then they took tothe road again. They reached the station twenty minutes before the trainwent. In spite of Lorchen's orders the peasant left Christophe; he was in ahurry to go back to see what had happened to the others and to his ownproperty. 

Christophe took a ticket for Leiden and waited alone in the emptythird-class waiting room. An official who was asleep on a seat came andlooked at Christophe's ticket and opened the door for him when the traincame in. There was nobody in the carriage. Everybody in the train wasasleep. In the fields all was asleep. Only Christophe did not sleep inspite of his weariness. As the heavy iron wheels approached the frontier hefelt a fearful longing to be out of reach. In an hour he would be free. Buttill then a word would be enough to have him arrested. . . . Arrested! Hiswhole being revolted at the word. To be stifled by odious force!. . . Hecould not breathe. His mother, his country, that he was leaving, were nolonger in his thoughts. In the egoism of his threatened liberty he thoughtonly of that liberty of his life which he wished to save. Whatever it mightcost! Even at the cost of crime. He was bitterly sorry that he had takenthe train instead of continuing the journey to the frontier on foot. He hadwanted to gain a few hours. A fine gain! He was throwing himself into thejaws of the wolf. Surely they were waiting for him at the frontier station;orders must have been given; he would be arrested. . . . He thought for amoment of leaving the train while it was moving, before it reached thestation; he even opened the door of the carriage, but it was too late; thetrain was at the station. It stopped. Fire minutes. An eternity. Christophewithdrew to the end of the compartment and hid behind the curtain andanxiously watched the platform on which a gendarme was standing motionless. The station master came out of his office with a telegram in his hand andwent hurriedly up to the gendarme. Christophe had no doubt that it wasabout himself. He looked for a weapon. He had only a strong knife with twoblades. He opened it in his pocket. An official with a lamp on his chesthad passed the station master and was running along the train. Christophesaw him coming. His fist closed on the handle of the knife in his pocketand he thought:

"I am lost. "

He was in such a state of excitement that he would have been capable ofplunging the knife into the man's breast if he had been unfortunate enoughto come straight to him and open his compartment. But the official stoppedat the next carriage to look at the ticket of a passenger who had justtaken his seat. The train moved on again. Christophe repressed thethrobbing of his heart. He did not stir. He dared hardly say to himselfthat he was saved. He would not say it until he had crossed thefrontier. . . . Day was beginning to dawn. The silhouettes of the trees werestarting out of the night. A carriage was passing on the road like afantastic shadow with a jingle of bells and a winking eye. . . . With his faceclose pressed to the window Christophe tried to see the post with theimperial arms which marked the bounds of his servitude. He was stilllooking for it in the growing light when the train whistled to announce itsarrival at the first Belgian station. 

He got up, opened the door wide, and drank in the icy air. Free! His wholelife before him! The joy of life!. . . And at once there came upon himsuddenly all the sadness of what he was leaving, all the sadness of what hewas going to meet; and he was overwhelmed by the fatigue of that night ofemotion. He sank down on the seat. He had hardly been in the station aminute. When a minute later an official opened the door of the carriage hefound Christophe asleep. Christophe awoke, dazed, thinking he had beenasleep an hour; he got out heavily and dragged himself to the customs, andwhen he was definitely accepted on foreign territory, having no more todefend himself, he lay down along a seat in the waiting room and droppedoff and slept like a log. 

 * * * * *

He awoke about noon. Lorchen could hardly come before two or three o'clock. While he was waiting for the trains he walked up and down the platform ofthe little station. Then he went straight on into the middle of the fields;It was a gray and joyless day giving warning of the approach of winter. Thelight was dim. The plaintive whistle of a train stopping was all that brokethe melancholy silence. Christophe stopped a few yards away from thefrontier in the deserted country. Before him was a little pond, a clearpool of water, in which the gloomy sky was reflected. It was inclosed by afence and two trees grew by its side. On the right, a poplar with leaflesstrembling top. Behind, a great walnut tree with black naked branches like amonstrous polypus. The black fruit of it swung heavily on it. The lastwithered leaves were decaying and falling one by one upon the stillpond. . . . 

