JEAN-CHRISTOPHE

In Paris

The Market-Place, Antoinette, The House

by Romain Rolland

Translated by Gilbert Cannan

CONTENTS

THE MARKET-PLACE

ANTOINETTE

THE HOUSE

THE MARKET-PLACE

I

Disorder in order. Untidy officials offhanded in manner. Travelersprotesting against the rules and regulations, to which they submitted allthe same. Christophe was in France. After having satisfied the curiosity ofthe customs, he took his seat again in the train for Paris. Night was overthe fields that were soaked with the rain. The hard lights of the stationsaccentuated the sadness of the interminable plain buried in darkness. The trains, more and more numerous, that passed, rent the air with theirshrieking whistles, which broke upon the torpor of the sleeping passengers. The train was nearing Paris. 

Christophe was ready to get out an hour before they ran in; he had jammedhis hat down on his head; he had buttoned his coat up to his neck for fearof the robbers, with whom he had been told Paris was infested; twenty timeshe had got up and sat down; twenty times he had moved his bag from therack to the seat, from the seat to the rack, to the exasperation of hisfellow-passengers, against whom he knocked, every time with his usualclumsiness. 

Just as they were about to run into the station the train suddenly stoppedin the darkness. Christophe flattened his nose against the window and triedvainly to look out. He turned towards his fellow-travelers, hoping to finda friendly glance which would encourage him to ask where they were. Butthey were all asleep or pretending to be so: they were bored and scowling:not one of them made any attempt to discover why they had stopped. Christophe was surprised by their indifference: these stiff, somnolentcreatures were so utterly unlike the French of his imagination! At last hesat down, discouraged, on his bag, rocking with every jolt of the train, and in his turn he was just dozing off when he was roused by the noise ofthe doors being opened. . . . Paris!. . . His fellow-travelers were alreadygetting out. 

Jostling and jostled, he walked towards the exit of the station, refusingthe porter who offered to carry his bag. With a peasant's suspiciousness hethought every one was going to rob him. He lifted his precious bag on tohis shoulder and walked straight ahead, indifferent to the curses of thepeople as he forced his way through them. At last he found himself in thegreasy streets of Paris. 

He was too much taken up with the business in hand, the finding oflodgings, and too weary of the whirl of carriages into which he was swept, to think of looking at anything. The first thing was to look for a room. There was no lack of hotels: the station was surrounded with them on allsides: their names were flaring in gas letters. Christophe wanted to finda less dazzling place than any of these: none of them seemed to him tobe humble enough for his purse. At last in a side street he saw a dirtyinn with a cheap eating-house on the ground floor. It was called _Hôtelde la Civilisation_. A fat man in his shirt-sleeves was sitting smokingat a table: he hurried forward as he saw Christophe enter. He could notunderstand a word of his jargon: but at the first glance he marked andjudged the awkward childish German, who refused to let his bag out of hishands, and struggled hard to make himself understood in an incrediblelanguage. He took him up an evil-smelling staircase to an airless roomwhich opened on to a closed court. He vaunted the quietness of the room, towhich no noise from outside could penetrate: and he asked a good price forit. Christophe only half understood him; knowing nothing of the conditionsof life in Paris, and with his shoulder aching with the weight of hisbag, he accepted everything: he was, eager to be alone. But hardly was heleft alone when he was struck by the dirtiness of it all: and to avoidsuccumbing to the melancholy which was creeping over him, he went out againvery soon after having dipped his face in the dusty water, which was greasyto the touch. He tried hard not to see and not to feel, so as to escapedisgust. 

He went down into the street. The October mist was thick and keenly cold:it had that stale Parisian smell, in which are mingled the exhalations ofthe factories of the outskirts and the heavy breath of the town. He couldnot see ten yards in front of him. The light of the gas-jets flickered likea candle on the point of going out. In the semi-darkness there were crowdsof people moving in all directions. Carriages moved in front of each other, collided, obstructed the road, stemming the flood of people like a dam. Theoaths of the drivers, the horns and bells of the trams, made a deafeningnoise. The roar, the clamor, the smell of it all, struck fearfully on themind and heart of Christophe. He stopped for a moment, but was at onceswept on by the people behind him and borne on by the current. He went downthe _Boulevard de Strasbourg_, seeing nothing, bumping awkwardly into thepassers-by. He had eaten nothing since morning. The cafés, which he foundat every turn, abashed and revolted him, for they were all so crowded. Heapplied to a policeman; but he was so slow in finding words that the mandid not even take the trouble to hear him out, and turned his back on himin the middle of a sentence and shrugged his shoulders. He went on walkingmechanically. There was a small crowd in front of a shop-window. Hestopped mechanically. It was a photograph and picture-postcard shop: therewere pictures of girls in chemises, or without them: illustrated papersdisplayed obscene jests. Children and young girls were looking at themcalmly. There was a slim girl with red hair who saw Christophe lost incontemplation and accosted him. He looked at her and did not understand. She took his arm with a silly smile. He shook her off, and rushed away, blushing angrily. There were rows of café concerts: outside the doors weredisplayed grotesque pictures of the comedians. The crowd grew thicker andthicker. Christophe was struck by the number of vicious faces, prowlingrascals, vile beggars, painted women sickeningly scented. He was frozen byit all. Weariness, weakness, and the horrible feeling of nausea, which moreand more came over him, turned him sick and giddy. He set his teeth andwalked on more quickly. The fog grew denser as he approached the Seine. The whirl of carriages became bewildering. A horse slipped and fell on itsside: the driver flogged it to make it get up: the wretched beast, helddown by its harness, struggled and fell down again, and lay still as thoughit were dead. The sight of it--common enough--was the last drop thatmade the wretchedness that filled the soul of Christophe flow over. Themiserable struggles of the poor beast, surrounded by indifferent andcareless faces, made him feel bitterly his own insignificance among thesethousands of men and women--the feeling of revulsion, which for the lasthour had been choking him, his disgust with all these human beasts, withthe unclean atmosphere, with the morally repugnant people, burst forth inhim with such violence that he could not breathe. He burst into tears. Thepassers-by looked in amazement at the tall young man whose face was twistedwith grief. He strode along with the tears running down his cheeks, andmade no attempt to dry them. People stopped to look at him for a moment:and if he had been able to read the soul of the mob, which seemed to himto be so hostile, perhaps in some of them he might have seen--mingled, nodoubt, with a little of the ironic feeling of the Parisians for any sorrowso simple and ridiculous as to show itself--pity and brotherhood. But hesaw nothing: his tears blinded him. 

He found himself in a square, near a large fountain. He bathed his handsand dipped his face in it. A little news-vendor watched him curiously andpassed comment on him, waggishly though not maliciously: and he picked uphis hat for him--Christophe had let it fall. The icy coldness of the waterrevived Christophe. He plucked up courage again. He retraced his steps, butdid not look about him: he did not even think of eating: it would have beenimpossible for him to speak to anybody: it needed the merest trifle to sethim off weeping again. He was worn out. He lost his way, and wandered aboutaimlessly until he found himself in front of his hotel, just when he hadmade up his mind that he was lost. He had forgotten even the name of thestreet in which he lodged. 

He went up to his horrible room. He was empty, and his eyes were burning:he was aching body and soul as he sank down into a chair in the corner ofthe room: he stayed like that for a couple of hours and could not stir. Atlast he wrenched himself out of his apathy and went to bed. He fell intoa fevered slumber, from which he awoke every few minutes, feeling that hehad been asleep for hours. The room was stifling: he was burning from headto foot: he was horribly thirsty: he suffered from ridiculous nightmares, which clung to him even after he had opened his eyes: sharp pains thuddedin him like the blows of a hammer. In the middle of the night he awoke, overwhelmed by despair, so profound that he all but cried out: he stuffedthe bedclothes into his mouth so as not to be heard: he felt that he wasgoing mad. He sat up in bed, and struck a light. He was bathed in sweat. Hegot up, opened his bag to look for a handkerchief. He laid his hand on anold Bible, which his mother had hidden in his linen. Christophe had neverread much of the Book: but it was a comfort beyond words for him to findit at that moment. The Bible had belonged to his grandfather and to hisgrandfather's father. The heads of the family had inscribed on a blank pageat the end their names and the important dates of their lives--births, marriages, deaths. His grandfather had written in pencil, in his largehand, the dates when he had read and re-read each chapter: the Book wasfull of tags of yellowed paper, on which the old man had jotted down hissimple thoughts. The Book used to rest on a shelf above his bed, and heused often to take it down during the long, sleepless nights and holdconverse with it rather than read it. It had been with him to the hourof his death, as it had been with his father. A century of the joys andsorrows of the family was breathed forth from the pages of the Book. Holding it in his hands, Christophe felt less lonely. 

He opened it at the most somber words of all:

_Is there not an appointed time to man upon earth? Are not his days alsolike the days of an hireling?

When I lie down, I say, When shall I arise and the night be gone? and I amfull of tossings to and fro unto the dawn of the day. 

When I say, My bed shall comfort me, my couch shall ease my complaint, then Thou searest me with dreams and terrifiest me through visions. . . . Howlong wilt Thou not depart from me, nor let me alone till I swallow down myspittle? I have sinned; what shall I do unto Thee, O Thou preserver of men?

Though He slay me yet will I trust in Him. _

All greatness is good, and the height of sorrow tops deliverance. Whatcasts down and overwhelms and blasts the soul beyond all hope is mediocrityin sorrow and joy, selfish and niggardly suffering that has not thestrength to be rid of the lost pleasure, and in secret lends itself toevery sort of degradation to steal pleasure anew. Christophe was braced upby the bitter savor that he found in the old Book: the wind of Sinai comingfrom vast and lonely spaces and the mighty sea to sweep away the steamyvapors. The fever in Christophe subsided. He was calm again, and lay downand slept peacefully until the morrow. When he opened his eyes again it wasday. More acutely than ever he was conscious of the horror of his room: hefelt his loneliness and wretchedness: but he faced them. He was no longerdisheartened: he was left only with a sturdy melancholy. He read over nowthe words of Job:

_Even though God slay me yet would I trust in Him. _

He got up. He was ready calmly to face the fight. 

He made up his mind there and then to set to work. He knew only two peoplein Paris: two young fellow-countrymen: his old friend Otto Diener, who wasin the office of his uncle, a cloth merchant in the _Mail_ quarter: and ayoung Jew from Mainz, Sylvain Kohn, who had a post in a great publishinghouse, the address of which Christophe did not know. 

He had been very intimate with Diener when he was fourteen or fifteen. He had had for him one of those childish friendships which precede love, and are themselves a sort of love. [Footnote: See _Jean-Christophe_--I:"The Morning. "] Diener had loved him too. The shy, reserved boy had beenattracted by Christophe's gusty independence: he had tried hard to imitatehim, quite ridiculously: that had both irritated and flattered Christophe. Then they had made plans for the overturning of the world. In the endDiener had gone abroad for his education in business, and they did not seeeach other again: but Christophe had news of him from time to time from thepeople in the town with whom Diener remained on friendly terms. 

As for Sylvain Kohn, his relation with Christophe had been of another kindaltogether. They had been at school together, where the young monkey hadplayed many pranks on Christophe, who thrashed him for it when he sawthe trap into which he had fallen. Kohn did not put up a fight: he letChristophe knock him down and rub his face in the dust, while he howled;but he would begin again at once with a malice that never tired--until theday when he became really afraid, Christophe having seriously threatened tokill him. 

Christophe went out early. He stopped to breakfast at a café. In spiteof his self-consciousness, he forced himself to lose no opportunity ofspeaking French. Since he had to live in Paris, perhaps for years, he hadbetter adapt himself as quickly as possible to the conditions of lifethere, and overcome his repugnance. So he forced himself, although hesuffered horribly, to take no notice of the sly looks of the waiter ashe listened to his horrible lingo. He was not discouraged, and went onobstinately constructing ponderous, formless sentences and repeating themuntil he was understood. 

He set out to look for Diener. As usual, when he had an idea in his head, he saw nothing of what was going on about him. During that first walk hisonly impression of Paris was that of an old and ill-kept town. Christophewas accustomed to the towns of the new German Empire, that were both veryold and very young, towns in which there is expressed a new birth of pride:and he was unpleasantly surprised by the shabby streets, the muddy roads, the hustling people, the confused traffic--vehicles of every sort andshape: venerable horse omnibuses, steam trams, electric trams, all sortsof trams--booths on the pavements, merry-go-rounds of wooden horses (ormonsters and gargoyles) in the squares that were choked up with statues ofgentlemen in frock-coats: all sorts of relics of a town of the Middle Agesendowed with the privilege of universal suffrage, but quite incapable ofbreaking free from its old vagabond existence. The fog of the preceding dayhad turned to a light, soaking rain. In many of the shops the gas was lit, although it was past ten o'clock. 

Christophe lost his way in the labyrinth of streets round the _Place desVictoires_, but eventually found the shop he was looking for in the _Ruede la Banque_. As he entered he thought he saw Diener at the back of thelong, dark shop, arranging packages of goods, together with some of theassistants. But he was a little short-sighted, and could not trust hiseyes, although it was very rarely that they deceived him. There was ageneral movement among the people at the back of the shop when Christophegave his name to the clerk who approached him: and after a confabulation ayoung man stepped forward from the group, and said in German:

"Herr Diener is out. "

"Out? For long?"

"I think so. He has just gone. "

Christophe thought for a moment; then he said:

"Very well. I will wait. "

The clerk was taken aback, and hastened to add:

"But he won't be back before two or three. "

"Oh! That's nothing, " replied Christophe calmly. "I haven't anything to doin Paris. I can wait all day if need be. "

The young man looked at him in amazement, and thought he was joking. ButChristophe had forgotten him already. He sat down quietly in a corner, withhis back turned towards the street: and it looked as though he intended tostay there. 

The clerk went back to the end of the shop and whispered to his colleagues:they were most comically distressed, and cast about for some means ofgetting rid of the insistent Christophe. 

After a few uneasy moments, the door of the office was opened and HerrDiener appeared. He had a large red face, marked with a purple scar downhis cheek and chin, a fair mustache, smooth hair, parted on one side, agold-rimmed eyeglass, gold studs in his shirt-front, and rings on hisfat fingers. He had his hat and an umbrella in his hands. He came up toChristophe in a nonchalant manner. Christophe, who was dreaming as he sat, started with surprise. He seized Diener's hands, and shouted with a noisyheartiness that made the assistants titter and Diener blush. That majesticpersonage had his reasons for not wishing to resume his former relationshipwith Christophe: and he had made up his mind from the first to keep him ata distance by a haughty manner. But he had no sooner come face to face withChristophe than he felt like a little boy again in his presence: he wasfurious and ashamed. He muttered hurriedly:

"In my office. . . . We shall be able to talk better there. "

Christophe recognized Diener's habitual prudence. 

But when they were in the office and the door was shut, Diener showed noeagerness to offer him a chair. He remained standing, making clumsyexplanations:

"Very glad. . . . I was just going out. . . . They thought I had gone. . . . But Imust go . . . I have only a minute . . . A pressing appointment. . . . "

Christophe understood that the clerk had lied to him, and that the liehad been arranged by Diener to get rid of him. His blood boiled: but hecontrolled himself, and said dryly:

"There is no hurry. "

Diener drew himself up. He was shocked by such off-handedness. 

"What!" he said. "No hurry! In business. . . " Christophe looked him in theface. 

"No. "

Diener looked away. He hated Christophe for having so put him to shame. Hemurmured irritably. Christophe cut him short:

"Come, " he said. "You know. . . "

(He used the "_Du_, " which maddened Diener, who from the first had beenvainly trying to set up between Christophe and himself the barrier of the"_Sie_")

"You know why I am here?"

"Yes, " said Diener. "I know. "

(He had heard of Christophe's escapade, and the warrant out against him, from his friends. )

"Then, " Christophe went on, "you know that I am not here for fun. I havehad to fly. I have nothing. I must live. "

Diener was waiting for that, for the request. He took it with a mixture ofsatisfaction--(for it made it possible for him to feel his superiority overChristophe)--and embarrassment--(for he dared not make Christophe feel hissuperiority as much as he would have liked). 

"Ah!" he said pompously. "It is very tiresome, very tiresome. Life hereis hard. Everything is so dear. We have enormous expenses. And all theseassistants. . . "

Christophe cut him short contemptuously:

"I am not asking you for money. "

Diener was abashed. Christophe went on:

"Is your business doing well? Have you many customers?"

"Yes. Yes. Not bad, thank God!. . . " said Diener cautiously. (He was on hisguard. )

Christophe darted a look of fury at him, and went on:

"You know many people in the German colony?"

"Yes. "

"Very well: speak for me. They must be musical. They have children. I willgive them lessons. "

Diener was embarrassed at that. 

"What is it?" asked Christophe. "Do you think I'm not competent to do thework?"

He was asking a service as though it were he who was rendering it. Diener, who would not have done a thing for Christophe except for the sake ofputting him under an obligation, was resolved not to stir a finger for him. 

"It isn't that. You're a thousand times too good for it. Only. . . "

"What, then?"

"Well, you see, it's very difficult--very difficult--on account of yourposition. "

"My position?"

"Yes. . . . You see, that affair, the warrant. . . . If that were to be known. . . . It is difficult for me. It might do me harm. "

He stopped as he saw Christophe's face go hot with anger: and he addedquickly:

"Not on my own account. . . . I'm not afraid. . . . Ah! If I were alone!. . . Butmy uncle . . . You know, the business is his. I can do nothing withouthim. . . . "

He grew more and more alarmed at Christophe's expression, and at thethought of the gathering explosion he said hurriedly--(he was not a badfellow at bottom: avarice and vanity were struggling in him: he would haveliked to help Christophe, at a price):

"Can I lend you fifty francs?"

Christophe went crimson. He went up to Diener, who stepped back hurriedlyto the door and opened it, and held himself in readiness to call for help, if necessary. But Christophe only thrust his face near his and bawled:

"You swine!"

And he flung him aside and walked out through the little throng ofassistants. At the door he spat in disgust. 

 * * * * *

He strode along down the street. He was blind with fury. The rain soberedhim. Where was he going? He did not know. He did not know a soul. Hestopped to think outside a book-shop, and he stared stupidly at the rowsof books. He was struck by the name of a publisher on the cover of one ofthem. He wondered why. Then he remembered that it was the name of the housein which Sylvain Kohn was employed. He made a note of the address. . . . Butwhat was the good? He would not go. . . . Why should he not go?. . . If thatscoundrel Diener, who had been his friend, had given him such a welcome, what had he to expect from a rascal whom he had handled roughly, who hadgood cause to hate him? Vain humiliations! His blood boiled at the thought. But his native pessimism, derived perhaps from his Christian education, urged him on to probe to the depths of human baseness. 

"I have no right to stand on ceremony. I must try everything before I givein. "

And an inward voice added:

"And I shall not give in. "

He made sure of the address, and went to hunt up Kohn He made up his mindto hit him in the eye at the first show of impertinence. 

The publishing house was in the neighborhood of the Madeleine. Christophewent up to a room on the second floor, and asked for Sylvain Kohn. A man inlivery told him that "Kohn was not known. " Christophe was taken aback, andthought his pronunciation must be at fault, and he repeated his question:but the man listened attentively, and repeated that no one of that name wasknown in the place. Quite out of countenance, Christophe begged pardon, andwas turning to go when a door at the end of the corridor opened, and he sawKohn himself showing a lady out. Still suffering from the affront put uponhim by Diener, he was inclined to think that everybody was having a joke athis expense. His first thought was that Kohn had seen him, and had givenorders to the man to say that he was not there. His gorge rose at theimpudence of it. He was on the point of going in a huff, when he heard hisname: Kohn, with his sharp eyes, had recognized him: and he ran up to him, with a smile on his lips, and his hands held out with every mark ofextraordinary delight. 

Sylvain Kohn was short, thick-set, clean-shaven, like an American; hiscomplexion was too red, his hair too black; he had a heavy, massive face, coarse-featured; little darting, wrinkled eyes, a rather crooked mouth, a heavy, cunning smile. He was modishly dressed, trying to cover up thedefects of his figure, high shoulders, and wide hips. That was the onlything that touched his vanity: he would gladly have put up with any insultif only he could have been a few inches taller and of a better figure. For the rest, he was very well pleased with himself: he thought himselfirresistible, as indeed he was. The little German Jew, clod as he was, hadmade himself the chronicler and arbiter of Parisian fashion and smartness. He wrote insipid society paragraphs and articles in a delicately involvedmanner. He was the champion of French style, French smartness, Frenchgallantry, French wit--Regency, red heels, Lauzun. People laughed at him:but that did not prevent his success. Those who say that in Paris ridiculekills do not know Paris: so far from dying of it, there are people who liveon it: in Paris ridicule leads to everything, even to fame and fortune. Sylvain Kohn was far beyond any need to reckon the good-will that every dayaccumulated to him through his Frankfortian affectations. 

He spoke with a thick accent through his nose. 

"Ah! What a surprise!" he cried gaily, taking Christophe's hands in hisown clumsy paws, with their stubby fingers that looked as though they werecrammed into too tight a skin. He could not let go of Christophe's hands. It was as though, he were encountering his best friend. Christophe was sostaggered that he wondered again if Kohn was not making fun of him. ButKohn was doing nothing of the kind--or, rather, if he was joking, it wasno more than usual. There was no rancor about Kohn: he was too clever forthat. He had long ago forgotten the rough treatment he had suffered atChristophe's hands: and if ever he did remember it, it did not worry him. He was delighted to have the opportunity of showing his old schoolfellowhis importance and his new duties, and the elegance of his Parisianmanners. He was not lying in expressing his surprise: a visit fromChristophe was the last thing in the world that he expected: and if he wastoo worldly-wise not to know that the visit was of set material purpose, he took it as a reason the more for welcoming him, as it was, in fact, atribute to his power. 

"And you have come from Germany? How is your mother?" he asked, with afamiliarity which at any other time would have annoyed Christophe, but nowgave him comfort in the strange city. 

"But how was it, " asked Christophe, who was still inclined to besuspicious, "that they told me just now that Herr Kohn did not belonghere?"

"Herr Kohn doesn't belong here, " said Sylvain Kohn, laughing. "My nameisn't Kohn now. My name is Hamilton. "

He broke off. 

"Excuse me, " he said. 

He went and shook hands with a lady who was passing and smiled grimacingly. Then he came back. He explained that the lady was a writer famous for hervoluptuous and passionate novels. The modern Sappho had a purple ribbonon her bosom, a full figure, bright golden hair round a painted face; shemade a few pretentious remarks in a mannish fashion with the accent ofFranche-Comté. 

Kohn plied Christophe with questions. He asked about all the people athome, and what had become of so-and-so, pluming himself on the fact that heremembered everybody. Christophe had forgotten his antipathy; he repliedcordially and gratefully, giving a mass of detail about which Kohn carednothing at all, and presently he broke off again. 

"Excuse me, " he said. 

And he went to greet another lady who had come in. 

"Dear me!" said Christophe. "Are there only women writers in France?"

Kohn began to laugh, and said fatuously:

"France is a woman, my dear fellow. If you want to succeed, make up to thewomen. "

Christophe did not listen to the explanation, and went on with his ownstory. To put a stop to it, Kohn asked:

"But how the devil do you come here?"

"Ah!" thought Christophe, "he doesn't know. That is why he was so amiable. He'll be different when he knows. "

He made it a point of honor to tell everything against himself: the brawlwith the soldiers, the warrant out against him, his flight from thecountry. 

Kohn rocked with laughter. 

"Bravo!" he cried. "Bravo! That's a good story!"

He shook Christophe's hand warmly. He was delighted by any smack in the eyeof authority: and the story tickled him the more as he knew the heroes ofit: he saw the funny side of it. 

"I say, " he said, "it is past twelve. Will you give me the pleasure . . . ?Lunch with me?"

Christophe accepted gratefully. He thought:

"This is a good fellow--decidedly a good fellow. I was mistaken. "

They went out together. On the way Christophe put forward his request:

"You see how I am placed. I came here to look for work--musiclessons--until I can make my name. Could you speak for me?"

"Certainly, " said Kohn. "To any one you like. I know everybody here. I'm atyour service. "

He was glad to be able to show how important he was. 

Christophe covered him with expressions of gratitude. He felt that he wasrelieved of a great weight of anxiety. 

At lunch he gorged with the appetite of a man who has not broken fast fortwo days. He tucked his napkin round his neck, and ate with his knife. Kohn-Hamilton was horribly shocked by his voracity and his peasant manners. And he was, hurt, too, by the small amount of attention that his guest gaveto his bragging. He tried to dazzle him by telling of his fine connectionsand his prosperity: but it was no good: Christophe did not listen, andbluntly interrupted him. His tongue was loosed, and he became familiar. Hisheart was full, and he overwhelmed Kohn with his simple confidences of hisplans for the future. Above all, he exasperated him by insisting on takinghis hand across the table and pressing it effusively. And he brought him tothe pitch of irritation at last by wanting to clink glasses in the Germanfashion, and, with sentimental speeches, to drink to those at home andto _Vater Rhein_. Kohn saw, to his horror, that he was on the point ofsinging. The people at the next table were casting ironic glances in theirdirection. Kohn made some excuse on the score of pressing business, and gotup. Christophe clung to him: he wanted to know when he could have a letterof introduction, and go and see some one, and begin giving lessons. 

"I'll see about it. To-day--this evening, " said Kohn. "I'll talk about youat once. You can be easy on that score. "

Christophe insisted. 

"When shall I know?"

"To-morrow . . . To-morrow . . . Or the day after. "

"Very well. I'll come back to-morrow. "

"No, no!" said Kohn quickly. "I'll let you know. Don't you worry. "

"Oh! it's no trouble. Quite the contrary. Eh? I've nothing else to do inParis in the meanwhile. "

"Good God!" thought Kohn. . . . "No, " he said aloud. "But I would rather writeto you. You wouldn't find me the next few days. Give me your address. "

Christophe dictated it. 

"Good. I'll write you to-morrow. "

"To-morrow?"

"To-morrow. You can count on it"

He cut short Christophe's hand-shaking and escaped. 

"Ugh!" he thought. "What a bore!"

As he went into his office he told the boy that he would not be in when"the German" came to see him. Ten minutes later he had forgotten him. 

Christophe went back to his lair. He was full of gentle thoughts. 

"What a good fellow! What a good fellow!" he thought. "How unjust I wasabout him. And he bears me no ill-will!"

He was remorseful, and he was on the point of writing to tell Kohn howsorry he was to have misjudged him, and to beg his forgiveness for all theharm he had done him. The tears came to his eyes as he thought of it. Butit was harder for him to write a letter than a score of music: and after hehad cursed and cursed the pen and ink of the hotel--which were, in fact, horrible--after he had blotted, criss-crossed, and torn up five or sixsheets of paper, he lost patience and dropped it. 

The rest of the day dragged wearily: but Christophe was so worn out by hissleepless night and his excursions in the morning that at length he dozedoff in his chair. He only woke up in the evening, and then he went to bed:and he slept for twelve hours on end. 

 * * * * *

Next day from eight o'clock on he sat waiting for the promised letter. Hehad no doubt of Kohn's sincerity. He did not go out, telling himself thatperhaps Kohn would come round by the hotel on his way to his office. So asnot to be out, about midday he had his lunch sent up from the eating-housedownstairs. Then he sat waiting again. He was sure Kohn would come on hisway back from lunch. He paced up and down his room, sat down, paced up anddown again, opened his door whenever he heard footsteps on the stairs. He had no desire to go walking about Paris to stay his anxiety. He laydown on his bed. His thoughts went back and back to his old mother, whowas thinking of him too--she alone thought of him. He had an infinitetenderness for her, and he was remorseful at having left her. But he didnot write to her. He was waiting until he could tell her that he had foundwork. In spite of the love they had for each other, it would never haveoccurred to either of them to write just to tell their love: letters werefor things more definite than that. He lay on the bed with his hands lockedbehind his head, and dreamed. Although his room was away from the street, the roar of Paris invaded the silence: the house shook. Night came again, and brought no letter. 

Came another day like unto the last. 

On the third day, exasperated by his voluntary seclusion, Christophedecided to go out. But from the impression of his first evening he wasinstinctively in revolt against Paris. He had no desire to see anything:no curiosity: he was too much taken up with the problem of his own lifeto take any pleasure in watching the lives of others: and the memories oflives past, the monuments of a city, had always left him cold. And so, hardly had he set foot out of doors, than, although he had made up his mindnot to go near Kohn for a week, he went straight to his office. 

The boy obeyed his orders, and said that M. Hamilton had left Paris onbusiness. It was a blow to Christophe. He gasped and asked when M. Hamiltonwould return. The boy replied at random:

"In ten days. "

Christophe went back utterly downcast, and buried himself in his roomduring the following days. He found it impossible to work. His heart sankas he saw that his small supply of money--the little sum that his motherhad sent him, carefully wrapped up in a handkerchief at the bottom of hisbag--was rapidly decreasing. He imposed a severe régime on himself. Heonly went down in the evening to dinner in the little pot-house, wherehe quickly became known to the frequenters of it as the "Prussian" or"Sauerkraut. " With frightful effort, he wrote two or three letters toFrench musicians whose names he knew hazily. One of them had been deadfor ten years. He asked them to be so kind as to give him a hearing. Hisspelling was wild, and his style was complicated by those long inversionsand ceremonious formulæ which are the custom in Germany. He addressed hisletters: "To the Palace of the Academy of France. " The only man to read hisgave it to his friends as a joke. 

After a week Christophe went once more to the publisher's office. This timehe was in luck. He met Sylvain Kohn going out, on the doorstep. Kohn made aface as he saw that he was caught: but Christophe was so happy that he didnot see that. He took his hands in his usual uncouth way, and asked gaily:

"You've been away? Did you have a good time?"

Kohn said that he had had a very good time, but he did not unbend. Christophe went on:

"I came, you know. . . . They told you, I suppose?. . . Well, any news? Youmentioned my name? What did they say?"

Kohn looked blank. Christophe was amazed at his frigid manner: he was notthe same man. 

"I mentioned you, " said Kohn: "but I haven't heard yet. I haven't had time. I have been very busy since I saw you--up to my ears in business. I don'tknow how I can get through. It is appalling. I shall be ill with it all. "

"Aren't you well?" asked Christophe anxiously and solicitously. 

Kohn looked at him slyly, and replied:

"Not at all well. I don't know what is the matter, the last few days. I'mvery unwell. "

"I'm so sorry, " said Christophe, taking his arm. "Do be careful. You mustrest. I'm so sorry to have been a bother to you. You should have told me. What is the matter with you, really?"

He took Kohn's sham excuses so seriously that the little Jew was hard putto it to hide his amusement, and disarmed by his funny simplicity. Irony isso dear a pleasure to the Jews--(and a number of Christians in Paris areJewish in this respect)--that they are indulgent with bores, and even withtheir enemies, if they give them the opportunity of tasting it at theirexpense. Besides, Kohn was touched by Christophe's interest in himself. Hefelt inclined to help him. 

"I've got an idea, " he said. "While you are waiting for lessons, would youcare to do some work for a music publisher?"

Christophe accepted eagerly. 

"I've got the very thing, " said Kohn. "I know one of the partners in a bigfirm of music publishers--Daniel Hecht. I'll introduce you. You'll see whatthere is to do. I don't know anything about it, you know. But Hecht is areal musician. You'll get on with him all right. "

They parted until the following day. Kohn was not sorry to be rid ofChristophe by doing him this service. 

 * * * * *

Next day Christophe fetched Kohn at his office. On his advice, he hadbrought several of his compositions to show to Hecht. They found him in hismusic-shop near the Opéra. Hecht did not put himself out when they wentin: he coldly held out two fingers to take Kohn's hand, did not reply toChristophe's ceremonious bow, and at Kohn's request he took them into thenext room. He did not ask them to sit down. He stood with his back to theempty chimney-place, and stared at the wall. 

Daniel Hecht was a man of forty, tall, cold, correctly dressed, a markedPhenician type; he looked clever and disagreeable: there was a scowl on hisface: he had black hair and a beard like that of an Assyrian King, longand square-cut. He hardly ever looked straight forward, and he had anicy brutal way of talking which sounded insulting even when he only said"Good-day. " His insolence was more apparent than real. No doubt it emanatedfrom a contemptuous strain in his character: but really it was more a partof the automatic and formal element in him. Jews of that sort are quitecommon: opinion is not kind towards them: that hard stiffness of theirs islooked upon as arrogance, while it is often in reality the outcome of anincurable boorishness in body and soul. 

Sylvain Kohn introduced his protégé, in a bantering, pretentious voice, with exaggerated praises. Christophe was abashed by his reception, andstood shifting from one foot to the other, holding his manuscripts and hishat in his hand. When Kohn had finished, Hecht, who up to then had seemedto be unaware of Christophe's existence, turned towards him disdainfully, and, without looking at him, said:

"Krafft . . . Christophe Krafft. . . . Never heard the name. "

To Christophe it was as though he had been struck, full in the chest. Theblood rushed to his cheeks. He replied angrily:

"You'll hear it later on. "

Hecht took no notice, and went on imperturbably, as though Christophe didnot exist:

"Krafft . . . No, never heard it. "

He was one of those people for whom not to be known to them is a markagainst a man. 

He went on in German:

"And you come from the _Rhine-land_?. . . It's wonderful how many peoplethere are there who dabble in music! But I don't think there is a man amongthem who has any claim to be a musician. "

He meant it as a joke, not as an insult: but Christophe did not take it so. He would have replied in kind if Kohn had not anticipated him. 

"Oh, come, come!" he said to Hecht. "You must do me the justice to admitthat I know nothing at all about it. "

"That's to your credit, " replied Hecht. 

"If I am to be no musician in order to please you, " said Christophe dryly, "I am sorry, but I'm not that. "

Hecht, still looking aside, went on, as indifferently as ever. 

"You have written music? What have you written? _Lieder_, I suppose?"

"_Lieder_, two symphonies, symphonic poems, quartets, piano suites, theatermusic, " said Christophe, boiling. 

"People write a great deal in Germany, " said Hecht, with scornfulpoliteness. 

It made him all the more suspicious of the newcomer to think that he hadwritten so many works, and that he, Daniel Hecht, had not heard of them. 

"Well, " he said, "I might perhaps find work for you as you are recommendedby my friend Hamilton. At present we are making a collection, a 'Libraryfor Young People, ' in which we are publishing some easy pianoforte pieces. Could you 'simplify' the _Carnival_ of Schumann, and arrange it for six andeight hands?"

Christophe was staggered. 

"And you offer that to me, to me--me. . . ?"

His naïve "Me" delighted Kohn: but Hecht was offended. 

"I don't see that there is anything surprising in that, " he said. "It isnot such easy work as all that! If you think it too easy, so much thebetter. We'll see about that later on. You tell me you are a good musician. I must believe you. But I've never heard of you. "

He thought to himself:

"If one were to believe all these young sparks, they would knock thestuffing out of Johannes Brahms himself. "

Christophe made no reply--(for he had vowed to hold himself incheck)--clapped his hat on his head, and turned towards the door. Kohnstopped him, laughing:

"Wait, wait!" he said. And he turned to Hecht: "He has brought some of hiswork to give you an idea. "

"Ah!" said Hecht warily. "Very well, then: let us see them. "

Without a word Christophe held out his manuscripts. Hecht cast his eyesover them carelessly. 

"What's this? A _suite for piano_ . . . (reading): _A Day_. . . . Ah! Alwaysprogram music!. . . "

In spite of his apparent indifference he was reading carefully. He was anexcellent musician, and knew his job: he knew nothing outside it: with thefirst bar or two he gauged his man. He was silent as he turned over thepages with a scornful air: he was struck by the talent revealed in them:but his natural reserve and his vanity, piqued by Christophe's manner, kepthim from showing anything. He went on to the end in silence, not missing anote. 

"Yes, " he said, in a patronizing tone of voice, "they're well enough. "

Violent criticism would have hurt Christophe less. 

"I don't need to be told that, " he said irritably. 

"I fancy, " said Hecht, "that you showed me them for me to say what Ithought. "

"Not at all. "

"Then, " said Hecht coldly, "I fail to see what you have come for. "

"I came to ask for work, and nothing else. "

"I have nothing to offer you for the time being, except what I told you. And I'm not sure of that. I said it was possible, that's all. "

"And you have no other work to offer a musician like myself?"

"A musician like you?" said Hecht ironically and cuttingly. "Othermusicians at least as good as yourself have not thought the work beneaththeir dignity. There are men whose names I could give you, men who are nowvery well known in Paris, have been very grateful to me for it. "

"Then they must have been--swine!" bellowed Christophe. --(He had alreadylearned certain of the most useful words in the French language)--"You arewrong if you think you have to do with a man of that kidney. Do you thinkyou can take me in with looking anywhere but at me, and clipping yourwords? You didn't even deign to acknowledge my bow when I came in. . . . Butwhat the hell are you to treat me like that? Are you even a musician? Haveyou ever written anything?. . . And you pretend to teach me how to write--me, to whom writing is life!. . . And you can find nothing better to offer me, when you have read my music, than a hashing up of great musicians, a filthyscrabbling over their works to turn them into parlor tricks for littlegirls!. . . You go to your Parisians who are rotten enough to be taught theirwork by you! I'd rather die first!"

It was impossible to stem the torrent of his words. 

Hecht said icily:

"Take it or leave it. "

Christophe went out and slammed the doors. Hecht shrugged, and said toSylvain Kohn, who was laughing:

"He will come to it like the rest. "

At heart he valued Christophe. He was clever enough to feel not only theworth of a piece of work, but also the worth of a man. Behind Christophe'soutburst he had marked a force. And he knew its rarity--in the world ofart more than anywhere else. But his vanity was ruffled by it: nothingwould ever induce him to admit himself in the wrong. He desired loyallyto be just to Christophe, but he could not do it unless Christophe cameand groveled to him. He expected Christophe to return: his melancholyskepticism and his experience of men had told him how inevitably the willis weakened and worn down by poverty. 

 * * * * *

Christophe went home. Anger had given place to despair. He felt that hewas lost. The frail prop on which he had counted had failed him. He had nodoubt but that he had made a deadly enemy, not only of Hecht, but of Kohn, who had introduced him. He was in absolute solitude in a hostile city. Outside Diener and Kohn he knew no one. His friend Corinne, the beautifulactress whom he had met in Germany, was not in Paris: she was still touringabroad, in America, this time on her own account: the papers publishedclamatory descriptions of her travels. As for the little French governesswhom he had unwittingly robbed of her situation, --the thought of her hadlong filled him with remorse--how often had he vowed that he would findher when he reached Paris. [Footnote: See _Jean-Christophe_--I: "Revolt. "]But now that he was in Paris he found that he had forgotten one importantthing: her name. He could not remember it. He could only recollect herChristian name: Antoinette. And then, even if he remembered, how was he tofind a poor little governess in that ant-heap of human beings?

He had to set to work as soon as possible to find a livelihood. He had fivefrancs left. In spite of his dislike of him, he forced himself to ask theinnkeeper if he did not know of anybody in the neighborhood to whom hecould give music-lessons. The innkeeper, who had no great opinion of alodger who only ate once a day and spoke German, lost what respect he hadfor him when he heard that he was only a musician. He was a Frenchman ofthe old school, and music was to him an idler's job. He scoffed:

"The piano!. . . I don't know. You strum the piano! Congratulations!. . . But'tis a queer thing to take to that trade as a matter of taste! When I hearmusic, it's just for all the world like listening to the rain. . . . Butperhaps you might teach me. What do you say, you fellows?" he cried, turning to some fellows who were drinking. 

They laughed loudly. 

"It's a fine trade, " said one of them. "Not dirty work. And the ladies likeit. "

Christophe did not rightly understand the French or the jest: he flounderedfor his words: he did not know whether to be angry or not. The innkeeper'swife took pity on him:

"Come, come, Philippe, you're not serious, " she said to her husband. "Allthe same, " she went on, turning to Christophe, "there is some one who mightdo for you. "

"Who?" asked her husband. 

"The Grasset girl. You know, they've bought a piano. "

"Ah! Those stuck-up folk! So they have. "

They told Christophe that the girl in question was the daughter of abutcher: her parents were trying to make a lady of her; they would perhapslike her to have lessons, if only for the sake of making people talk. Theinnkeeper's wife promised to see to it. 

Next day she told Christophe that the butcher's wife would like to see him. He went to her house, and found her in the shop, surrounded with greatpieces of meat. She was a pretty, rather florid woman, and she smiledsweetly, but stood on her dignity when she heard why he had come. Quiteabruptly she came to the question of payment, and said quickly that she didnot wish to give much, because the piano is quite an agreeable thing, butnot necessary: she offered him fifty centimes an hour. In any case, shewould not pay more than four francs a week. After that she asked Christophea little doubtfully if he knew much about music. She was reassured, andbecame more amiable when he told her that not only did he know about music, but wrote it into the bargain: that flattered her vanity: it would be agood thing to spread about the neighborhood that her daughter was takinglessons with a composer. 

Next day, when Christophe found himself sitting by the piano--a horribleinstrument, bought second-hand, which sounded like a guitar--with thebutcher's little daughter, whose short, stubby fingers fumbled with thekeys; who was unable to tell one note from another; who was bored to tears;who began at once to yawn in his face; and he had to submit to the mother'ssuperintendence, and to her conversation, and to her ideas on music and theteaching of music--then he felt so miserable, so wretchedly humiliated, that he had not even the strength to be angry about it. He relapsed into astate of despair: there were evenings when he could not eat. If in a fewweeks he had fallen so low, where would he end? What good was it to haverebelled against Hecht's offer? The thing to which he had submitted waseven more degrading. 

One evening, as he sat in his room, he could not restrain his tears: heflung himself on his knees by his bed and prayed. . . . To whom did he pray?To whom could he pray? He did not believe in God; he believed that therewas no God. . . . But he had to pray--he had to pray within his soul. Onlythe mean of spirit never need to pray. They never know the need that comesto the strong in spirit of taking refuge within the inner sanctuary ofthemselves. As he left behind him the humiliations of the day, in the vividsilence of his heart Christophe felt the presence of his eternal Being, ofhis God. The waters of his wretched life stirred and shifted above Him andnever touched Him: what was there in common between that and Him? All thesorrows of the world rushing on to destruction dashed against that rock. Christophe heard the blood beating in his veins, beating like an inwardvoice, crying:

"Eternal . . . I am . . . I am. . . . "

Well did he know that voice: as long as he could remember he had heardit. Sometimes he forgot it: often for months together he would loseconsciousness of its mighty monotonous rhythm: but he knew that it wasthere, that it never ceased, like the ocean roaring in the night. In themusic of it he found once more the same energy that he gained from itwhenever he bathed in its waters. He rose to his feet. He was fortified. No: the hard life that he led contained nothing of which he need beashamed: he could eat the bread he earned, and never blush for it: it wasfor those who made him earn it at such a price to blush and be ashamed. Patience! Patience! The time would come. . . . 