It seemed to him that he had already seen them, the two trees, the pond. . . --and suddenly he had one of those moments of giddiness which open greatdistances in the plain of life. A chasm in Time. He knew not where he was, who he was, in what age he lived, through how many ages he had been so. Christophe had a feeling that it had already been, that what was, now, wasnot, now, but in some other time. He was no longer himself. He was able tosee himself from outside, from a great distance, as though it were some oneelse standing there in that place. He heard the buzzing of memory and of anunknown creature within himself; the blood boiled in his veins and roared:

"Thus . . . Thus . . Thus . . . "

The centuries whirled through him. . . . Many other Kraffts had passed throughthe experiences which were his on that day, and had tasted the wretchednessof the last hour on their native soil. A wandering race, banishedeverywhere for their independence and disturbing qualities. A race alwaysthe prey of an inner demon that never let it settle anywhere. A raceattached to the soil from which it was torn, and never, never ceasing tolove it. 

Christophe in his turn was passing through these same sorrowfulexperiences; and he was finding on the way the footsteps of those who hadgone before him. With tears in his eyes he watched his native landdisappear in the mist, his country to which he had to say farewell. --Had henot ardently desired to leave it?--Yes; but now that he was actuallyleaving it he felt himself racked by anguish. Only a brutish heart can partwithout emotion from the motherland. Happy or unhappy he had lived withher; she was his mother and his comrade; he had slept in her, he had slepton her bosom, he was impregnated with her; in her bosom she held thetreasure of his dreams, all his past life, the sacred dust of those whom hehad loved. Christophe saw now in review the days of his life, and the dearmen and women whom he was leaving on that soil or beneath it. Hissufferings were not less dear to him than his joys. Minna, Sabine, Ada, hisgrandfather, Uncle Gottfried, old Schulz--all passed before him in thespace of a few minutes. He could not tear himself away from the dead--(forhe counted Ada also among the dead)--the idea of his mother whom he wasleaving, the only living creature of all those whom he loved, among thesephantoms was intolerable to him. 

He was almost on the point of crossing the frontier again, so cowardly didhis flight seem to him. He made up his mind that if the answer Lorchen wasto bring him from his mother betrayed too great grief he would return atall costs. But if he received nothing? If Lorchen had not been able toreach Louisa, or to bring back the answer? Well, he would go back. 

He returned to the station. After a grim time of waiting the train at lastappeared. Christophe expected to see Lorchen's bold face in the train; forhe was sure she would keep her promise; but she did not appear. He rananxiously from one compartment to another; he said to himself that if shehad been in the train she would have been one of the first to get out. Ashe was plunging through the stream of passengers coming from the oppositedirection he saw a face which he seemed to know. It was the face of alittle girl of thirteen or fourteen, chubby, dimpled, and ruddy as anapple, with a little turned-up nose and a large mouth, and a thick plaitcoiled around her head. As he looked more closely at her he saw that shehad in her hand an old valise very much like his own. She was watching himtoo like a sparrow; and when she saw that he was looking at her she cametowards him; but she stood firmly in front of Christophe and stared at himwith her little mouse-like eyes, without speaking a word. Christophe knewher; she was a little milkmaid at Lorchen's farm. Pointing to the valise hesaid:

"That is mine, isn't it?"

The girl did not move and replied cunningly:

"I'm not sure. Where do you come from, first of all?"

"Buir. "

"And who sent it you?"

"Lorchen. Come. Give it me. "

The little girl held out the valise. 

"There it is. "

And she added:

"Oh! But I knew you at once!"

"What were you waiting for then?"

"I was waiting for you to tell me that it was you. "

"And Lorchen?" asked Christophe. "Why didn't she come?"