But next day he began to lose patience again: and, in spite of all hisefforts, he did at last explode angrily, one day during a lesson, at thesilly little ninny, who had been maddeningly impertinent and laughed at hisaccent, and had taken a malicious delight in doing exactly the oppositeof what he told her. The girl screamed in response to Christophe's angryshouts. She was frightened and enraged at a man whom she paid daring toshow her no respect. She declared that he had struck her--(Christophe hadshaken her arm rather roughly). Her mother bounced in on them like a Fury, and covered her daughter with kisses and Christophe with abuse. The butcheralso appeared, and declared that he would not suffer any infernal Prussianto take upon himself to touch his daughter. Furious, pale with rage, itching to choke the life out of the butcher and his wife and daughter, Christophe rushed away. His host and hostess, seeing him come in in anabject condition, had no difficulty in worming the story out of him: and itfed the malevolence with which they regarded their neighbors. But by theevening the whole neighborhood was saying that the German was a brute and achild-beater. 

 * * * * *

Christophe made fresh advances to the music-vendors: but in vain. He foundthe French lacking in cordiality: and the whirl and confusion of theirperpetual agitation crushed him. They seemed to him to live in a state ofanarchy, directed by a cunning and despotic bureaucracy. 

One evening, he was wandering along the boulevards, discouraged by thefutility of his efforts, when he saw Sylvain Kohn coming from the oppositedirection. He was convinced that they had quarreled irrevocably and lookedaway and tried to pass unnoticed. But Kohn called to him:

"What became of you after that great day?" he asked with a laugh. "I'vebeen wanting to look you up, but I lost your address. . . . Good Lord, my dearfellow, I didn't know you! You were epic: that's what you were, epic!"

Christophe stared at him. He was surprised and a little ashamed. 

"You're not angry with me?"

"Angry? What an idea!"

So far from being angry, he had been delighted with the way in whichChristophe had trounced Hecht: it had been a treat to him. It reallymattered nothing to him whether Christophe or Hecht was right: he onlyregarded people as source of entertainment: and he saw in Christophe aspring of high comedy, which he intended to exploit to the full. 

"You should have come to see me, " he went on. "I was expecting you. Whatare you doing this evening? Come to dinner. I won't let you off. Quiteinformal: just a few artists: we meet once a fortnight. You should knowthese people. Come. I'll introduce you. "

In vain did Christophe beg to be excused on the score of his clothes. Sylvain Kohn carried him off. 

They entered a restaurant on one of the boulevards, and went up to thesecond floor. Christophe found himself among about thirty young men, whoseages ranged from twenty to thirty-five, and they were all engaged inanimated discussion. Kohn introduced him as a man who had just escapedfrom a German prison. They paid no attention to him and did not stop theirpassionate discussion, and Kohn plunged into it at once. 

Christophe was shy in this select company, and said nothing: but he wasall ears. He could not grasp--he had great difficulty in following thevolubility of the French--what great artistic interests were in dispute. He listened attentively, but he could only make out words like "trust, ""monopoly, " "fall in prices, " "receipts, " mixed up with phrases like "thedignity of art, " and the "rights of the author. " And at last he saw thatthey were talking business. A certain number of authors, it appeared, belonged to a syndicate and were angry about certain attempts which hadbeen made to float a rival concern, which, according to them, would disputetheir monopoly of exploitation. The defection of certain of their memberswho had found it to their advantage to go over bag and baggage to the rivalhouse had roused them, to the wildest fury. They talked of decapitation. ". . . Burked. . . . Treachery. . . . Shame. . . . Sold. . . . "

Others did not worry about the living: they were incensed against the dead, whose sales without royalties choked up the market. It appeared that theworks of De Musset had just become public property, and were selling fartoo well. And so they demanded that the State should give them rigorousprotection, and heavily tax the masterpieces of the past so as to checktheir circulation at reduced prices, which, they declared, was unfaircompetition with the work of living artists. 

They stopped each other to hear the takings of such and such a theater onthe preceding evening. They all went into ecstasies over the fortune ofa veteran dramatist, famous in two continents--a man whom they despised, though they envied him even more. From the incomes of authors they passedto those of the critics. They talked of the sum--(pure calumny, nodoubt)--received by one of their colleagues for every first performanceat one of the theaters on the boulevards, the consideration being that heshould speak well of it. He was an honest man: having made his bargain hestuck to it: but his great secret lay--(so they said)--in so eulogizing thepiece that it would be taken off as quickly as possible so that there mightbe many new plays. The tale--(or the account)--caused laughter, but nobodywas surprised. 

And mingled with all that talk they threw out fine phrases: they talked of"poetry" and "art for art's sake. " But through it all there rang "art formoney's sake"; and this jobbing spirit, newly come into French literature, scandalized Christophe. As he understood nothing at all about their talk ofmoney he had given it up. But then they began to talk of letters, or ratherof men of letters. --Christophe pricked up his ears as he heard the name ofVictor Hugo. 

They were debating whether he had been cuckolded: they argued at lengthabout the love of Sainte-Beuve and Madame Hugo. And then they turned tothe lovers of George Sand and their respective merits. That was the chiefoccupation of criticism just then: when they had ransacked the houses ofgreat men, rummaged through the closets, turned out the drawers, ransackedthe cupboards, they burrowed down to their inmost lives. The attitudeof Monsieur de Lauzun lying flat under the bed of the King and Madamede Montespan was the attitude of criticism in its cult of history andtruth--(everybody just then, of course, made a cult of truth). These youngmen were subscribers to the cult: no detail was too small for them in theirsearch for truth. They applied it to the art of the present as well as tothat of the past: and they analyzed the private life of certain of the morenotorious of their contemporaries with the same passion for exactness. It was a queer thing that they were possessed of the smallest details ofscenes which are usually enacted without witnesses. It was really as thoughthe persons concerned had been the first to give exact information to thepublic out of their great devotion to the truth. 

Christophe was more and more embarrassed and tried to talk to his neighborsof something else; but nobody listened to him. At first they asked hima few vague questions about Germany--questions which, to his amazement, displayed the almost complete ignorance of these distinguished andapparently cultured young men concerning the most elementary things oftheir work--literature and art--outside Paris; at most they had heard of afew great names: Hauptmann, Sudermann, Liebermann, Strauss (David, Johann, Richard), and they picked their way gingerly among them for fear of gettingmixed. If they had questioned Christophe it was from politeness rather thanfrom curiosity: they had no curiosity: they hardly seemed to notice hisreplies: and they hurried back at once to the Parisian topics which wereregaling the rest of the company. 

Christophe timidly tried to talk of music. Not one of these men of letterswas a musician. At heart they considered music an inferior art. But thegrowing success of music during the last few years had made them secretlyuneasy: and since it was the fashion they pretended to be interested in it. They frothed especially about a new opera and declared that music datedfrom its performance, or at least the new era in music. This idea madethings easy for their ignorance and snobbishness, for it relieved themof the necessity of knowing anything else. The author of the opera, aParisian, whose name Christophe heard for the first time, had, said some, made a clean sweep of all that had gone before him, cleaned up, renovated, and recreated music. Christophe started at that. He asked nothing betterthan to believe in genius. But such a genius as that, a genius who had atone swoop wiped out the past. . . . Good heavens! He must be a lusty lad: howthe devil had he done it? He asked for particulars. The others, who wouldhave been hard put to it to give any explanation and were disconcerted byChristophe, referred him to the musician of the company, Théophile Goujart, the great musical critic, who began at once to talk of sevenths and ninths. Goujart knew music much as Sganarelle knew Latin. . . . 

"_. . . You don't know Latin?_"

"_No. _"

_(With enthusiasm) "Cabricias, arci thuram, catalamus, singulariter . . . Bonus, bona, bonum. "_

Finding himself with a man who "understood Latin" he prudently took refugein the chatter of esthetics. From that impregnable fortress he began tobombard Beethoven, Wagner, and classical art, which was not before thehouse (but in France it is impossible to praise an artist without makingas an offering a holocaust of all those who are unlike him). He announcedthe advent of a new art which trampled under foot the conventions of thepast. He spoke of a new musical language which had been discovered by theChristopher Columbus of Parisian music, and he said it made an end of thelanguage of the classics: that was a dead language. 

Christophe reserved his opinion of this reforming genius to wait untilhe had seen his work before he said anything: but in spite of himself hefelt an instinctive distrust of this musical Baal to whom all music wassacrificed. He was scandalized to hear the Masters so spoken of: and heforgot that he had said much the same sort of thing in Germany. He who athome had thought himself a revolutionary in art, he who had scandalizedothers by the boldness of his judgments and the frankness of hisexpressions, felt, as soon as he heard these words spoken in France, thathe was at heart a conservative. He tried to argue, and was tactless enoughto speak, not like a man of culture, who advances arguments withoutexposition, but as a professional, bringing out disconcerting facts. He didnot hesitate to plunge into technical explanations: and his voice, as hetalked, struck a note which was well calculated to offend the ears of acompany of superior persons to whom his arguments and the vigor with whichhe supported them were alike ridiculous. The critic tried to demolishhim with an attempt at wit, and to end the discussion which had shownChristophe to his stupefaction that he had to deal with a man who didnot in the least know what he was talking about. And so they came tothe opinion that the German was pedantic and superannuated: and withoutknowing anything about it they decided that his music was detestable. ButChristophe's bizarre personality had made an impression on the company ofyoung men, and with their quickness in seizing on the ridiculous they hadmarked the awkward, violent gestures of his thin arms with their enormoushands, and the furious glances that darted from his eyes as his voice roseto a falsetto. Sylvain Kohn saw to it that his friends were kept amused. 

Conversation had deserted literature in favor of women. As a matter offact they were only two aspects of the same subject: for their literaturewas concerned with nothing but women, and their women were concerned withnothing but literature, they were so much taken up with the affairs and menof letters. 

They spoke of one good lady, well known in Parisian society, who had, itwas said, just married her lover to her daughter, the better to keep him. Christophe squirmed in his chair, and tactlessly made a face of disgust. Kohn saw it, and nudged his neighbor and pointed out that the subjectseemed to excite the German--that no doubt he was longing to know the lady. Christophe blushed, muttered angrily, and finally said hotly that suchwomen ought to be whipped. His proposition was received with a shout ofHomeric laughter: and Sylvain Kohn cooingly protested that no man shouldtouch a woman, even with a flower, etc. , etc. (In Paris he was the veryKnight of Love. ) Christophe replied that a woman of that sort was neithermore nor less than a bitch, and that there was only one remedy for viciousdogs: the whip. They roared at him. Christophe said that their gallantrywas hypocritical, and that those who talked most of their respect for womenwere those who possessed the least of it: and he protested against thesescandalous tales. They replied that there was no scandal in it, and that itwas only natural: and they were all agreed that the heroine of the storywas not only a charming woman, but _the_ Woman, _par excellence_. TheGerman waxed indignant. Sylvain Kohn asked him slyly what he thought Womanwas like. Christophe felt that they were pulling his leg and laying a trapfor him: but he fell straight into it in the violent expression of hisconvictions. He began to explain his ideas on love to these banteringParisians. He could not find his words, floundered about after them, andfinally fished up from the phrases he remembered such impossible words, such enormities, that he had all his hearers rocking with laughter, whileall the time he was perfectly and admirably serious, never bothered aboutthem, and was touchingly impervious to their ridicule: for he could nothelp seeing that they were making fun of him. At last he tied himself upin a sentence, could not extricate himself, brought his fist down on thetable, and was silent. 

They tried to bring him back into the discussion: he scowled and did notflinch, but sat with his elbows on the table, ashamed and irritated. Hedid not open his lips again, except to eat and drink, until the dinner wasover. He drank enormously, unlike the Frenchmen, who only sipped theirwine. His neighbor wickedly encouraged him, and went on filling his glass, which he emptied absently. But, although he was not used to these excesses, especially after the weeks of privation through which he had passed, hetook his liquor well, and did not cut so ridiculous a figure as the othershoped. He sat there lost in thought: they paid no attention to him: theythought he was made drowsy by the wine. He was exhausted by the effort offollowing the conversation in French, and tired of hearing about nothingbut literature--actors, authors, publishers, the chatter of the _coulisses_and literary life: everything seemed to be reduced to that. Amid all thesenew faces and the buzz of words he could not fix a single face, nor asingle thought. His short-sighted eyes, dim and dreamy, wandered slowlyround the table, and they rested on one man after another without seemingto see them. And yet he saw them better than any one, though he himself wasnot conscious of it. He did not, like these Jews and Frenchmen, peck atthe things he saw and dissect them, tear them to rags, and leave them intiny, tiny pieces. Slowly, like a sponge, he sucked up the essence of menand women, and bore away their image in his soul. He seemed to have seennothing and to remember nothing. It was only long afterwards--hours, oftendays--when he was alone, gazing in upon himself, that he saw that he hadborne away a whole impression. 

But for the moment he seemed to be just a German boor, stuffing himselfwith food, concerned only with not missing a mouthful. And he heard nothingclearly, except when he heard the others calling each other by name, andthen, with a silly drunken insistency, he wondered why so many Frenchmenhave foreign names: Flemish, German, Jewish, Levantine, Anglo- orSpanish-American. 

He did not notice when they got up from the table. He went on sittingalone: and he dreamed of the Rhenish hills, the great woods, the tilledfields, the meadows by the waterside, his old mother. Most of the othershad gone. At last he thought of going, and got up, too, without lookingat anybody, and went and took down his hat and cloak, which were hangingby the door. When he had put them on he was turning away without sayinggood-night, when through a half-open door he saw an object which fascinatedhim: a piano. He had not touched a musical instrument for weeks. He went inand lovingly touched the keys, sat down just as he was, with his hat on hishead and his cloak on his shoulders, and began to play. He had altogetherforgotten where he was. He did not notice that two men crept into the roomto listen to him. One was Sylvain Kohn, a passionate lover of music--Godknows why! for he knew nothing at all about it, and he liked bad musicjust as well as good. The other was the musical critic, Théophile Goujart. He--it simplifies matters so much--neither understood nor loved music: butthat did not keep him from talking about it. On the contrary: nobody is sofree in mind as the man who knows nothing of what he is talking about: forto such a man it does not matter whether he says one thing more thananother. 

Théophile Goujart was tall, strong, and muscular: he had a black beard, thick curls on his forehead, which was lined with deep inexpressivewrinkles, short arms, short legs, a big chest: a type of woodman or porterof the Auvergne. He had common manners and an arrogant way of speaking. Hehad gone into music through politics, at that time the only road to successin France. He had attached himself to the fortunes of a Minister to whom hehad discovered that he was distantly related--a son "of the bastard of hisapothecary. " Ministers are not eternal, and when it seemed that the day ofhis Minister was over Théophile Goujart deserted the ship, taking with himall that he could lay his hands on, notably several orders: for he lovedglory. Tired of politics, in which for some time past he had receivedvarious snubs, both on his own account and on that of his patron, helooked out for a shelter from the storm, a restful position in which hecould annoy others without being himself annoyed. Everything pointed tocriticism. Just at that moment there fell vacant the post of musical criticto one of the great Parisian papers. The previous holder of the post, ayoung and talented composer, had been dismissed because he insisted onsaying what he thought of the authors and their work. Goujart had nevertaken any interest in music, and knew nothing at all about it: he waschosen without a moment's hesitation. They had had enough of competentcritics: with Goujart there was at least nothing to fear: he did not attachan absurd importance to his opinions: he was always at the editor's orders, and ready to comply with a slashing article or enthusiastic approbation. That he was no musician was a secondary consideration. Everybody inFrance knows a little about music. Goujart quickly acquired the requisiteknowledge. His method was quite simple: it consisted in sitting at everyconcert next to some good musician, a composer if possible, and getting himto say what he thought of the works performed. At the end of a few monthsof this apprenticeship, he knew his job: the fledgling could fly. He didnot, it is true, soar like an eagle: and God knows what howlers Goujartcommitted with the greatest show of authority in his paper! He listened andread haphazard, stirred the mixture up well in his sluggish brains, andarrogantly laid down the law for others; he wrote in a pretentious style, interlarded with puns, and plastered over with an aggressive pedantry: hehad the mind of a schoolmaster. Sometimes, every now and then, he drew downon himself cruel replies: then he shammed dead, and took good care not toanswer them. He was a mixture of cunning and thick-headedness, insolent orgroveling as circumstances demanded. He cringed to the masters who had anofficial position or an established fame (he had no other means of judgingmerit in music). He scorned everybody else, and exploited writers who werestarving. He was no fool. 

In spite of his reputation and the authority he had acquired, he knew inhis heart of hearts that he knew nothing about music: and he recognizedthat Christophe knew a great deal about it. Nothing would have induced himto say so: but it was borne in upon him. And now he heard Christophe play:and he made great efforts to understand him, looking absorbed, profound, without a thought in his head: he could not see a yard ahead of him throughthe fog of sound, and he wagged his head solemnly as one who knew andadjusted the outward and visible signs of his approval to the fluttering ofthe eyelids of Sylvain Kohn, who found it hard to stand still. 

At last Christophe, emerging to consciousness from the fumes of wine andmusic, became dimly aware of the pantomime going on behind his back: heturned and saw the two amateurs of music. They rushed at him and violentlyshook hands with him--Sylvain Kohn gurgling that he had played like a god, Goujart declaring solemnly that he had the left hand of Rubinstein and theright hand of Paderewski (or it might be the other way round). Both agreedthat such talent ought not to be hid under a bushel, and they pledgedthemselves to reveal it. And, incidentally, they were both resolved toextract from it as much honor and profit as possible. 

From that day on Sylvain Kohn took to inviting Christophe to his rooms, and put at his disposal his excellent piano, which he never used himself. Christophe, who was bursting with suppressed music, did not need to beurged, and accepted: and for a time he made good use of the invitation. 

At first all went well. Christophe was only too happy to play: andSylvain Kohn was tactful enough to leave him to play in peace. He enjoyedit thoroughly himself. By one of those queer phenomena which must bein everybody's observation, the man, who was no musician, no artist, cold-hearted and devoid of all poetic feeling and real kindness, wasenslaved sensually by Christophe's music, which he did not understand, though he found in it a strongly voluptuous pleasure. Unfortunately, hecould not hold his tongue. He had to talk, loudly, while Christophe wasplaying. He had to underline the music with affected exclamations, like aconcert snob, or else he passed ridiculous comment on it. Then Christophewould thump the piano, and declare that he could not go on like that. Kohnwould try hard to be silent: but he could not do it: at once he wouldbegin again to sniffle, sigh, whistle, beat time, hum, imitate the variousinstruments. And when the piece was ended he would have burst if he had notgiven Christophe the benefit of his inept comment. 

He was a queer mixture of German sentimentality, Parisian humbug, andintolerable fatuousness. Sometimes he expressed second-hand preciousopinions; sometimes he made extravagant comparisons; and then he wouldmake dirty, obscene remarks, or propound some insane nonsense. By way ofpraising Beethoven, he would point out some trickery, or read a lascivioussensuality into his music. The _Quartet in C Minor_ seemed to him jollyspicy. The sublime _Adagio of the Ninth Symphony_ made him think ofCherubino. After the three crashing chords at the opening of the _Symphonyin C Minor_, he called out: "Don't come in! I've some one here. " He admiredthe Battle of _Heldenleben_ because he pretended that it was like the noiseof a motor-car. And always he had some image to explain each piece, apuerile incongruous image. Really, it seemed impossible that he could haveany love for music. However, there was no doubt about it: he really didlove it: at certain passages to which he attached the most ridiculousmeanings the tears would come into his eyes. But after having been moved bya scene from Wagner, he would strum out a gallop of Offenbach, or sing somemusic-hall ditty after the _Ode to Joy_. Then Christophe would bob aboutand roar with rage. But the worst of all to bear was not when Sylvain Kohnwas absurd so much as when he was trying to be profound and subtle, when hewas trying to impress Christophe, when it was Hamilton speaking, and notSylvain Kohn. Then Christophe would scowl blackly at him, and squash himwith cold contempt, which hurt Hamilton's vanity: very often these musicalevenings would end in a quarrel. But Kohn would forget it next day, andChristophe, sorry for his rudeness, would make a point of going back. 

That would not have mattered much if Kohn had been able to refrain frominviting his friends to hear Christophe. But he could not help wanting toshow off his musician. The first time Christophe found in Kohn's roomsthree or four little Jews and Kohn's mistress--a large florid woman, allpaint and powder, who repeated idiotic jokes and talked about her food, andthought herself a musician because she showed her legs every evening in theRevue of the Variétés--Christophe looked black. Next time he told SylvainKohn curtly that he would never again play in his rooms. Sylvain Kohn sworeby all his gods that he would not invite anybody again. But he did so bystealth, and hid his guests in the next room. Naturally, Christophe foundthat out, and went away in a fury, and this time did not return. 

And yet he had to accommodate Kohn, who had introduced him to variouscosmopolitan families, and found him pupils. 

 * * * * *

A few days after Théophile Goujart hunted Christophe up in his lair. He didnot seem to mind his being in such a horrible place. On the contrary, hewas charming. He said:

"I thought perhaps you would like to hear a little music from time to time:and as I have tickets for everything, I came to ask if you would care tocome with me. "

Christophe was delighted. He was glad of the kindly attention, and thankedhim effusively. Goujart was a different man from what he had been at theirfirst meeting. He had dropped his conceit, and, man to man, he was timid, docile, anxious to learn. It was only when they were with others that heresumed his superior manner and his blatant tone of voice. His eagerness tolearn had a practical side to it. He had no curiosity about anything thatwas not actual. He wanted to know what Christophe thought of a score he hadreceived which he would have been hard put to it to write about, for hecould hardly read a note. 

They went to a symphony concert. They had to go in by the entrance to amusic-hall. They went down a winding passage to an ill-ventilated hall:the air was stifling: the seats were very narrow, and placed too closetogether: part of the audience was standing and blocking up every wayout:--the uncomfortable French. A man who looked as though he werehopelessly bored was racing through a Beethoven symphony as though hewere in a hurry to get to the end of it. The voluptuous strains of astomach-dance coming from the music-hall next door were mingled with thefuneral march of the _Eroica_. People kept coming in and taking theirseats, and turning their glasses on the audience. As soon as the lastperson had arrived, they began to go out again. Christophe strained everynerve to try and follow the thread of the symphony through the babel;and he did manage to wrest some pleasure from it--(for the orchestra wasskilful, and Christophe had been deprived of symphony music for a longtime)--and then Goujart took his arm and, in the middle of the concert, said:

"Now let us go. We'll go to another concert. "

Christophe frowned: but he made no reply and followed his guide. They wenthalf across Paris, and then reached another hall, that smelled of stables, in which at other times fairy plays and popular pieces were given--(inParis music is like those poor workingmen who share a lodging: when oneof them leaves the bed, the other creeps into the warm sheets). No air, of course: since the reign of Louis XIV the French have considered airunhealthy: and the ventilation of the theaters, like that of old atVersailles, makes it impossible for people to breathe. A noble old man, waving his arms like a lion-tamer, was letting loose an act of Wagner: thewretched beast--the act--was like the lions of a menagerie, dazzled andcowed by the footlights, so that they have to be whipped to be remindedthat they are lions. The audience consisted of female Pharisees and foolishwomen, smiling inanely. After the lion had gone through its performance, and the tamer had bowed, and they had both been rewarded by the applause ofthe audience, Goujart suggested that they should go to yet another concert. But this time Christophe gripped the arms of his stall, and declared thathe would not budge: he had had enough of running from concert to concert, picking up the crumbs of a symphony and scraps of a concert on the way. In vain did Goujart try to explain to him that musical criticism in Pariswas a trade in which it was more important to see than to hear. Christopheprotested that music was not written to be heard in a cab, and needed moreconcentration. Such a hotch-potch of concerts was sickening to him: one ata time was enough for him. 

He was much surprised at the extraordinary number of concerts in Paris. Like most Germans, he thought that music held a subordinate place inFrance: and he expected that it would be served up in small delicateportions. By way of a beginning, he was given fifteen concerts in sevendays. There was one for every evening in the week, and often two or threean evening at the same time in different quarters of the city. On Sundaysthere were four, all at the same time. Christophe marveled at this appetitefor music. And he was no less amazed at the length of the programs. Tillthen he had thought that his fellow-countrymen had a monopoly of theseorgies of sound which had more than once disgusted him in Germany. Hesaw now that the Parisians could have given them points in the matter ofgluttony. They were given full measure: two symphonies, a concerto, oneor two overtures, an act from an opera. And they came from all sources:German, Russian, Scandinavian, French--beer, champagne, orgeat, wine--theygulped down everything without winking. Christophe was amazed that theseindolent Parisians should have had such capacious stomachs. They did notsuffer for it at all. It was the cask of the Danaïdes. It held nothing. 

It was not long before Christophe perceived that this mass of musicamounted to very little really. He saw the same faces and heard thesame pieces at every concert. Their copious programs moved in a circle. Practically nothing earlier than Beethoven. Practically nothing later thanWagner. And what gaps between them! It seemed as though music were reducedto five or six great German names, three or four French names, and, sincethe Franco-Russian alliance, half a dozen Muscovites. None of the oldFrench Masters. None of the great Italians. None of the German giants ofthe seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. No contemporary German music, with the single exception of Richard Strauss, who was more acute than therest, and came once a year to plant his new works on the Parisian public. No Belgian music. No Tschek music. But, most surprising of all, practicallyno contemporary French music. And yet everybody was talking about itmysteriously as a thing that would revolutionize the world. Christophe wasyearning for an opportunity of hearing it: he was very curious about it, and absolutely without prejudice: he was longing to hear new music, and toadmire the works of genius. But he never succeeded in hearing any of it:for he did not count a few short pieces, quite cleverly written, but coldand brain-spun, to which he had not listened very attentively. 

 * * * * *

While he was waiting to form an opinion, Christophe tried to find outsomething about it from musical criticism. 

That was not easy. It was like the Court of King Pétaud. Not only didthe various papers lightly contradict each other: but they contradictedthemselves in different articles--almost on different pages. To readthem all was enough to drive a man crazy. Fortunately, the critics onlyread their own articles, and the public did not read any of them. ButChristophe, who wanted to gain a clear idea about French musicians, laboredhard to omit nothing: and he marveled at the agility of the critics, whodarted about in a sea of contradictions like fish in water. 

But amid all these divergent opinions one thing struck him: the pedanticmanner of most of the critics. Who was it said that the French were amiablefantastics who believed in nothing? Those whom Christophe saw were morehag-ridden by the science of music--even when they knew nothing--than allthe critics on the other side of the Rhine. 

At that time the French musical critics had set about learning what musicwas. There were even a few who knew something about it: they were men oforiginal thought, who had taken the trouble to think about their art, andto think for themselves. Naturally, they were not very well known: theywere shelved in their little reviews: with only one or two exceptions, the newspapers were not for them. They were honest men--intelligent, interesting, sometimes driven by their isolation to paradox and the habitof thinking aloud, intolerance, and garrulity. The rest had hastily learnedthe rudiments of harmony: and they stood gaping in wonder at their newlyacquired knowledge. Like Monsieur Jourdain when he learned the rules ofgrammar, they marvelled at their knowledge:

"_D, a, Da; F, a, Fa; R, a, Ra. . . . Ah! How fine it is!. . . Ah! How splendidit is to know something!. . . _"

They only babbled of theme and counter-theme, of harmonies and resultantsounds, of consecutive ninths and tierce major. When they had labeled thesucceeding harmonies which made up a page of music, they proudly moppedtheir brows: they thought they had explained the music, and almost believedthat they had written it. As a matter of fact, they had only repeated itin school language, like a boy making a grammatical analysis of a page ofCicero. But it was so difficult for the best of them to conceive music asa natural language of the soul that, when they did not make it an adjunctto painting, they dragged it into the outskirts of science, and reduced itto the level of a problem in harmonic construction. Some who were learnedenough took upon themselves to show a thing or two to past musicians. Theyfound fault with Beethoven, and rapped Wagner over the knuckles. Theylaughed openly at Berlioz and Gluck. Nothing existed for them just then butJohann Sebastian Bach, and Claude Debussy. And Bach, who had lately beenroundly abused, was beginning to seem pedantic, a periwig, and in fine, ahack. Quite distinguished men extolled Rameau in mysterious terms--Rameauand Couperin, called the Great. 

There were tremendous conflicts waged between these learned men. They wereall musicians: but as they all affected different styles, each of themclaimed that his was the only true style, and cried "Raca!" to that oftheir colleagues. They accused each other of sham writing and sham culture, and hurled at each other's heads the words "idealism" and "materialism, ""symbolism" and "verism, " "subjectivism" and "objectivism. " Christophethought it was hardly worth while leaving Germany to find the squabblesof the Germans in Paris. Instead of being grateful for having good musicpresented in so many different fashions, they would only tolerate their ownparticular fashion: and a new _Lutrin_, a fierce war, divided musiciansinto two hostile camps, the camp of counterpoint and the camp of harmony. Like the _Gros-boutiens_ and the _Petits-boutiens_, one side maintainedwith acrimony that music should be read horizontally, and the other thatit should be read vertically. One party would only hear of full-soundingchords, melting concatenations, succulent harmonies: they spoke of music asthough it were a confectioner's shop. The other party would not hear of theear, that trumpery organ, being considered: music was for them a lecture, a Parliamentary assembly, in which all the orators spoke at once withoutbothering about their neighbors, and went on talking until they had done:if people could not hear, so much the worse for them! They could read theirspeeches next day in the _Official Journal_: music was made to be read, andnot to be heard. When Christophe first heard of this quarrel between the_Horizontalists_ and the _Verticalists_, he thought they were all mad. Whenhe was summoned to join in the fight between the army of _Succession_ andthe army of _Superposition_, he replied, with his usual formula, which wasvery different from that of Sosia:

"Gentlemen, I am everybody's enemy. "

And when they insisted, saying:

"Which matters most in music, harmony or counterpoint?"

He replied:

"Music. Show me what you have done. "

They were all agreed about their own music. These intrepid warriors who, when they were not pummeling each other, were whacking away at some deadMaster whose fame had endured too long, were reconciled by the one passionwhich was common to them all: an ardent musical patriotism. France was tothem _the_ great musical nation. They were perpetually proclaiming thedecay of Germany. That did not hurt Christophe. He had declared so himself, and therefore was not in a position to contradict them. But he was a littlesurprised to hear of the supremacy of French music: there was, in fact, very little trace of it in the past. And yet French musicians maintainedthat their art had been admirable from the earliest period. By way ofglorifying French music, they set to work to throw ridicule on the famousmen of the last century, with the exception of one Master, who was verygood and very pure--and a Belgian. Having done that amount of slaughter, they were free to admire the archaic Masters, who had been forgotten, whilea certain number of them were absolutely unknown. Unlike the lay schoolsof France which date the world from the French Revolution, the musiciansregarded it as a chain of mighty mountains, to be scaled before it couldbe possible to look back on the Golden Age of music, the Eldorado of art. After a long eclipse the Golden Age was to emerge again: the hard wallwas to crumble away: a magician of sound was to call forth in full flowera marvelous spring: the old tree of music was to put forth young greenleaves: in the bed of harmony thousands of flowers were to open theirsmiling eyes upon the new dawn: and silvery trickling springs were tobubble forth with the vernal sweet song of streams--a very idyl. 

Christophe was delighted. But when he looked at the bills of the Parisiantheaters, he saw the names of Meyerbeer, Gounod, Massenet, and Mascagni andLeoncavallo--names with which he was only too familiar: and he asked hisfriends if all this brazen music, with its girlish rapture, its artificialflowers, like nothing so much as a perfumery shop, was the garden of Armidethat they had promised him. They were hurt and protested: if they were tobe believed, these things were the last vestiges of a moribund age: noone attached any value to them. But the fact remained that _CavalleriaRusticana_ flourished at the Opéra Comique, and _Pagliacci_ at the Opéra:Massenet and Gounod were more frequently performed than anybody else, andthe musical trinity--_Mignon_, _Les Huguenots_, and _Faust_--had safelycrossed the bar of the thousandth performance. But these were only trivialaccidents: there was no need to go and see them. When some untoward factupsets a theory, nothing is more simple than to ignore it. The Frenchcritics shut their eyes to these blatant works and to the public whichapplauded them: and only a very little more was needed to make them ignorethe whole music-theater in France. The music-theater was to them a literaryform, and therefore impure. (Being all literary men, they set a ban onliterature. ) Any music that was expressive, descriptive, suggestive--inshort, any music with any meaning--was condemned as impure. In everyFrenchman there is a Robespierre. He must be for ever chopping the headoff something or somebody to purify it. The great French critics onlyrecognized pure music: the rest they left to the rabble. 

Christophe was rather mortified when he thought how vulgar his taste mustbe. But he found some comfort in the discovery that all these musicians whodespised the theater spent their time in writing for it: there was not oneof them who did not compose operas. But no doubt that was also a trivialaccident. They were to be judged, as they desired, by their pure music. Christophe looked about for their pure music. 

 * * * * *

Théophile Goujart took him to the concerts of a Society dedicated tothe national art. There the new glories of French music were elaboratedand carefully hatched. It was a club, a little church, with severalside-chapels. Each chapel had its saint, each saint his devotees, whoblackguarded the saint in the next chapel. It was some time beforeChristophe could differentiate between the various saints. Naturallyenough, being accustomed to a very different sort of art, he was at firstbaffled by the new music, and the more he thought he understood it, thefarther was he from a real understanding. 

It all seemed to him to be bathed in a perpetual twilight. It was a dullgray ground on which were drawn lines, shading off and blurring intoeach other, sometimes starting from the mist, and then sinking back intoit again. Among all these lines there were stiff, crabbed, and crampeddesigns, as though they were drawn with a set-square--patterns with sharpcorners, like the elbow of a skinny woman. There were patterns in curvesfloating and curling like the smoke of a cigar. But they were all envelopedin the gray light. Did the sun never shine in France? Christophe had onlyhad rain and fog since his arrival, and was inclined to believe so; butit is the artist's business to create sunshine when the sun fails. Thesemen lit up their little lanterns, it is true: but they were like theglow-worm's lamp, giving no warmth and very little light. The titles oftheir works were changed: they dealt with Spring, the South, Love, the Joyof Living, Country Walks; but the music never changed: it was uniformlysoft, pale, enervated, anemic, wasting away. It was then the mode inFrance, among the fastidious, to whisper in music. And they were quiteright: for as soon as they tried to talk aloud they shouted: there was nomean. There was no alternative but distinguished somnolence andmelodramatic declamation. 

Christophe shook off the drowsiness that was creeping over him, and lookedat his program; and he was surprised to read that the little puffs of cloudfloating across the gray sky claimed to represent certain definite things. For, in spite of theory, all their pure music was almost always programmusic, or at least music descriptive of a certain subject. It was in vainthat they denounced literature: they needed the support of a literarycrutch. Strange crutches they were, too, as a rule! Christophe observedthe odd puerility of the subjects which they labored to depict--orchards, kitchen-gardens, farmyards, musical menageries, a whole Zoo. Some musicianstransposed for orchestra or piano the pictures in the Louvre, or thefrescoes of the Opéra: they turned into music Cuyp, Baudry, and PaulPotter: explanatory notes helped the hearer to recognize the apple ofParis, a Dutch inn, or the crupper of a white horse. To Christophe it waslike the production of children obsessed by images, who, not knowing how todraw, scribble down in their exercise-books anything that comes into theirheads, and naïvely write down under it in large letters an inscription tothe effect that it is a house or a tree. 

But besides these blind image-fanciers who saw with their ears, there werethe philosophers: they discussed metaphysical problems in music: theirsymphonies were composed of the struggle between abstract principles andstated symbols or religions. And in their operas they affected to study thejudicial and social questions of the day: the Declaration of the Rights ofWoman and the Citizen, elaborated by the metaphysicians of the Butte andthe Palais-Bourbon. They did not shrink from bringing the question ofdivorce on to the platform together with the inquiry into the birth-rateand the separation of the Church and State. Among them were to be foundlay symbolists and clerical symbolists. They introduced philosophicrag-pickers, sociological grisettes, prophetic bakers, and apostolicfishermen to the stage. Goethe spoke of the artists of his day, "whoreproduced the ideas of Kant in allegorical pictures. " The artists ofChristophe's day wrote sociology in semi-quavers. Zola, Nietzsche, Maeterlinck, Barrès, Jaurès, Mendès, the Gospel, and the Moulin Rouge, allfed the cistern whence the writers of operas and symphonies drew theirideas. Many of them, intoxicated by the example of Wagner, cried: "And I, too, am a poet!" And with perfect assurance they tacked on to their musicverses in rhyme, or unrhymed, written in the style of an elementary schoolor a decadent feuilleton. 

All these thinkers and poets were partisans of pure music. But theypreferred talking about it to writing it. And yet they did sometimes manageto write it. Then they wrote music that was not intended to say anything. Unfortunately, they often succeeded: their music was meaningless--at least, to Christophe. It is only fair to say that he had not the key to it. 

In order to understand the music of a foreign nation a man must take thetrouble to learn the language, and not make up his mind beforehand that heknows it. Christophe, like every good German, thought he knew it. That wasexcusable. Many Frenchmen did not understand it any more than he. Like theGermans of the time of Louis XIV, who tried so hard to speak French thatin the end they forgot their own language, the French musicians of thenineteenth century had taken so much pains to unlearn their language thattheir music had become a foreign lingo. It was only of recent years that amovement had sprung up to speak French in France. They did not all succeed:the force of habit was very strong: and with a few exceptions their Frenchwas Belgian, or still smacked faintly of Germany. It was quite natural, therefore, that a German should be mistaken, and declare, with his usualassurance, that it was very bad German, and meant nothing, since he couldmake nothing of it. 

Christophe was in exactly that case. The symphonies of the French seemedto him to be abstract, dialectic, and musical themes were opposed andsuperposed arithmetically in them: their combinations and permutationsmight just as well have been expressed in figures or the letters of thealphabet. One man would construct a symphony on the progressive developmentof a sonorous formula which did not seem to be complete until the last pageof the last movement, so that for nine-tenths of the work it never advancedbeyond the grub stage of its existence. Another would erect variations on atheme which was not stated until the end, so that the symphony graduallydescended from the complex to the simple. They were very clever toys. But aman would need to be both very old and very young to be able to enjoy them. They had cost their inventors untold effort. They took years to write afantasy. They worried their hair white in the search for new combinationsof chords--to express . . . ? No matter! New expressions. As the organ createsthe need, they say, so the expression must in the end create the idea: thechief thing is that the expression should be novel. Novelty at all costs!They had a morbid horror of anything that "had been said. " The best of themwere paralyzed by it all. They seemed always to be keeping a fearful guardon themselves, and crossing out what they had written, wondering: "GoodLord! Where did I read that?" . . . There are some musicians--especially inGermany--who spend their time in piecing together other people's music. Themusicians of France were always looking out at every bar to see that theyhad not included in their catalogues melodies that had already been used byothers, and erasing, erasing, changing the shape of the note until it waslike no known note, and even ceased to be like a note at all. 

But they did not take Christophe in: in vain did they muffle themselvesup in a complicated language, and make superhuman and prodigious efforts, go into orchestral fits, or cultivate inorganic harmonies, an obsessingmonotony, declamations à la Sarah Bernhardt, beginning in a minor key, andgoing on for hours plodding along like mules, half asleep, along the edgeof the slippery slope--always under the mask Christophe found the souls ofthese men, cold, weary, horribly scented, like Gounod and Massenet, buteven less natural. And he repeated the unjust comment on the French ofGluck:

"Let them be: they always go back to their giddy-go-round. "

Only they did try so hard to be learned. They took popular songs as themesfor learned symphonies, like dissertations for the Sorbonne. That was thegreat game at the time. All sorts and kinds of popular songs, songs of allnations, were pressed into the service. And they worked them up into thingslike the _Ninth Symphony_ and the _Quartet_ of César Franck, only much moredifficult. A musician would conceive quite a simple air. At once he wouldmix it up with another, which meant nothing at all, though it jarredhideously with the first. And all these people were obviously so calm, soperfectly balanced!. . . 

And there was a young conductor, properly haggard and dressed for the part, who produced these works: he flung himself about, darted lightnings, madeMichael Angelesque gestures as though he were summoning up the armies ofBeethoven or Wagner. The audience, which was composed of society people, was bored to tears, though nothing would have induced them to renounce thehonor of paying a high price for such glorious boredom: and there wereyoung tyros who were only too glad to bring their school knowledge intoplay as they picked up the threads of the music, and they applauded withan enthusiasm as frantic as the gestures of the conductor, and the fearfulnoise of the music. . . . 

"What rot!" said Christopher. (For he was well up in Parisian slang bynow. )

 * * * * *

But it is easier to penetrate the mystery of Parisian slang than themystery of Parisian music. Christophe judged it with the passion which hebrought to bear on everything, and the native incapacity of the Germans tounderstand French art. At least, he was sincere, and only asked to be putright if he was mistaken. And he did not regard himself as bound by hisjudgment, but left it open to any new impression that might alter it. 

As matters stood, he readily admitted that there was much talent in themusic he heard, interesting stuff, certain odd happy rhythms and harmonies, an assortment of fine materials, mellow and brilliant, glittering colors, a perpetual outpouring of invention and cleverness. Christophe wasentertained by it, and learned a thing or two. All these small masters hadinfinitely more freedom of thought than the musicians of Germany: theybravely left the highroad and plunged through the woods. They did theirbest to lose themselves. But they were so clever that they could not manageit. Some of them found themselves on the road again in twenty yards. Otherstired at once, and stopped wherever they might be. There were a few whoalmost discovered new paths, but instead of following them up they sat downat the edge of the wood and fell to musing under a tree. What they mostlacked was will-power, force: they had all the gifts save one--vigor andlife. And all their multifarious efforts were confusedly directed, and werelost on the road. It was only rarely that these artists became conscious ofthe nature of their efforts, and could join forces to a common and a givenend. It was the usual result of French anarchy, which wastes the enormouswealth of talent and good intentions through the paralyzing influence ofits uncertainty and contradictions. With hardly an exception, all the greatFrench musicians, like Berlioz and Saint-Saens--to mention only the mostrecent--have been hopelessly muddled, self-destructive, and forsworn, forwant of energy, want of faith, and, above all, for want of an inward guide. 