The girl did not reply. Christophe understood that she did not want to sayanything among all the people. They had first to pass through the customs. When that was done Christophe took the girl to the end of the platform:

"The police came, " said the girl, now very talkative. "They came almostas soon as you had gone. They went into all the houses. They questionedeverybody, and they arrested big Sami and Christian and old Kaspar. Andalso Mélanie and Gertrude, though they declared they had done nothing, andthey wept; and Gertrude scratched the gendarmes. It was not any good thensaying that you had done it all. "

"I?" exclaimed Christophe. 

"Oh! yes, " said the girl quietly. "It was no good as you had gone. Thenthey looked for you everywhere and hunted for you in every direction. "

"And Lorchen?"

"Lorchen was not there. She came back afterwards after she had been to thetown. "

"Did she see my mother?"

"Yes. Here is the letter. And she wanted to come herself, but she wasarrested too. "

"How did you manage to come?"

"Well, she came back to the village without being seen by the police, andshe was going to set out again. But Irmina, Gertrude's sister, denouncedher. They came to arrest her. Then when she saw the gendarmes coming shewent up to her room and shouted that she would come down in a minute, thatshe was dressing. I was in the vineyard behind the house; she called to mefrom the window: 'Lydia! Lydia!' I went to her; she threw down your valiseand the letter which your mother had given her, and she explained where Ishould find you. I ran, and here I am. "

"Didn't she say anything more?"

"Yes. She told me to give you this shawl to show you that I came from her. "

Christophe recognized the white shawl with red spots and embroideredflowers which Lorchen had tied round her head when she left him on thenight before. The naïve improbability of the excuse she had made forsending him such a love-token did not make him smile. 

"Now, " said the girl, "here is the return train. I must go home. Good-night. "

"Wait, " said Christophe. "And the fare, what did you do about that?"

"Lorchen gave it me. "

"Take this, " said Christophe, pressing a few pieces of money into her hand. 

He held her back as she was trying to go. 

"And then. . . . " he said. 

He stooped and kissed her cheeks. The girl affected to protest. 

"Don't mind, " said Christophe jokingly. "It was not for you. "

"Oh! I know that, " said the girl mockingly. "It was for Lorchen. "

It was not only Lorchen that Christophe kissed as he kissed the littlemilkmaid's chubby cheeks; it was all Germany. 

The girl slipped away and ran towards the train which was just going. Shehung out of the window and waved her handkerchief to him until she was outof sight. He followed with his eyes the rustic messenger who had broughthim for the last time the breath of his country and of those he loved. 

When she had gone he found himself utterly alone, this time, a strangerin a strange land. He had in his hand his mother's letter and the shawllove-token. He pressed the shawl to his breast and tried to open theletter. But his hands trembled. What would he find in it? What sufferingwould be written in it?--No; he could not bear the sorrowful words ofreproach which already he seemed to hear; he would retrace his steps. 

At last he unfolded the letter and read: "My poor child, do not be anxiousabout me. I will be wise. God has punished me. I must not be selfish andkeep you here. Go to Paris. Perhaps it will be better for you. Do not worryabout me. I can manage somehow. The chief thing is that you should behappy. I kiss you. MOTHER. 

"Write to me when you can. "

Christophe sat down on his valise and wept. 

 * * * * *

The porter was shouting the train for Paris. 

The heavy train was slowing down with a terrific noise. Christophe driedhis tears, got up and said:

"I must go. "

He looked at the sky in the direction in which Paris must be. The sky, darkeverywhere, was even darker there. It was like a dark chasm. Christophe'sheart ached, but he said again:

"I must go. "

He climbed into the train and leaning out of the window went on looking atthe menacing horizon:

"O, Paris!" he thought, "Paris! Come to my aid! Save me! Save my thoughts!"

The thick fog grew denser still. Behind Christophe, above the country hewas leaving, a little patch of sky, pale blue, large, like two eyes--likethe eyes of Sabine--smiled sorrowfully through the heavy veil of clouds andthen was gone. The train departed. Rain fell. Night fell.