Christophe, with the insolence and disdain of the latter-day German, thought:

"The French do no more than fritter away their energy in inventing thingswhich they are incapable of using. They need a master of another race, aGluck or a Napoleon, to turn their Revolutions to any account. "

And he smiled at the notion of an Eighteenth of Brumaire. 

 * * * * *

And yet, in the midst of all this anarchy, there was a group striving torestore order and discipline to the minds of artists and public. By wayof a beginning, they had taken a Latin name reminiscent of a clericalinstitution which had flourished thirteen or fourteen centuries ago at thetime of the great Invasion of the Goths and Vandals. Christophe was rathersurprised at their going back so far. It was a good thing, certainly, todominate one's generation. But it looked as though a watch-tower fourteencenturies high might be, a little inconvenient, and more suitable perhapsfor observing the movements of the stars than those of the men of thepresent day. But Christophe was soon reassured when he saw that the sons ofSt. Gregory spent very little time on their tower: they only went up it toring the bells, and spent the rest of their time in the church below. Itwas some time before Christophe, who attended some of their services, sawthat it was a Catholic cult: he had been sure at the outset that theirrites were those of some little Protestant sect. The audience groveled: thedisciples were pious, intolerant, aggressive on the smallest provocation:at their head was a man of a cold sort of purity, rather childish andwilful, maintaining the integrity of his doctrine, religious, moral, andartistic, explaining in abstract terms the Gospel of music to the smallnumber of the Elect, and calmly damning Pride and Heresy. To these twostates of mind he attributed every defect in art and every vice ofhumanity: the Renaissance, the Reformation, and present-day Judaism, whichhe lumped together in one category. The Jews of music were burned ineffigy after being ignominiously dressed. The colossal Handel was soundlytrounced. Only Johann Sebastian Bach attained salvation by the grace of theLord, who recognized that he had been a Protestant by mistake. 

The temple of the _Rue Saint-Jacques_ fulfilled an apostolic function:souls and music found salvation there. The rules of genius were taughtthere most methodically. Laborious pupils applied the formulas withinfinite pains and absolute certainty. It looked as though by their piouslabors they were trying to regain the criminal levity of their ancestors:the Aubers, the Adams, and the trebly damned, the diabolical Berlioz, thedevil himself, _diabolus in musica_. With laudable ardor and a sincerepiety they spread the cult of the acknowledged masters. In ten years thework they had to show was considerable: French music was transformed. Notonly the French critics, but the musicians themselves had learned somethingabout music. There were now composers, and even virtuosi, who wereacquainted with the works of Bach. And that was not so common even inGermany! But, above all, a great effort had been made to combat thestay-at-home spirit of the French, who will shut themselves up in theirhomes, and cannot be induced to go out. So their music lacks air: it issealed-chamber music, sofa music, music with no sort of vigor. Thinkof Beethoven composing as he strode across country, rushing down thehillsides, swinging along through sun and rain, terrifying the cattle withhis wild shouts and gestures! There was no danger of the musicians of Parisupsetting their neighbors with the noise of their inspiration, like thebear of Bonn. When they composed they muted the strings of their thought:and the heavy hangings of their rooms prevented any sound from outsidebreaking in upon them. 

The _Schola_ had tried to let in fresh air, and had opened the windows uponthe past. But only on the past. The windows were opened upon a courtyard, not into the street. And it was not much use. Hardly had they opened thewindows than they closed the shutters, like old women afraid of catchingcold. And there came up a gust or two of the Middle Ages, Bach, Palestrina, popular songs. But what was the good of that? The room still smelt of staleair. But really that suited them very well: they were afraid of the greatmodern draughts of air. And if they knew more than other people, they alsodenied more in art. Their music took on a doctrinal character: there was norelaxation: their concerts were history lectures, or a string of edifyingexamples. Advanced ideas became academic. The great Bach, he whose music islike a torrent, was received into the bosom of the Church and then tamed. His music was submitted to a transformation in the minds of the _Schola_very like the transformation to which the savagely sensual Bible has beensubmitted in the minds of the English. As for modern music, the doctrinepromulgated was aristocratic and eclectic, an attempt to compound thedistinctive characteristics of the three or four great periods of musicfrom the sixth to the twentieth century. If it had been possible to carryit out, the resulting music would have been like those hybrid structuresraised by a Viceroy of India on his return from his travels, with rarematerials collected in every corner of the earth. But the good sense ofthe French saved them from any such barbarically erudite excesses: theycarefully avoided any application of their theories: they treated them asMolière treated his doctors: they took their prescriptions, but did notcarry them out. The best of them went their own way. The rest of themcontented themselves in practice with very intricate and difficultexercises in counterpoint: they called them sonatas, quartets, andsymphonies. . . . "Sonata, what do you desire of me?" The poor thing desirednothing at all except to be a sonata. The idea behind it was abstractand anonymous, heavy and joyless. So might a lawyer conceive an art. Christophe, who had at first been by way of being pleased with the Frenchfor not liking Brahms, now thought that there were many, many littleBrahms in France. These laborious, conscientious, honest journeymen hadmany qualities and virtues. Christophe left them edified, but bored todistraction. It was all very good, very good. . . . 

How fine it was outside!

 * * * * *

And yet there were a few independent musicians in Paris, men belonging tono school; They alone were interesting to Christophe. It was only throughthem that he could gauge the vitality of the art. Schools and coteries onlyexpress some superficial fashion or manufactured theory. But theindependent men who stand apart have more chance of really discovering theideas of their race and time. It is true that that makes them all the moredifficult for a foreigner to understand. 

That was, in fact, what happened when Christophe first heard the famouswork which the French had so extravagantly praised, while some of them wereannouncing the coming of the greatest musical revolution of the last tencenturies. (It was easy for them to talk about centuries: they knew hardlyanything of any except their own. )

Théophile Goujart and Sylvain Kohn took Christophe to the Opéra Comiqueto hear _Pelleas and Melisande_. They were proud to display the operato him--as proud as though they had written it themselves. They gaveChristophe to understand that it would be the road to Damascus for him. Andthey went on eulogizing it even after the piece had begun. Christophe shutthem up and listened intently. After the first act he turned to SylvainKohn, who asked him, with glittering eyes:

"Well, old man, what do you think of it?"

And he said:

"Is it like that all through?"

"Yes. "

"But it's nothing. "

Kohn protested loudly, and called him a Philistine. 

"Nothing at all, " said Christophe. "No music. No development. No sequence. No cohesion. Very nice harmony. Quite good orchestral effects, quite good. But it's nothing--nothing at all. . . . "

He listened through the second act. Little by little the lantern gatheredlight and glowed: and he began to perceive something through the twilight. Yes: he could understand the sober-minded rebellion against the Wagnerianideal which swamped the drama with floods of music; but he wondered alittle ironically if the ideal of sacrifice did not mean the sacrifice ofsomething which one does not happen to possess. He felt the easy fluencyof the opera, the production of an effect with the minimum of trouble, theindolent renunciation of the sturdy effort shown in the vigorous Wagnerianstructures. And he was quite struck by the unity of it, the simple, modest, rather dragging declamation, although it seemed monotonous to him, and, tohis German ears, it sounded false:--(and it even seemed to him that themore it aimed at truth the more it showed how little the French languagewas suited to music: it is too logical, too precise, too definite, --a worldperfect in itself, but hermetically sealed). --However, the attempt wasinteresting, and Christophe gladly sympathized with the spirit of revoltand reaction against the over-emphasis and violence of Wagnerian art. The French composer seemed to have devoted his attention discreetly andironically to all the things that sentiment and passion only whisper. Heshowed love and death inarticulate. It was only by the imperceptiblethrobbing of a melody, a little thrill from the orchestra that was no morethan a quivering of the corners of the lips, that the drama passing throughthe souls of the characters was brought home to the audience. It was asthough the artist were fearful of letting himself go. He had the genius oftaste--except at certain moments when the Massenet slumbering in the heartof every Frenchman awoke and waxed lyrical. Then there showed hair that wastoo golden, lips that were too red--the Lot's wife of the Third Republicplaying the lover. But such moments were the exception: they were arelaxation of the writer's self-imposed restraint: throughout the rest ofthe opera there reigned a delicate simplicity, a simplicity which was notso very simple, a deliberate simplicity, the subtle flower of an ancientsociety. That young Barbarian, Christophe, only half liked it. The wholescheme of the play, the poem, worried him. He saw a middle-aged Parisienneposing childishly and having fairy-tales told to her. It was not theWagnerian sickliness, sentimental and clumsy, like a girl from the Rhineprovinces. But the Franco-Belgian sickliness was not much better, withits simpering parlor-tricks:--"the hair, " "the little father, " "thedoves, "--and the whole trick of mystery for the delectation of societywomen. The soul of the Parisienne was mirrored in the little piece, which, like a flattering picture, showed the languid fatalism, the boudoirNirvana, the soft, sweet melancholy. Nowhere a trace of will-power. No oneknew what he wanted. No one knew what he was doing. 

"It is not my fault! It is not my fault!" these grown-up children groaned. All through the five acts, which took place in a perpetualhalf-light--forests, caves, cellars, death-chambers--little sea-birdsstruggled: hardly even that. Poor little birds! Pretty birds, soft, prettybirds. . . . They were so afraid of too much light, of the brutality of deeds, words, passions--life! Life is not soft and pretty. Life is no kid-glovematter. . . . 

Christophe could hear in the distance the rumbling of cannon, coming tobatter down that worn-out civilization, that perishing little Greece. 

Was it that proud feeling of melancholy and pity that made him in spite ofall sympathize with the opera? It interested him more than he would admit. Although he went on telling Sylvain Kohn, as they left the theater, that itwas "very fine, very fine, but lacking in _Schwung_ (impulse), and did notcontain enough music for him, " he was careful not to confound _Pelleas_with the other music of the French. He was attracted by the lamp shiningthrough the fog. And then he saw other lights, vivid and fantastic, flickering round it. His attention was caught by these will-o'-the-wisps:he would have liked to go near them to find out how it was that theyshone: but they were not easy to catch. These independent musicians, whomChristophe did not understand, were not very approachable. They seemed tolack that great need of sympathy which possessed Christophe. With a fewexceptions they seemed to read very little, know very little, desire verylittle. They almost all lived in retirement, some outside Paris, others inParis, but isolated, by circumstances or purposely, shut up in a narrowcircle--from pride, shyness, disgust, or apathy. There were very few ofthem, but they were split up into rival groups, and could not tolerateeach other. They were extremely susceptible, and could not bear with theirenemies, or their rivals, or even their friends, when they dared to admireany other musician than themselves, or when they admired too coldly, or too fervently, or in too commonplace or too eccentric a manner. Itwas extremely difficult to please them. Every one of them had actuallysanctioned a critic, armed with letters patent, who kept a jealous watchat the foot of the statue. Visitors were requested not to touch. They didnot gain any greater understanding from being understood only by their ownlittle groups. They were deformed by the adulation and the opinion thattheir partisans and they themselves held of their work, and they lostgrip of their art and their genius. Men with a pleasing fantasy thoughtthemselves reformers, and Alexandrine artists posed as rivals of Wagner. They were almost all the victims of competition. Every day they had to leapa little higher than the day before, and, especially, higher than theirrivals, These exercises in high jumping were not always successful, andwere certainly not attractive except to professionals. They took no accountof the public, and the public never bothered about them. Their art wasout of touch with the people, music which was only fed from music. Now, Christophe was under the impression, rightly or wrongly, that there was nomusic that had a greater need of outside support than French music. Thatsupple climbing plant needed a prop: it could not do without literature, but did not find in it enough of the breath of life. French music wasbreathless, bloodless, will-less. It was like a woman languishing for herlover. But, like a Byzantine Empress, slender and feeble in body, ladenwith precious stones, it was surrounded with eunuchs: snobs, esthetes, and critics. The nation was not musical: and the craze, so much talked ofduring the last twenty years, for Wagner, Beethoven, Bach, or Debussy, never reached farther than a certain class. The enormous increase in thenumber of concerts, the flowing tide of music at all costs, found no realresponse in the development of public taste. It was just a fashionablecraze confined to the few, and leading them astray. There was only ahandful of people who really loved music, and these were not the peoplewho were most occupied with it, composers and critics. There are so fewmusicians in France who really love music!

So thought Christophe: but it did not occur to him that it is the sameeverywhere, that even in Germany there are not many more real musicians, and that the people who matter in art are not the thousands who understandnothing about it, but the few who love it and serve it in proud humility. Had he ever set eyes on them in France? Creators and critics--the best ofthem were working in silence, far from the racket, as César Franck haddone, and the most gifted composers of the day were doing, and a number ofartists who would live out their lives in obscurity, so that some day inthe future some journalist might have the glory of discovering them andposing as their friend--and the little army of industrious and obscure menof learning who, without ambition and careless of their fame, were buildingstone by stone the greatness of the past history of France, or, being vowedto the musical education of the country, were preparing the greatness ofthe France of the future. There were minds there whose wealth and libertyand world-wide curiosity would have attracted Christophe if he had beenable to discover them! But at most he only caught a cursory glimpse oftwo or three of them: he only made their acquaintance in the villainouscaricatures of their ideas. He saw only their defects copied andexaggerated by the apish mimics of art and the bagmen of the Press. 

But what most disgusted him with these vulgarians of music was theirformalism. They never seemed to consider anything but form. Feeling, character, life--never a word of these! It never seemed to occur to themthat every real musician lives in a world of sound, as other men live in avisible world, and that his days are lived in and borne onward by a floodof music. Music is the air he breathes, the sky above him. Nature wakesanswering music in his soul. His soul itself is music: music is in all thatit loves, hates, suffers, fears, hopes. And when the soul of a musicianloves a beautiful body, it sees music in that, too. The beloved eyes arenot blue, or brown, or gray: they are music: their tenderness is likecaressing, notes, like a delicious chord. That inward music is a thousandtimes more rich than the music that finds expression, and the instrumentis inferior to the player. Genius is measured by the power of life, by thepower of evoking life through the imperfect instrument of art. But to howmany men in France does that ever occur? To these chemists music seems tobe no more than the art of resolving sounds. They mistake the alphabetfor a book. Christophe shrugged his shoulders when he heard them saycomplacently that to understand art it must be abstracted from the man. They were extraordinarily pleased with this paradox: for by it they fanciedthey were proving their own musical quality. And even Goujart subscribedto it--Goujart, the idiot who had never been able to understand how peoplemanaged to learn by heart a piece of music--(he had tried to get Christopheto explain the mystery to him)--and had tried to prove to him thatBeethoven's greatness of soul and Wagner's sensuality had no more to dowith their music than a painter's model has to do with his portraits. 

Christophe lost patience with him, and said:

"That only proves that a beautiful body is of no more artistic value toyou than a great passion. Poor fellow!. . . You have no notion of the beautygiven to a portrait by the beauty of a perfect face, or of the glow ofbeauty given to music by the beauty of the great soul which is mirrored init?. . . Poor fellow!. . . You are interested only in the handiwork? So longas it is well done you are not concerned with the meaning of a piece ofwork. . . . Poor fellow!. . . You are like those people who do not listen towhat an orator says, but only to the sound of his voice, and watch hisgestures without understanding them, and then say he speaks devilishwell. . . . Poor fellow! Poor wretch!. . . Oh, you rotten swine!"

But it was not only a particular theory that irritated Christophe; it wasall their theories. He was appalled by their unending arguments, theirByzantine discussions, the everlasting talk, talk, talk, of musiciansabout music, and nothing else. It was enough to make the best of musiciansheartily sick of music. Like Moussorgski, Christophe thought that it wouldbe as well for musicians every now and then to leave their counterpoint andharmony in favor of books or experience of life. Music is not enough for apresent-day musician; not thus will he dominate his age and raise his headabove the stream of time. . . . Life! All life! To see everything, to knoweverything, to feel everything. To love, to seek, to grasp Truth--thelovely Penthesilea, Queen of the Amazons, whose teeth bite in answer to akiss!

Away with your musical discussion-societies, away with yourchord-factories! Not all the twaddle of the harmonic kitchens would everhelp him to find a new harmony that was alive, alive, and not a monstrousbirth. 

He turned his back on these Doctor Wagners, brooding on their alembics tohatch out some homunculus in bottle: and, running away from French music, he sought to enter literary circles and Parisian society. Like manymillions of people in France, Christophe made his first acquaintancewith modern French literature through the newspapers. He wanted to getthe measure of Parisian thought as quickly as possible, and at the sametime to perfect his knowledge of the language. And so he set himselfconscientiously to read the papers which he was told were most Parisian. Onthe first day after a horrific chronicle of events, which filled severalpages with paragraphs and snapshots, he read a story about a father and adaughter, a girl of fifteen: it was narrated as though it were a matterof course, and even rather moving. Next day, in the same paper, he read astory about a father and a son, a boy of twelve, and the girl was mixed upin it again. On the following day he read a story about a brother and asister. Next day, the story was about two sisters. On the fifth day. . . . Onthe fifth day he hurled the paper away with a shudder, and said to SylvainKohn:

"But what's the matter with you all? Are you ill?"

Sylvain Kohn began to laugh, and said:

"That is art. "

Christophe shrugged his shoulders:

"You're pulling my leg. "

Kohn laughed once more:

"Not at all. Read a little more. "

And he pointed to the report of a recent inquiry into Art and Morality, which set out that "Love sanctified everything, " that "Sensuality wasthe leaven of Art, " that "Art could not be Immoral, " that "Morality wasa convention of Jesuit education, " and that nothing mattered except "thegreatness of Desire. " A number of letters from literary men witnessedthe artistic purity of a novel depicting the life of bawds. Some of thesignatories were among the greatest names in contemporary literature, orthe most austere of critics. A domestic poet, _bourgeois_ and a Catholic, gave his blessing as an artist to a detailed description of the decadenceof the Greeks. There were enthusiastic praises of novels in which thecourse of Lewdness was followed through the ages: Rome, Alexandria, Byzantium, the Italian and French Renaissance, the Age of Greatness . . . Nothing was omitted. Another cycle of studies was devoted to the variouscountries of the world: conscientious writers had devoted their energies, with a monkish patience, to the study of the low quarters of the fivecontinents. And it was no matter for surprise to discover among thesegeographers and historians of Pleasure distinguished poets and veryexcellent writers. They were only marked out from the rest by theirerudition. In their most impeccable style they told archaic stories, highlyspiced. 

But what was most alarming was to see honest men and real artists, men whorightly enjoyed a high place in French literature, struggling in such atraffic, for which they were not at all suited. Some of them with greattravail wrote, like the rest, the sort of trash that the newspapersserialize. They had to produce it by a fixed time, once or twice a week:and it had been going on for years. They went on producing and producing, long after they had ceased to have anything to say, racking their brains tofind something new, something more sensational, more bizarre: for thepublic was surfeited and sick of everything, and soon wearied of even themost wanton imaginary pleasures: they had always to go one better--betterthan the rest, better than their own best--and they squeezed out their verylife-blood, they squeezed out their guts: it was a pitiable sight, agrotesque spectacle. 

Christophe, who did not know the ins and outs of that melancholy traffic, and if he had known them would not have been more indulgent; for in hiseyes nothing in the world could excuse an artist for selling his art forthirty pieces of silver. . . . 

(Not even to assure the well-being of those whom he loves?

Not even then. 

That is not human. 

It is not a question of being human; it is a question of being a man. . . . Human!. . . May God have mercy on your white-livered humanitarianism, it isso bloodless!. . . No man loves twenty things at once, no man can serve manygods!. . . )

. . . Christophe, who, in his hard-working life, had hardly yet seen beyondthe limits of his little German town, could have no idea that this artisticdegradation, which showed so rawly in Paris, was common to nearly all thegreat towns: and the hereditary prejudices of chaste Germany against Latinimmorality awoke in him once more. And yet Sylvain Kohn might easily havepointed to what was going on by the banks of the Spree, and the impurityof Imperial Germany, where brutality made shame and degradation even morerepulsive. But Sylvain Kohn never thought of it: he was no more shocked bythat than by the life of Paris. He thought ironically: "Every nation hasits little ways, " and the ways of the world in which he lived seemed sonatural to him that Christophe could be excused for thinking it was in thenature of the people. And so, like so many of his compatriots, he saw inthe secret sore which is eating away the intellectual aristocracies ofEurope the vice proper to French art, and the bankruptcy of the Latinraces. 

Christophe was hurt by his first encounter with French literature, and ittook him some time to get over it. And yet there were plenty of books whichwere not solely occupied with what one of these writers has nobly called"the taste for fundamental entertainments. " But he never laid hands onthe best and finest of them. Such books were not written, for the like ofSylvain Kohn and his friends: they did not bother about them, and certainlyKohn and the rest never bothered about the better class of books: theyignored each other. Sylvain Kohn would never have thought of mentioningthem to Christophe. He was quite sincerely convinced that his friendsand himself were the incarnation of French Art, and thought there was notalent, no art, no France outside the men who had been consecrated as greatby their opinion and the press of the boulevards. Christophe knew nothingabout the poets who were the glory of French literature, the very crown ofFrance. Very few of the novelists reached him, or emerged from the ocean ofmediocre writers: a few books of Barrès and Anatole France. But he was notsufficiently familiar with the language to be able to enjoy the universaldilettantism, and erudition, and irony of the one, or the unequal butsuperior art of the other. He spent some time in watching the littleorange-trees in tubs growing in the hothouse of Anatole France, and thedelicate, perfect flowers clambering over the gravelike soul of Barrès. Hestayed for a moment or two before the genius, part sublime, part silly, ofMaeterlinck: from that there issued a polite mysticism, monotonous, numbinglike some vague sorrow. He shook himself, and plunged into the heavy, sluggish stream, the muddy romanticism of Zola, with whom he was alreadyacquainted, and when he emerged from that it was to sink back and drown ina deluge of literature. 

The submerged lands exhaled an _odor di femina_. The literature of the dayteemed with effeminate men and women. It is well that women should write ifthey are sincere enough to describe what no man has yet seen: the depthsof the soul of a woman. But only very few dared do that: most of them onlywrote to attract the men: they were as untruthful in their books as intheir drawing-rooms: they jockeyed their facts and flirted with the reader. Since they were no longer religious, and had no confessor to whom to telltheir little lapses, they told them to the public. There was a perfectshower of novels, almost all scabrous, all affected, written in a sort oflisping style, a style scented with flowers and fine perfumes--sometimestoo fine--sometimes not fine at all--and the eternal stale, warm, sweetishsmell. Their books reeked of it. Christophe thought, like Goethe: "Letwomen do what they like with poetry and writing: but men must not writelike women! That I cannot stand. " He could not help being disgusted bytheir tricks, their sly coquetry, their sentimentality, which seemed toexpend itself by preference upon creatures hardly worthy of interest, their style crammed with metaphor, their love-making and sensuality, theirhotch-potch of subtlety and brutality. 

But Christophe was ready to admit that he was not in a position to judge. He was deafened by the row of this babel of words. It was impossible tohear the little fluting sounds that were drowned in it all. For even amongsuch books as these there were some, from the pages of which, behind allthe nonsense, there shone the limpid sky and the harmonious outline of thehills of Attica--so much talent, so much grace, a sweet breath of life, andcharm of style, a thought like the voluptuous women or the languid boys ofPerugino and the young Raphael, smiling, with half-closed eyes, at theirdream of love. But Christophe was blind to that. Nothing could revealto him the dominant tendencies, the currents of public opinion. Even aFrenchman would have been hard put to it to see them. And the only definiteimpression that he had at this time was that of a flood of writing whichlooked like a national disaster. It seemed as though everybody wrote: men, women, children, officers, actors, society people, blackguards. It was anepidemic. 

For the time being Christophe gave it up. He felt that such a guide asSylvain Kohn must lead him hopelessly astray. His experience of a literarycoterie in Germany gave him very properly a profound distrust of the peoplewhom he met: it was impossible to know whether or no they only representedthe opinion of a few hundred idle people, or even, in certain cases, whether or no the author was his own public. The theater gave a more exactidea of the society of Paris. It played an enormous part in the daily lifeof the city. It was an enormous kitchen, a Pantagruelesque restaurant, which could not cope with the appetite of the two million inhabitants. There were thirty leading theaters, without counting the local houses, caféconcerts, all sorts of shows--a hundred halls, all giving performancesevery evening, and, every evening, almost all full. A whole nation ofactors and officials. Vast sums were swallowed up in the gulf. The fourState-aided theaters gave work to three thousand people, and cost thecountry ten million francs. The whole of Paris re-echoed with the gloryof the play-actors. It was impossible to go anywhere without seeinginnumerable photographs, drawings, caricatures, reproducing their featuresand mannerisms, gramophones reproducing their voices, and the newspaperstheir opinions on art and politics. They had special newspapers devotedto them. They published their heroic and domestic Memoirs. These bigself-conscious children, who spent their time in aping each other, thesewonderful apes reigned and held sway over the Parisians: and the dramaticauthors were their chief ministers. Christophe asked Sylvain Kohn toconduct him into the kingdom of shadows and reflections. 

 * * * * *

But Sylvain Kohn was no safer as a guide in that world than in the worldof books, and, thanks to him, Christophe's first impression was almost asrepulsive as that of his first essay in literature. It seemed that therewas everywhere the same spirit of mental prostitution. 

The pleasure-mongers were divided into two schools. On the one hand therewas the good old way, the national way, of providing a coarse and uncleanpleasure, quite frankly; a delight in ugliness, strong meat, physicaldeformities, a show of drawers, barrack-room jests, risky stories, redpepper, high game, private rooms--"a manly frankness, " as those peoplesay who try to reconcile looseness and morality by pointing out that, after four acts of dubious fun, order is restored and the Code triumphsby the fact that the wife is really with the husband whom she thinksshe is deceiving--(so long as the law is observed, then virtue is allright):--that vicious sort of virtue which defends marriage by endowing itwith all the charm of lewdness:--the Gallic way. 

The other school was in the modern style. It was much more subtle and muchmore disgusting. The Parisianized Jews and the Judaicized Christians whofrequented the theater had introduced into it the usual hash of sentimentwhich is the distinctive feature of a degenerate cosmopolitanism. Thosesons who blushed for their fathers set themselves to abnegate their racialconscience: and they succeeded only too well. Having plucked out the soulthat was their birthright, all that was left them was a mixture of themoral and intellectual values of other races: they made a _macédoine_ ofthem, an _olla podrida_: it was their way of taking possession of them. The men who who were at that time in control of the theaters in Paris wereextraordinarily skilful at beating up filth and sentiment, and givingvirtue a flavoring of vice, vice a flavoring of virtue, and turning upsidedown every human relation of age, sex, the family, and the affections. Their art, therefore, had an odor _sui generis_, which smelt both good andbad at once--that is to say, it smelled very bad indeed: they called it"amoralism. "

One of their favorite heroes at that time was the amorous old man. Theirtheaters presented a rich gallery of portraits of the type: and in paintingit they introduced a thousand pretty touches. Sometimes the sexagenarianhero would take his daughter into his confidence, and talk to her abouthis mistress: and she would talk about her lovers: and they would giveeach other friendly advice: the kindly father would aid his daughter inher indiscretions: and the precious daughter would intervene with theunfaithful mistress, beg her to return, and bring her back to the fold. Sometimes the good old man would listen to the confidences of hismistress: he would talk to her about her lovers, or, if nothing betterwas forthcoming, he would listen to the tale of her gallantries, and eventake a delight in them. And there were portraits of lovers, distinguishedgentlemen, who presided in the houses of their former mistresses, andhelped them in their nefarious business. Society women were thieves. Themen were bawds, the girls were Lesbian. And all these things happened inthe highest society: the society of rich people--the only society thatmattered. For that made it possible to offer the patrons of the theaterdamaged goods under cover of the delights of luxury. So tricked out, it wasdisplayed in the market, to the joy of old gentlemen and young women. Andit all reeked of death and the seraglio. 

Their style was not less mixed than their sentiments. They had invented acomposite jargon of expressions from all classes of society and everycountry under the sun--pedantic, slangy, classical, lyrical, precious, prurient, and low--a mixture of bawdy jests, affectations, coarseness, andwit, all of which seemed to have a foreign accent. Ironical, and giftedwith a certain clownish humor, they had not much natural wit: but they wereclever enough, and they manufactured their goods in imitation of Paris. Ifthe stone was not always of the first water, and if the setting was alwaysstrange and overdone, at least it shone in artificial light, and that wasall it was meant to do. They were intelligent, keen, though short-sightedobservers--their eyes had been dulled by centuries of the life of thecounting-house--turning the magnifying-glass on human sentiments, enlargingsmall things, not seeing big things. With a marked predilection for finery, they were incapable of depicting anything but what seemed to their upstartsnobbishness the ideal of polite society: a little group of worn-out rakesand adventurers, who quarreled among themselves for the possession ofcertain stolen moneys and a few virtueless females. 

And yet upon occasion the real nature of these Jewish writers wouldsuddenly awake, come to the surface from the depths of their being, inresponse to some mysterious echo called forth by some vivid word orsensation. Then there appeared a strange hotch-potch of ages and races, abreath of wind from the Desert, bringing over the seas to their Parisianrooms the musty smell of a Turkish bazaar, the dazzling shimmer of thesands, the mirage, blind sensuality, savage invective, nervous disorderonly a hair's-breadth away from epilepsy, a destructive frenzy--Samson, suddenly rising like a lion--after ages of squatting in the shade--andsavagely tearing down the columns of the Temple, which comes crashing downon himself and on his enemies. 

Christophe blew his nose and said to Sylvain Kohn:

"There's power in it: but it stinks. That's enough! Let's go and seesomething else. "

"What?" asked Sylvain Kohn. 

"France. "

"That's it!" said Kohn. 

"Can't be, " replied Christophe. "France isn't like that. "

"It's France, and Germany, too. "

"I don't believe it. A nation that was anything like that wouldn't last fortwenty years: why, it's decomposing already. There must be something else. "

"There's nothing better. "

"There must be something else, " insisted Christophe. 

"Oh, yes, " said Sylvain Kohn. "We have fine people, of course, and theatersfor them, too. Is that what you want? We can give you that. "

He took Christophe to the Théâtre Français. 

 * * * * *

That evening they happened to be playing a modern comedy, in prose, dealingwith some legal problem. 

From the very beginning Christophe was baffled to make out in what sort ofworld the action was taking place. The voices of the actors were out of allreason, full, solemn, slow, formal: they rounded every syllable as thoughthey were giving a lesson in elocution, and they seemed always to bescanning Alexandrines with tragic pauses. Their gestures were solemn andalmost hieratic. The heroine, who wore her gown as though it were a Greekpeplus, with arm uplifted, and head lowered, was nothing else but Antigone, and she smiled with a smile of eternal sacrifice, carefully modulatingthe lower notes of her beautiful contralto voice. The heavy fatherwalked about like a fencing-master, with automatic gestures, a funerealdignity, --romanticism in a frock-coat. The juvenile lead gulped and gaspedand squeezed out a sob or two. The piece was written in the style of atragic serial story: abstract phrases, bureaucratic epithets, academicperiphrases. No movement, not a sound unrehearsed. From beginning to end itwas clockwork, a set problem, a scenario, the skeleton of a play, with nota scrap of flesh, only literary phrases. Timid ideas lay behind discussionsthat were meant to be bold: the whole spirit of the thing was hopelesslymiddle-class and respectable. 

The heroine had divorced an unworthy husband, by whom she had had a child, and she had married a good man whom she loved. The point was, that even insuch a case as this divorce was condemned by Nature, as it is by prejudice. Nothing could be easier than to prove it: the author contrived that thewoman should be surprised, for one occasion only, into yielding to thefirst husband. After that, instead of a perfectly natural remorse, perhapsa profound sense of shame, together with a greater desire to love andhonor the second and good husband, the author trotted out an heroic caseof conscience, altogether beyond Nature. French writers never seem to beon good terms with virtue: they always force the note when they talk ofit: they make it quite incredible. They always seem to be dealing withthe heroes of Corneille, and tragedy Kings. And are they not Kings andQueens, these millionaire heroes, and these heroines who would not beinteresting unless they had at least a mansion in Paris and two or threecountry-houses? For such writers and such a public wealth itself is abeauty, and almost a virtue. 

The audience was even more amazing than the play. They were never boredby all the tiresomely repeated improbabilities. They laughed at the goodpoints, when the actors said things that were _meant_ to be laughed at: itwas made obvious that they were coming, so that the audience could be readyto laugh. They mopped their eyes and coughed, and were deeply moved whenthe puppets gasped, and gulped, and roared, and fainted away in accordancewith the hallowed tragic ritual. 

"And people say the French are gay!" exclaimed Christophe as they left thetheater. 

"There's a time for everything, " said Sylvain Kohn chaffingly. "You wantedvirtue. You see, there's still virtue in France. "

"But that's not virtue!" cried Christophe. "That's rhetoric!"

"In France, " said Sylvain Kohn. "Virtue in the theater is alwaysrhetorical. "

"A pretorium virtue, " said Christophe, "and the prize goes to the besttalker. I hate lawyers. Have you no poets in France?"

Sylvain Kohn took him to the poetic drama. 

 * * * * *

There were poets in France. There were even great poets. But the theaterwas not for them. It was for the versifiers. The theater is to poetry whatthe opera is to music. As Berlioz said: _Sicut amori lupanar. _

Christophe saw Princesses who were virtuously promiscuous, who prostitutedthemselves for their honor, who were compared with Christ ascendingCalvary:--friends who deceived their friends out of devotion tothem:--glorified triangular relations:--heroic cuckoldry: (the cuckold, like the blessed prostitute, had become a European commodity: the exampleof King Mark had turned the heads of the poets: like the stag of SaintHubert, the cuckold never appeared without a halo. ) And Christophe sawalso lovely damsels torn between passion and duty: their passion bade themfollow a new lover: duty bade them stay with the old one, an old man whogave them money and was deceived by them. And in the end they plumpedheroically for Duty. Christophe could not see how Duty differed from sordidinterest: but the public was satisfied. The word Duty was enough for them:they did not insist on having the thing itself; they took the author's wordfor it. 

The summit of art was reached and the greatest pleasure was given when, most paradoxically, sexual immorality and Corneillian heroics could becombined. In that way every need of the Parisian public was satisfied:mind, senses, rhetoric. But it is only just to say that the public wasfonder even of words than of lewdness. Eloquence could send it intoecstasies. It would have suffered anything for a fine tirade. Virtue orvice, heroics hobnobbing with the basest prurience, there was no pill thatit would not swallow if it were gilded with sonorous rhymes and redundantwords. Anything that came to hand was ground into couplets, antitheses, arguments: love, suffering, death. And when that was done, they thoughtthey had felt love, suffering, and death. Nothing but phrases. It was alla game. When Hugo brought thunder on to the stage, at once (as one ofhis disciples said) he muted it so as not to frighten even a child. (Thedisciple fancied he was paying him a compliment. ) It was never possible tofeel any of the forces of Nature in their art. They made everything polite. Just as in music--and even more than in music, which was a younger artin France, and therefore relatively more simple--they were terrified ofanything that had been "already said. " The most gifted of them coldlydevoted themselves to working contrariwise. The process was childishlysimple: they pitched on some beautiful legend or fairy-story, and turnedit upside down. Thus, Bluebeard was beaten by his wives, or Polyphemuswas kind enough to pluck out his eye by way of sacrificing himself to thehappiness of Acis and Galatea. And they thought of nothing but form. Andonce more it seemed to Christophe (though he was not a good judge) thatthese masters of form were rather coxcombs and imitators than great writerscreating their own style and giving breadth and depth to their work. 

They played at being artists. They played at being poets. Nowhere was thepoetic lie more insolently reared than in the heroic drama. They put up aburlesque conception of a hero:

 "_The great thing is to have a soul magnificent. An eagel's eye; broad brow like portico; present An air of strength, grave mien, most touchingly to show A heart that throbs, eyes full of dreams of worlds they know. _"

Verses like that were taken seriously. Behind the hocus-pocus of suchfine-sounding words, the bombast, the theatrical clash and clang of theswords and pasteboard helmets, there was always the incurable futility of aSardou, the intrepid vaudevillist, playing Punch and Judy with history. When in the world was the like of the heroism of Cyrano ever to be found?These writers moved heaven and earth; they summoned from their tombs theEmperor and his legions, the bandits of the Ligue, the _condottieri_ ofthe Renaissance, called up the human cyclones that once devastated theuniverse:--just to display a puppet, standing unmoved through frightfulmassacres, surrounded by armies, soldiers, and whole hosts of captivewomen, dying of a silly calfish love for a woman whom he had seen ten orfifteen years before--or King Henri IV submitting to assassination becausehis mistress no longer loved him. 

So, and no otherwise, did these good people present their parlor Kings, and _condottieri_, and heroic passion. They were worthy scions of theillustrious nincompoops of the days of _Grand Cyrus_, those Gascons of theideal--Scudéry, La Calprenède--an everlasting brood, the songsters of shamheroism, impossible heroism, which is the enemy of truth. Christopheobserved to his amazement that the French, who are said to be so clever, had no sense of the ridiculous. 

He was lucky when religion was not dragged in to fit the fashion! Then, during Lent, certain actors read the sermons of Bossuet at the Gaîtéto the accompaniment of an organ. Jewish authors wrote tragedies aboutSaint Theresa for Jewish actresses. The _Way of the Cross_ was acted atthe Bodinière, the _Child Jesus_ at the Ambigu, the _Passion_ at thePorte-Saint-Martin, _Jesus_ at the Odéon, orchestral suites on the subjectof _Christ_ at the Botanical Gardens. And a certain brilliant talker--apoet who wrote passionate love-songs--gave a lecture on the _Redemption_at the Châtelet. And, of course, the passages of the Gospel that were mostcarefully preserved by these people were those relating to Pilate andMary Magdalene:--"_What is truth_?" and the story of the blessed foolishvirgin. --And their boulevard Christs were horribly loquacious and well upin all the latest tricks of worldly casuistry. 

Christophe said:

"That is the worst yet. It is untruth incarnate. I'm stifling. Let's getout. "

And yet there was a great classic art that held its ground among all thesemodern industries, like the ruins of the splendid ancient temples among allthe pretentious buildings of modern Rome. But, outside Molière, Christophewas not yet able to appreciate it. He was not yet familiar enough with thelanguage, and, therefore, could not grasp the genius of the race. Nothingbaffled him so much as the tragedy of the seventeenth century--one of theleast accessible provinces of French art to foreigners, precisely becauseit lies at the very heart of France. It bored him horribly; he found itcold, dry, and revolting in its tricks and pedantry. The action was thin orforced, the characters were rhetorical abstractions or as insipid as theconversation of society women. They were caricatures of the ancient legendsand heroes: a display of reason, arguments, quibbling, and antiquatedpsychology and archeology. Speeches, speeches, speeches; the eternalloquacity of the French. Christophe ironically refused to say whether itwas beautiful or not: there was nothing to interest him in it: whatever thearguments put forward in turn by the orators of _Cinna_, he did not care arap which of the talking-machines won in the end. 

However, he had to admit that the French audience was not of his way ofthinking, and that they did applaud these plays that bored him. But thatdid not help to dissipate his confusion: he saw the plays through theaudience: and he recognized in the modern French certain of the features, distorted, of the classics. So might a critical eye see in the faded charmsof an old coquette the clear, pure features of her daughter:--(such adiscovery is not calculated to foster the illusion of love). Like themembers of a family who are used to seeing each other, the French could notsee the resemblance. But Christophe was struck by it, and exaggerated it:he could see nothing else. Every work of art he saw seemed to him to befull of old-fashioned caricatures of the great ancestors of the French;and he saw these same great ancestors also in caricature. He could not seeany difference between Corneille and the long line of his followers, thoserhetorical poets whose mania it was to present nothing but sublime andridiculous cases of conscience. And Racine he confounded with his offspringof pretentiously introspective Parisian psychologists. 

None of these people had really broken free from the classics. The criticswere for ever discussing _Tartuffe_ and _Phèdre_. They never wearied ofhearing the same plays over and over again. They delighted in the same oldwords, and when they were old men they laughed at the same jokes which hadbeen their joy when they were children. And so it would be while the Frenchnation endured. No country in the world has so firmly rooted a cult of itsgreat-great-grandfathers. The rest of the universe did not interest them. There were many, many men and women, even intelligent men and women, whohad never read anything, and never wanted to read anything outside theworks that had been written in France under the Great King! Their theaterspresented neither Goethe, nor Schiller, nor Kleist, nor Grillparzer, nor Hebbel, nor any of the great dramatists of other nations, with theexception of the ancient Greeks, whose heirs they declared themselves tobe--(like every other nation in Europe). Every now and then they felt theyought to include Shakespeare. That was the touchstone. There were twoschools of Shakespearean interpreters: the one played _King Lear_, witha commonplace realism, like a comedy of Emile Augier: the other turned_Hamlet_ into an opera, with bravura airs and vocal exercises à la VictorHugo. It never occurred to them that reality could be poetic or that poetrywas the spontaneous language of hearts bursting with life. Shakespeareseemed false. They very quickly went back to Rostand. 

And yet, during the last twenty years, there had been sturdy efforts madeto vitalize the theater: the narrow circle of subjects drawn from Parisianliterature had been widened: the theater laid hands on everything with ashow of audacity. Two or three times even the outer world, public life, hadtorn down the curtain of convention. But the theatrists made haste to pieceit together again. They lived in blinkers, and were afraid of seeing thingsas they are. A sort of clannishness, a classical tradition, a routineof form and spirit, and a lack of real seriousness, held them back frompushing their audacity to its logical extremity. They turned the acutestproblems into ingenious games: and they always came back to the problem ofwomen--women of a certain class. And what a sorry figure did the phantomsof great men cut on their boards: the heroic Anarchy of Ibsen, the Gospelof Tolstoy, the Superman of Nietzsche!. . . 

The literary men of Paris took a great deal of trouble to seem to beadvanced thinkers. But at heart they were all conservative. There was noliterature in Europe in which the past, the old, the "eternal yesterday, "held a completer and more unconscious sway: in the great reviews, in thegreat newspapers, in the State-aided theaters, in the Academy, Pariswas in literature what London was in Politics: the check on the mind ofEurope. The French Academy was a House of Lords. A certain number of theinstitutions of the _Ancien Régime_ forced the spirit of the old days onthe new society. Every revolutionary element was rejected or promptlyassimilated. They asked nothing better. In vain did the Government pretendto a socialistic polity. In art it truckled under to the Academies and theAcademic Schools. Against the Academies there was no opposition save froma few coteries, and they put up a very poor fight. For as soon as a memberof a coterie could, he fell into line with an Academy, and became moreacademic than the rest. And even if a writer were in the advance guard orin the van of the army, he was almost always trammeled by his group and theideas of his group. Some of them were hidebound by their academic _Credo_, others by their revolutionary _Credo_: and, when all was done, they bothamounted to the same thing. 

 * * * * *

By way of rousing Christophe, on whom academic art had acted as asoporific, Sylvain Kohn proposed to take him to certain eclectictheaters, --the very latest thing. There they saw murder, rape, madness, torture, eyes plucked out, bellies gutted--anything to thrill the nerves, and satisfy the barbarism lurking beneath a too civilized section ofthe people. It had a great attraction for pretty women and men of theworld--the people who would go and spend whole afternoons in the stuffycourts of the Palais de Justice, listening to scandalous cases, laughing, talking, and eating chocolates. But Christophe indignantly refused. Themore closely he examined that sort of art, the more acutely he becameaware of the odor that from the very first he had detected, faintly in thebeginning, then more strongly, and finally it was suffocating: the odor ofdeath. 

Death: it was everywhere beneath all the luxury and uproar. Christophediscovered the explanation of the feeling of repugnance with which certainFrench plays had filled him. It was not their immorality that shocked him. Morality, immorality, amorality, --all these words mean nothing. Christophehad never invented any moral theory: he loved the great poets and greatmusicians of the past, and they were no saints: when he came across a greatartist he did not inquire into his morality: he asked him rather:

"Are you healthy?"

To be healthy was the great thing. "If the poet is ill, let him first ofall cure himself, " as Goethe says. "When he is cured, he will write. "

The writers of Paris were unhealthy: or if one of them happened to behealthy, the chances were that he was ashamed of it: he disguised it, anddid his best to catch some disease. Their sickness was not shown in anyparticular feature of their art:--the love of pleasure, the extreme licenseof mind, or the universal trick of criticism which examined and dissectedevery idea that was expressed. All these things could be--and were, as thecase might be--healthy or unhealthy. If death was there, it did not comefrom the material, but from the use that these people made of it; it wasin the people themselves. And Christophe himself loved pleasure. He, too, loved liberty. He had drawn down upon himself the displeasure of his littleGerman town by his frankness in defending many things, which he found here, promulgated by these Parisians, in such a way as to disgust him. And yetthey were the same things. But nothing sounded the same to the Parisiansand to himself. When Christophe impatiently shook off the yoke of thegreat Masters of the past, when he waged war against the esthetics and themorality of the Pharisees, it was not a game to him as it was to these menof intellect: and his revolt was directed only towards life, the life offruitfulness, big with the centuries to come. With these people all tendedto sterile enjoyment. Sterile, Sterile, Sterile. That was the key to theenigma. Mind and senses were fruitlessly debauched. A brilliant art, fullof wit and cleverness--a lovely form, in truth, a tradition of beauty, impregnably seated, in spite of foreign alluvial deposits--a theater whichwas a theater, a style which was a style, authors who knew their business, writers who could write, the fine skeleton of an art, and a thought thathad been great. But a skeleton. Sonorous words, ringing phrases, themetallic clang of ideas hurtling down the void, witticisms, minds hauntedby sensuality, and senses numbed with thought. It was all useless, savefor the sport of egoism. It led to death. It was a phenomenon analogousto the frightful decline in the birth-rate of France, which Europe wasobserving--and reckoning--in silence. So much wit, so much cleverness, somany acute senses, all wasted and wasting in a sort of shameful onanism!They had no notion of it, and wished to have none. They laughed. That wasthe only thing that comforted Christophe a little: these people could stilllaugh: all was not lost. He liked them even less when they tried to takethemselves seriously: and nothing hurt him more than to see writers, whoregarded art as no more than an instrument of pleasure, giving themselvesairs as priests of a disinterested religion:

"We are artists, " said Sylvain Kohn once more complacently. "We follow artfor art's sake. Art is always pure: everything in art is chaste. We explorelife as tourists, who find everything amusing. We are amateurs of raresensations, lovers of beauty. "

"You are hypocrites, " replied Christophe bluntly. "Excuse my saying so. Iused to think my own country had a monopoly. In Germany our hypocrisyconsists in always talking about idealism while we think of nothing butour interests, and we even believe that we are idealists while we thinkof nothing but ourselves. But you are much worse: you cover your nationallewdness with the names of Art and Beauty (with capitals)--when you do notshield your Moral Pilatism behind the names of Truth, Science, IntellectualDuty, and you wash your hands of the possible consequences of your haughtyinquiry. Art for art's sake!. . . That's a fine faith! But it is the faithof the strong. Art! To grasp life, as the eagle claws its prey, to bear itup into the air, to rise with it into the serenity of space!. . . For thatyou need talons, great wings, and a strong heart. But you are nothing butsparrows who, when they find a piece of carrion, rend it here and there, squabbling for it, and twittering . . . Art for art's sake!. . . Oh! wretchedmen! Art is no common ground for the feet of all who pass it by. Why, it isa pleasure, it is the most intoxicating of all. But it is a pleasure whichis only won at the cost of a strenuous fight: it is the laurel-wreath thatcrowns the victory of the strong. Art is life tamed. Art is the Emperorof life. To be Cæsar a man must have the soul of Cæsar. But you areonly limelight Kings: you are playing a part, and do not even deceiveyourselves. And, like those actors, who turn to profit their deformities, you manufacture literature out of your own deformities and those of yourpublic. Lovingly do you cultivate the diseases of your people, their fearof effort, their love of pleasure, their sensual minds, their chimericalhumanitarianism, everything in them that drugs the will, everything in themthat saps their power for action. You deaden their minds with the fumesof opium. Behind it all is death: you know it: but you will not admit it. Well, I tell you: Where death is, there art is not. Art is the spring oflife. But even the most honest of your writers are so cowardly that evenwhen the bandage is removed from their eyes they pretend not to see: theyhave the effrontery to say:

"'It is dangerous, I admit: it is poisonous: but it is full of talent. '

"It is as if a judge, sentencing a hooligan, were to say:

"'He's a blackguard, certainly: but he has so much talent!. . . '"

 * * * * *

Christophe wondered what was the use of French criticism. There was no lackof critics: they swarmed all over and about French art. It was impossibleto see the work of the artists: they were swamped by the critics. 

Christophe was not indulgent towards criticism in general. He found itdifficult to admit the utility of these thousands of artists who formed aFourth or Fifth Estate in the modern community: he read in it the signs ofa worn-out generation which relegates to others the business of regardinglife--feeling vicariously. And, to go farther, it seemed to him not alittle shameful that they could not even see with their own eyes thereflection of life, but must have yet more intermediaries, reflectionsof the reflection--the critics. At least, they ought to have seen to itthat the reflections were true. But the critics reflected nothing but theuncertainty of the mob that moved round them. They were like those trickmirrors which reflect again and again the faces of the sightseers who gazeinto them against a painted background. 

There had been a time when the critics had enjoyed a tremendous authorityin France. The public bowed down to their decrees: and they were notfar from regarding them as superior to the artists, as artists withintelligence:--(apparently the two words do not go together naturally). Then they had multiplied too rapidly: there were too many oracles: thatspoiled the trade. When there are so many people, each of whom declaresthat he is the sole repository of truth, it is impossible to believe them:and in the end they cease to believe it themselves. They were discouraged:in the passage from night to day, according to the French custom, theypassed from one extreme to the other. Where they had before professedto know everything, they now professed to know nothing. It was a pointof honor with them, quite fatuously. Renan had taught those milksopgenerations that it is not correct to affirm anything without denying it atonce, or at least casting a doubt on it. He was one of those men of whomSt. Paul speaks: "For whom there is always Yes, Yes, and then No, No. " Allthe superior persons in France had wildly embraced this amphibious _Credo_. It exactly suited their indolence of mind and weakness of character. Theyno longer said of a work of art that it was good or bad, true or false, intelligent or idiotic. They said:

"It may be so. . . . Nothing is impossible. . . . I don't know. . . . I wash myhands of it. "

If some objectionable piece were put up, they did not say:

"That is nasty rubbish!"

They said:

"Sir Sganarelle, please do not talk like that. Our philosophy bids us talkof everything open-mindedly: and therefore you ought not to say: 'That isnasty rubbish!' but: 'It seems to me that that is nasty rubbish. . . . But itis not certain that it is so. It may be a masterpiece. Who can say that itis not?'"

There was no danger of their being accused of tyranny over the arts. Schiller once taught them a lesson when he reminded the petty tyrants ofthe Press of his time of what he called bluntly:

"_The Duty of Servants. 

"First, the house must be clean that the Queen is to enter. Bustle about, then! Sweep the rooms. That is what you are there for, gentlemen!

"But as soon as She appears, out you go! Let not the serving-wench sit inher lady's chair!_"

But, to be just to the critics of that time, it must be said that theynever did sit in their lady's chair. It was ordered that they should beservants: and servants they were. But bad servants: they never took a broomin their hands: the room was thick with dust. Instead of cleaning andtidying, they folded their arms, and left the work to be done by themaster, the divinity of the day:--Universal Suffrage. 

In fact, there had been for some time a wave of reaction passing throughthe popular conscience. A few people had set out--feebly enough--on acampaign of public health: but Christophe could see no sign of it among thepeople with whom he lived. They gained no hearing, and were laughed at. When every now and then some honest man did raise a protest against uncleanart, the authors replied haughtily that they were in the right, since thepublic was satisfied. That was enough to silence every objection. Thepublic had spoken: that was the supreme law of art! It never occurred toanybody to impeach the evidence of a debauched public in favor of thosewho had debauched them, or that it was the artist's business to lead thepublic, not the public the artist. A numerical religion--the number of theaudience, and the sum total of the receipts--dominated the artistic thoughtof that commercialized democracy. Following the authors, the criticsdocilely declared that the essential function of a work of art was toplease. Success is law: and when success endures, there is nothing to bedone but to bow to it. And so they devoted their energies to anticipatingthe fluctuations of the Exchange of pleasure, in trying to find out whatthe public thought of the various plays. The joke of it was that the publicwas always trying frantically to find out what the critics thought. And sothere they were, looking at each, other: and in each other's eyes they sawnothing but their own indecision. 

And yet never had there been such crying need of a fearless critic. In ananarchical Republic, fashion, which is all-powerful in art, very rarelylooks backward, as it does in a conservative State: it goes onwards always:and there is a perpetual competition of libertinism which hardly anybodydare resist. The mob is incapable of forming an opinion: at heart it isshocked: but nobody dares to say what everybody secretly feels. If thecritics were strong, if they dared to be strong, what a power they wouldhave! A vigorous critic would in a few years become the Napoleon of publictaste, and sweep away all the diseases of art. But there is no Napoleon inFrance, All the critics live in that vitiated atmosphere, and do not noticeit. And they dare not speak. They all know each other. They are a more orless close company, and they have to consider each other: not one of themis independent. To be so, they would have to renounce their social life, and even their friendships. Who is there that would have the courage, insuch a knock-kneed time, when even the best critics doubt whether a justnotice is worth the annoyance it may cause to the writer and the object ofit? Who is there so devoted to duty that he would condemn himself to such ahell on earth: dare to stand out against opinion, fight the imbecility ofthe public, expose the mediocrity of the successes of the day, defend theunknown artist who is alone and at the mercy of the beasts of prey, andsubject the minds of those who were born to obey to the dominion of themaster-mind? Christophe actually heard the critics at a first night in thevestibule of the theater say: "H'm! Pretty bad, isn't it? Utter rot!" Andnext day in their notices they talked of masterpieces, Shakespeare, thewings of genius beating above their heads. 

"It is not so much talent that your art lacks as character, " saidChristophe to Sylvain Kohn. "You need a great critic, a Lessing, a . . . "

"A Boileau?" said Sylvain quizzically. 

"A Boileau, perhaps, more than these artists of genius. "

"If we had a Boileau, " said Sylvain Kohn, "no one would listen to him. "

"If they did not listen to him, " replied Christophe, "he would not bea Boileau. I bet you that if I set out and told you the truth aboutyourselves, quite bluntly, however clumsy I might be, you would have togulp it down. "

"My dear good fellow!" laughed Sylvain Kohn. 

That was all the reply he made. 

He was so cocksure and so satisfied with the general flabbiness of theFrench that suddenly it occurred to Christophe that Kohn was a thousandtimes more of a foreigner in France than himself: and there was a catch athis heart. 

"It is impossible, " he said once more, as he had said that evening when hehad left the theater on the boulevards in disgust. "There must be somethingelse. "

"What more do you want?" asked Sylvain Kohn. 

"France. "

"We are France, " said Sylvain Kohn, gurgling with laughter. 

Christophe stared hard at him for a moment, then shook his head, and saidonce more:

"There must be something else. "

"Well, old man, you'd better look for it, " said Sylvain Kohn, laughinglouder than ever. 

Christophe had to look for it. It was well hidden. 

II

The more clearly Christophe saw into the vat of ideas in which Parisian artwas fermenting, the more strongly he was impressed by the supremacy ofwomen in that cosmopolitan community. They had an absurdly disproportionateimportance. It was not enough for woman to be the helpmeet of man. It wasnot even enough for her to be his equal. Her pleasure must be law bothfor herself and for man. And man truckled to it. When a nation is growingold, it renounces its will, its faith, the whole essence of its being, in favor of the giver of pleasure. Men make works of art: but women makemen, --(except when they tamper with the work of the men, as happened inFrance at that time):--and it would be more just to say that they unmakewhat they make. No doubt the Eternal Feminine has been an upliftinginfluence on the best of men: but for the ordinary men, in ages ofweariness and fatigue, there is, as some one has said, another Feminine, just as eternal, who drags them down. This other Feminine was the mistressof Parisian thought, the Queen of the Republic. 

 * * * * *

Christophe closely observed the Parisian women at the houses at whichSylvain Kohn's introduction or his own skill at the piano had made himwelcome. Like most foreigners, he generalized freely and unsparingly aboutFrench women from the two or three types he had met: young women, not verytall, and not at all fresh, with neat figures, dyed hair, large hats ontheir pretty heads that were a little too large for their bodies: they hadtrim features, but their faces were just a little too fleshy: good noses, vulgar sometimes, characterless always: quick eyes without any great depth, which they tried to make as brilliant and large as possible: well-cut lipsthat were perfectly under control: plump little chins; and the lower partof their faces revealed their utter materialism; they were elegant littlecreatures who, amid all their preoccupations with love and intrigue, neverlost sight of public opinion and their domestic affairs. They were pretty, but they belonged to no race. In all these polite ladies there was thesavor of the respectable woman perverted, or wanting to be so, togetherwith all the traditions of her class; prudence, economy, coldness, practical common sense, egoism. A poor sort of life. A desire for pleasureemanating rather from a cerebral curiosity than from a need of the senses. Their will was mediocre in quality, but firm. They were very well dressed, and had little automatic gestures. They were always patting their hairor their gowns with the backs or the palms of their hands, with littledelicate movements. And they always managed to sit so that they couldadmire themselves--and watch other women--in a mirror, near or far, not tomention, at tea or dinner, the spoons, knives, silver coffee-pots, polishedand shining, in which they always peeped at the reflections of their faces, which were more interesting to them than anything or anybody else. At mealsthey dieted sternly: drinking water and depriving themselves altogether ofany food that might stand in the way of their ideal of a complexion of afloury whiteness. 

There was a fairly large proportion of Jewesses among Christophe'sacquaintance: and he was always attracted by them, although, since hisencounter with Judith Mannheim, he had hardly any illusions about them. Sylvain Kohn had introduced him to several Jewish houses where he wasreceived with the usual intelligence of the race, which loves intelligence. Christophe met financiers there, engineers, newspaper proprietors, international brokers, slave-dealers of a sort from Algiers--the men ofaffairs of the Republic. They were clear-headed and energetic, indifferentto other people, smiling, affable, and secretive. Christophe felt sometimesthat behind their hard faces was the knowledge of crime in the past, andthe future, of these men gathered round the sumptuous table laden withfood, flowers, and wine. They were almost all ugly. But the women, takenas a whole, were quite brilliant, though it did not do to look at them tooclosely: in most of them there was a want of subtlety in their coloring. But brilliance there was, and a fair show of material life, beautifulshoulders generously exposed to view, and a genius for making their beautyand even their ugliness a lure for the men. An artist would have recognizedin some of them the old Roman type, the women of the time of Nero, downto the time of Hadrian. And there were Palmaesque faces, with a sensualexpression, heavy chins solidly modeled with the neck, and not without acertain bestial beauty. Some of them had thick curly hair, and bold, fieryeyes: they seemed to be subtle, incisive, ready for everything, more virilethan other women. And also more feminine. Here and there a more spiritualprofile would stand out. Those pure features came from beyond Rome, fromthe East, the country of Laban: there was expressed in them the poetry ofsilence, of the Desert. But when Christophe went nearer, and listened tothe conversations between Rebecca and Faustina the Roman, or Saint Barbethe Venetian, he found her to be just a Parisian Jewess, just like theothers, even more Parisian than the Parisian women, more artificial andsophisticated, talking quietly, and maliciously stripping the assembledcompany, body and soul, with her Madonna's eyes. 

Christophe wandered from group to group, but could identify himself withnone of them. The men talked savagely of hunting, brutally of love, andonly of money with any sort of real appreciation. And that was cold andcunning. They talked business in the smoking-room. Christophe heard someone say of a certain fop who was sauntering from one lady to another, witha buttonhole in his coat, oozing heavy compliments:

"So! He is free again?"

In a corner of the room two ladies were talking of the love-affairs of ayoung actress and a society woman. There was occasional music. Christophewas asked to play. Large women, breathless and heavily perspiring, declaimed in an apocalyptic tone verses of Sully-Prudhomme or AugusteDorchain. A famous actor solemnly recited a _Mystic Ballad_ to theaccompaniment of an American organ. Words and music were so stupid thatthey turned Christophe sick. But the Roman women were delighted, andlaughed heartily to show their magnificent teeth. Scenes from Ibsen wereperformed. It was a fine epilogue to the struggle of a great man againstthe Pillars of Society that it should be used for their diversion!

And then they all began, of course, to prattle about art. That washorrible. The women especially began to talk of Ibsen, Wagner, Tolstoy, flirtatiously, politely, boredly, or idiotically. Once the conversation hadstarted, there was no stopping it. The disease was contagious. Christophehad to listen to the ideas of bankers, brokers, and slave-dealers on art. In vain did he refuse to speak or try to turn the conversation: theyinsisted on talking about music and poetry. As Berlioz said: "Such peopleuse the words quite coolly: just as though they were talking of wine, women, or some such trash. " An alienist physician recognized one of hispatients in an Ibsen heroine, though to his way of thinking she wasinfinitely more silly. An engineer quite sincerely declared that thehusband was the sympathetic character in the _Doll's House_. The famousactor--a well-known Comedian--brayed his profound ideas on Nietzscheand Carlyle: he assured Christophe that he could not see a picture ofVelasquez--(the idol of the hour)--"without the tears coursing down hischeeks. " And he confided--still to Christophe's private ear--that, thoughhe esteemed art very highly, yet he esteemed still more highly the art ofliving, acting, and that if he were asked to choose what part he wouldplay, it would be that of Bismarck. . . . Sometimes there would be of thecompany a professed wit, but the level of the conversation was notappreciably higher for that. Generally they said nothing; they confinedthemselves to a jerky remark or an enigmatic smile: they lived on theirreputations, and were saved further trouble. But there were a fewprofessional talkers, generally from the South. They talked about anythingand everything. They had no sense of proportion: everything came aliketo them. One was a Shakespeare. Another a Molière. Another a Pascal, ifnot a Jesus Christ. They compared Ibsen with Dumas _fils_, Tolstoy withGeorge Sand: and the gist of it all was that everything came from France. Generally they were ignorant of foreign languages. But that did not disturbthem. It mattered so little to their audience whether they told the truthor not! What did matter was that they should say amusing things, things asflattering as possible to national vanity. Foreigners had to put up witha good deal--with the exception of the idol of the hour: for there wasalways a fashionable idol: Grieg, or Wagner, or Nietzsche, or Gorki, orD'Annunzio. It never lasted long, and the idol was certain one fine morningto be thrown on to the rubbish-heap. 

For the moment the idol was Beethoven. Beethoven--save the mark!--was inthe fashion: at least, among literary and polite persons: for musicians haddropped him at once, in accordance with the see-saw system which is one ofthe laws of artistic taste in France. A Frenchman needs to know what hisneighbor thinks before he knows what he thinks himself, so that he canthink the same thing or the opposite. Thus, when they saw Beethoven inpopular favor, the most distinguished musicians began to discover that hewas not distinguished enough for them: they claimed to lead opinion, not tofollow it: and rather than be in agreement with it they turned their backson it. They began to regard Beethoven as a man afflicted with deafness, crying in a voice of bitterness: and some of them declared that he might bean excellent moralist, but that he was certainly overpraised as a musician. That sort of joke was not at all to Christophe's taste. Still less did helike the enthusiasm of polite society. If Beethoven had come to Paris justthen, he would have been the lion of the hour: it was such a pity that hehad been dead for more than a century. His vogue grew not so much out ofhis music as out of the more or less romantic circumstances of his lifewhich had been popularized by sentimental and virtuous biographies. Hisrugged face and lion's mane had become a romantic figure. Ladies weptfor him: they hinted that if they had known him he should not have beenso unhappy: and in their greatness of heart they were the more ready tosacrifice all for him, in that there was no danger of Beethoven taking themat their word: the old fellow was beyond all need of anything. That was whythe virtuosi, the conductors, and the _impresarii_ bowed down in piousworship before him: and, as the representatives of Beethoven, they gatheredthe homage destined for him. There were sumptuous festivals at exorbitantprices, which afforded society people an opportunity of showing theirgenerosity--and incidentally also of discovering Beethoven's symphonies. There were committees of actors, men of the world, Bohemians, andpoliticians, appointed by the Republic to preside over the destinies ofart, and they informed the world of their intention to erect a monument toBeethoven: and on these committees, together with a few honest men whosenames guaranteed the rest, were all the riffraff who would have stonedBeethoven if he had been alive, if Beethoven had not crushed the life outof them. Christophe watched and listened. He ground his teeth to keephimself from saying anything outrageous. He was on tenterhooks the wholeevening. He could not talk, nor could he keep silent. It seemed to himhumiliating and shameful to talk neither for pleasure nor from necessity, but out of politeness, because he had to talk. He was not allowed to saywhat he thought, and it was impossible for him to make conversation. Andhe did not even know how to be polite without talking. If he looked atanybody, he glared too fixedly and intently: in spite of himself he studiedthat person, and that person was offended. If he spoke at all, he believedtoo much in what he was saying; and that was disturbing for everybody, andeven for himself. He quite admitted that he was out of his element: and, ashe was clever enough to sound the general note of the company, in which hispresence was a discord, he was as upset by his manners as his hosts. He wasangry with himself and with them. 

When, at last he stood in the street once more, very late at night, he wasso worn out with the boredom of it all that he could hardly drag himselfhome: he wanted to lie down just where he was, in the street, as he haddone many times when he was returning as a boy from his performances at thePalace of the Grand Duke. Although he had only five or six francs to takehim to the end of the week, he spent two of them on a cab. He flung himselfinto it the more quickly to escape: and as he drove along he groaned aloudfrom sheer exhaustion. When he reached home and got to bed, he groaned inhis sleep. . . . And then, suddenly, he roared with laughter as he rememberedsome ridiculous saying. He woke up repeating it, and imitating the featuresof the speaker. Next day, and for several days after, as he walked about, he would suddenly bellow like a bull. . . . Why did he visit these people?Why did he go on visiting them? Why force himself to gesticulate and makefaces, like the rest, and pretend to be interested in things that did notappeal to him in the very least? Was it true that he was not in the leastinterested? A year ago he would not have been able to put up with them fora moment. Now, at heart, he was amused by it all, while at the same time itexasperated him. Was a little of the indifference of the Parisians creepingover him? He would sometimes wonder fearfully whether he had lost strength. But, in truth, he had gained in strength. He was more free in mind instrange surroundings. In spite of himself, his eyes were opened to thegreat Comedy of the world. 

Besides, whether he liked it or not, he had to go on with it if he wantedhis art to be recognized by Parisian society, which is only interested inart in so far as it knows the artist. And he had to make himself known ifhe were to find among these Philistines the pupils necessary to keep himalive. 

And, then, Christophe had a heart: his heart must have affection: whereverhe might be, there he would find food for his affections: without it hecould not live. 

 * * * * *

Among the few girls of that class of society--few enough--whom Christophetaught, was the daughter of a rich motor-car manufacturer, ColetteStevens. Her father was a Belgian, a naturalized Frenchman, the sonof an Anglo-American settled at Antwerp, and a Dutchwoman. Her motherwas an Italian. A regular Parisian family. To Christophe--and to manyothers--Colette Stevens was the type of French girl. 

She was eighteen, and had velvety, soft black eyes, which she usedskilfully upon young men--regular Spanish eyes, with enormous pupils; arather long and fantastic nose, which wrinkled up and moved at the tip asshe talked, with little fractious pouts and shrugs; rebellious hair; apretty little face, rather sallow complexion, dabbed with powder; heavy, rather thick features: altogether she was like a plump kitten. 

She was slight, very well dressed, attractive, provoking: she had sly, affected, rather silly manners: her pose was that of a little girl, and shewould sit rocking her chair for hours at a time, and giving littleexclamations like: "No? Impossible. . . . "

At meals she would clap her hands when there was a dish she loved: in thedrawing-room she would smoke cigarette after cigarette, and, when therewere men present, display an exuberant affection for her girl-friends, flinging her arms round their necks, kissing their hands, whisperingin their ears, making ingenuous and naughty remarks, doing it mostbrilliantly, in a soft, twittering voice; and in the lightest possible wayshe would say improper things, without seeming to do more than hint atthem, and was even more skilful in provoking them from others; she had theingenuous air of a little girl, who knows perfectly well what she is about, with her large brilliant eyes, slyly and voluptuously looking sidelong, maliciously taking in all the gossip, and catching at all the dubiousremarks of the conversation, and all the time angling for hearts. 

All these tricks and shows, and her sophisticated ingenuity, were not atall to Christophe's liking. He had better things to do than to lend himselfto the practices of an artful little girl, and did not even care to lookon at them for his amusement. He had to earn his living, to keep his lifeand ideas from death. He had no interest in these drawing-room parakeetsbeyond the gaining of a livelihood. In return for their money, he gave themlessons, conscientiously concentrating all his energies on the task, tokeep the boredom of it from mastering him, and his attention from beingdistracted by the tricks of his pupils when they were coquettes, likeColette Stevens. He paid no more attention to her than to Colette's littlecousin, a child of twelve, shy and silent, whom the Stevens had adopted, towhom also Christophe gave lessons on the piano. 

But Colette was too clever not to feel that all her charms were lost onChristophe, and too adroit not to adapt herself at once to his character. She did not even need to do so deliberately. It was a natural instinct withher. She was a woman. She was like water, formless. The soul of every manshe met was a vessel, whose form she took immediately out of curiosity. Itwas a law of her existence that she should always be some one else. Herwhole personality was for ever shifting. She was for ever changing hervessel. 

Christophe attracted her for many reasons, the chief of which was that hewas not attracted by her. He attracted her also because he was differentfrom all the young men of her acquaintance: she had never tried to pourherself into a vessel of such a rugged form. And, finally, he attractedher, because, being naturally and by inheritance expert in the valuation atthe first glance of men and vessels, she knew perfectly well that what helacked in polish Christophe made up in a solidity of character which noneof her smart young Parisians could offer her. 

She played as well and as badly as most idle young women. She played agreat deal and very little--that is to say, that she was always working atit, but knew nothing at all about it. She strummed on her piano all daylong, for want of anything else to do, or from affectation, or because itgave her pleasure. Sometimes she rattled along mechanically. Sometimes shewould play well, very well, with taste and soul--(it was almost as thoughshe had a soul: but, as a matter of fact, she only borrowed one). Beforeshe knew Christophe, she was capable of liking Massenet, Grieg, Thomé. Butafter she met Christophe she ceased to like them. Then she played Bach andBeethoven very correctly--(which is not very high praise): but the greatthing was that she loved them. At bottom it was not Beethoven, nor Thomé, nor Bach, nor Grieg that she loved, but the notes, the sounds, the fingersrunning over the keys, the thrills she got from the chords which tickledher nerves and made her wriggle with pleasure. 

In the drawing-room of the great house, decorated with faded tapestry, andon an easel in the middle room, a portrait of the stout Madame Stevens bya fashionable painter who had represented her in a languishing attitude, like a flower dying for want of water, with a die-away expression in hereyes, and her body draped in impossible curves, by way of expressing therare quality of her millionaire soul--in the great drawing-room, withits bow-windows looking on to a clump of old trees powdered with snow, Christophe would find Colette sitting at her piano, repeating thesame passage over and over again, delighting her ear with mellifluousdissonance. 

"Ah!" Christophe would say as he entered, "the cat is still purring!"

"How wicked of you!" she would laugh. . . . (And she would hold out her softlittle hand. )

". . . Listen. Isn't it pretty?"

"Very pretty, " he would say indifferently. 

"You aren't listening!. . . Will you please listen?"

"I am listening. . . . It's the same thing over and over again. "

"Ah! you are no musician, " she would say pettishly. 

"As if that were music or anything like it!"

"What! Not music!. . . What is it, then, if you please?"

"You know quite well: I won't tell you, because it would not be polite. "

"All the more reason why you should say it. "

"You want me to?. . . So much the worse for you!. . . Well, do you know whatyou are doing with your piano?. . . You are flirting with it. "

"Indeed!"

"Certainly. You say to it: 'Dear piano, dear piano, say pretty things tome; kiss me; give me just one little kiss!'"

"You need not say any more, " said Colette, half vexed, half laughing. "Youhaven't the least idea of respect. "

"Not the least. "

"You are impertinent. . . . And then, even if it were so, isn't that the rightway to love music?"

"Oh, come, don't mix music up with that. "

"But that is music! A beautiful chord is a kiss. "

"I never told you that. "

"But isn't it true?. . . Why do you shrug your shoulders and make faces?"

"Because it annoys me. "

"So much the better. "

"It annoys me to hear music spoken of as though it were a sort ofindulgence. . . . Oh, it isn't your fault. It's the fault of the world youlive in. The stale society in which you live regards music as a sort oflegitimate vice. . . . Come, sit down! Play me your sonata. "

"No. Let us talk a little longer. "

"I'm not here to talk. I'm here to teach you the piano. . . . Come, playaway!"

"You're so rude!" said Colette, rather vexed--but at heart delighted to behandled so roughly. 

She played her piece carefully: and, as she was clever, she succeededfairly well, and sometimes even very well. Christophe, who was notdeceived, laughed inwardly at the skill "of the little beast, who playedas though she felt what she was playing, while really she felt nothingat all. " And yet he had a sort of amused sympathy for her. Colette, onher part, seized every excuse for going on with the conversation, whichinterested her much more than her lesson. It was no good Christophe drawingback on the excuse that he could not say what he thought without hurtingher feelings: she always wheedled it out of him: and the more insulting itwas, the less she was hurt by it: it was an amusement for her. But, as shewas quick enough to see that Christophe liked nothing so much as sincerity, she would contradict him flatly, and argue tenaciously They would part verygood friends. 

However, Christophe would never have had the least illusion about theirfriendship, and there would never have been the smallest intimacy betweenthem, had not Colette one day taken it into her head, out of sheerinstinctive coquetry, to confide in him. 

The evening before her parents had given an At Home. She had laughed, chattered, flirted outrageously: but next morning, when Christophe came forher lesson, she was worn out, drawn-looking, gray-faced, and haggard. Shehardly spoke: she seemed utterly depressed. She sat at the piano, playedsoftly, made mistakes, tried to correct them, made them again, stoppedshort, and said:

"I can't. . . . Please forgive me. . . . Please wait a little. . . . "

He asked if she were unwell. She said: "No. . . . She was out of sorts. . . . Shehad bouts of it. . . . It was absurd, but he must not mind. "

He proposed to go away and come again another day: but she insisted on hisstaying:

"Just a moment. . . . I shall be all right presently. . . . It's silly of me, isn't it?"

He felt that she was not her usual self: but he did not question her: and, to turn the conversation, he said:

"That's what comes of having been so brilliant last night. You took toomuch out of yourself. "

She smiled a little ironically. 

"One can't say the same of you, " she replied. 

He laughed. 

"I don't believe you said a word, " she went on. 

"Not a word. "

"But there were interesting people there. "

"Oh yes. All sorts of lights and famous people, all talking at once. ButI'm lost among all your boneless Frenchmen who understand everything, andexplain everything, and excuse everything--and feel nothing at all. Peoplewho talk for hours together about art and love! Isn't it revolting?"

"But you ought to be interested in art if not in love. "

"One doesn't talk about these things: one does them. "

"But when one cannot do them?" said Colette, pouting. 

Christophe replied with a laugh:

"Well, leave it to others. Everybody is not fit for art. "

"Nor for love?"

"Nor for love. "

"How awful! What is left for us?"

"Housekeeping. "

"Thanks, " said Colette, rather annoyed. She turned to the piano and beganagain, made mistakes, thumped the keyboard, and moaned:

"I can't!. . . I'm no good at all. I believe you are right. Women aren't anygood. "

"It's something to be able to say so, " said Christophe genially. 

She looked at him rather sheepishly, like a little girl who has beenscolded, and said:

"Don't be so hard. "

"I'm not saying anything hard about good women, " replied Christophe gaily. "A good woman is Paradise on earth. Only, Paradise on earth. . . . "

"I know. No one has ever seen it. "

"I'm not so pessimistic. I say only that I have never seen it: but that'sno reason why it should not exist. I'm determined to find it, if it doesexist. But it is not easy. A good woman and a man of genius are equallyrare. "

"And all the other men and women don't count?"

"On the contrary, it is only they who count--for the world. "

"But for you?"

"For me, they don't exist. "

"You _are_ hard, " repeated Colette. 

"A little. Somebody has to be hard, if only in the interest of theothers!. . . If there weren't a few pebbles here and there in the world, thewhole thing would go to pulp. "

"Yes. You are right. It is a good thing for you that you are strong, " saidColette sadly. "But you must not be too hard on men, --and especially onwomen who aren't strong. . . . You don't know how terrible our weakness is tous. Because you see us flirting, and laughing, and doing silly things, youthink we never dream of anything else, and you despise us. Ah! if you couldsee all that goes on in the minds of the girls of from fifteen to eighteenas they go out into society, and have the sort of success that comesto their youth and freshness--when they have danced, and talked smartnonsense, and said bitter things at which people laugh because they laugh, when they have given themselves to imbeciles, and sought in vain in theireyes the light that is nowhere to be found, --if you could see them in theirrooms at night, in silence, alone, kneeling in agony to pray!. . . "

"Is it possible?" said Christophe, altogether amazed. "What! you, too, havesuffered?"

Colette did not reply: but tears came to her eyes. She tried to smile andheld out her hand to Christophe: he grasped it warmly. 

"What would you have us do? There is nothing to do. You men can freeyourselves and do what you like. But we are bound for ever and ever withinthe narrow circle of the duties and pleasures of society: we cannot breakfree. "

"There is nothing to prevent your freeing yourselves, finding some work youlike, and winning your independence just as we do. "

"As you do? Poor Monsieur Krafft! Your work is not so very certain!. . . Butat least you like your work. But what sort of work can we do? There isn'tany that we could find interesting--for, I know, we dabble in all sortsof things, and pretend to be interested in a heap of things that do notconcern us: we do so want to be interested in something! I do what theothers do. I do charitable work and sit on social work committees. I goto lectures at the Sorbonne by Bergson and Jules Lemaître, historicalconcerts, classical matinées, and I take notes and notes. . . . I never knowwhat I am writing!. . . And I try to persuade myself that I am absorbed byit, or at least that it is useful. Ah! but I know that it is not true. I know that I don't care a bit, and that I am bored by it all!. . . Don'tdespise me because I tell you frankly what everybody thinks in secret I'mno sillier than the rest. But what use are philosophy, history, and scienceto me? As for art, --you see, --I strum and daub and make messy littlewater-color sketches;--but is that enough to fill a woman's life? There isonly one end to our life: marriage. But do you think there is much fun inmarrying this or that young man whom I know as well as you do? I see themas they are. I am not fortunate enough to be like your German Gretchens, who can always create an illusion for themselves. . . . That is terrible, isn't it? To look around and see girls who have married and their husbands, and to think that one will have to do as they have done, be cramped in bodyand mind, and become dull like them!. . . One needs to be stoical, I tellyou, to accept such a life with such obligations. All women are not capableof it. . . . And time passes, the years go by, youth fades: and yet there werelovely things and good things in us--all useless, for day by day they die, and one has to surrender them to the fools and people whom one despises, people who will despise oneself!. . . And nobody understands! One wouldthink that we were sphinxes. One can forgive the men who find us dull andstrange! But the women ought to understand us! They have been like us: theyhave only to look back and remember. . . . But no. There is no help from them. Even our mothers ignore us, and actually try not to know what we are. Theyonly try to get us married. For the rest, they say, live, die, do as youlike! Society absolutely abandons us. "

"Don't lose heart, " said Christophe. "Every one has to face the experienceof life all over again. If you are brave, it will be all right. Lookoutside your own circle. There must be a few honest men in France. "

"There are. I know. But they are so tedious!. . . And then, I tell you, Idetest the circle in which I live: but I don't think I could live outsideit, now. It has become a habit. I need a certain degree of comfort, certainrefinements of luxury and comfort, which, no doubt, money alone cannotprovide, though it is an indispensable factor. That sounds pretty poor, Iknow. But I know myself: I am weak. . . . Please, please, don't draw away fromme because I tell you of my cowardice. Be kind and listen to me. It helpsme so to talk to you! I feel that you are strong and sound: I have suchconfidence in you. Will you be my friend?"

"Gladly, " said Christophe. "But what can I do?"

"Listen to me, advise me, give me courage. I am often so depressed! Andthen I don't know what to do. I say to myself: 'What is the good offighting? What's the good of tormenting myself? One way or the other, whatdoes it matter? Nothing and nobody matters!' That is a dreadful conditionto be in. I don't want to get like that. Help me. Help me. "

She looked utterly downcast; she looked older by ten years: she looked atChristophe with abject, imploring eyes. He promised what she asked. Thenshe revived, smiled, and was gay once more. 

And in the evening she was laughing and flirting as usual. 

 * * * * *

Thereafter they had many intimate conversations. They were alone together:she confided in him: he tried hard to understand and advise her: shelistened to his advice, or, if necessary, to his remonstrances, gravely, attentively, like a good little girl: it was a distraction, an interest, even a support for her: she thanked him coquettishly with a depth offeeling in her eyes. --But her life was changed in nothing: it was only adistraction the more. 

Her day was passed in a succession of metamorphoses. She got up very late, about midday, after a sleepless night: for she rarely went to sleep beforedawn. All day long she did nothing. She would vaguely call to mind a poem, an idea, a scrap of an idea, or a face that had pleased her. She was neverquite awake until about four or five in the afternoon. Till then hereyelids were heavy, her face was puffy, and she was sulky and sleepy. Shewould revive on the arrival of a few girl-friends as talkative as herself, and all sharing the same interest in the gossip of Paris. They chatteredendlessly about love. The psychology of love: that was the unfailing topic, mixed up with dress, the indiscretions of others, and scandal. She had alsoa circle of idle young men to whom it was necessary to spend three hours aday among skirts: they ought to have worn them really, for they had thesouls and the conversation of girls. Christophe had his hour as herconfessor. At once Colette would become serious and intense. She was likethe young Frenchwoman, of whom Bodley speaks, who, at the confessional, "developed a calmly prepared essay, a model of clarity and order, inwhich everything that was to be said was properly arranged in distinctcategories. "--And after that she flung herself once more into the businessof amusement. As the day went on she grew younger. In the evening she wentto the theater: and there was the eternal pleasure of recognizing the sameeternal faces in the audience:--her pleasure lay not in the play that wasperformed, but in the actors whom she knew, whose familiar mannerisms sheremarked once more. And she exchanged spiteful remarks with the people whocame to see her in her box about the people in the other boxes and aboutthe actresses. The _ingénue_ was said to have a thin voice "like sourmayonnaise, " or the great comédienne was dressed "like a lampshade. "--Orelse she went out to a party: and there the pleasure, for a pretty girllike Colette, lay in being seen:--(but there were bad days: nothing ismore capricious than good looks in Paris):--and she renewed her store ofcriticisms of people, and their dresses, and their physical defects. Therewas no conversation. --She would go home late, and take her time about goingto bed (that was the time when she was most awake). She would dawdle abouther dressing-table: skim through a book: laugh to herself at the memory ofsomething said or done. She was bored and very unhappy. She could not go tosleep, and in the night there would come frightful moments of despair. 

Christophe, who only saw Colette for a few hours at intervals, and couldonly be present at a few of these transformations, found it difficult tounderstand her at all. He wondered when she was sincere, --or if she werealways sincere--or if she were never sincere. Colette herself could nothave told him. Like most girls who are idle and circumscribed in theirdesires, she was in darkness. She did not know what she was, because shedid not know what she wanted, because she could not know what she wantedwithout having tried it. She would try it, after her fashion, with themaximum of liberty and the minimum of risk, trying to copy the people abouther and to take their moral measure. She was in no hurry to choose. Shewould have liked to try everything, and turn everything to account. 

But that did not work with a friend like Christophe. He was perfectlywilling to allow her to prefer people whom he did not admire, even peoplewhom he despised: but he would not suffer her to put him on the same levelwith them. Everybody to his own taste: but at least let everybody have hisown taste. 

He was the less inclined to be patient with Colette, as she seemed to takea delight in gathering round herself all the young men who were most likelyto exasperate Christophe: disgusting little snobs, most of them wealthy, all of them idle, or jobbed into a sinecure in some governmentoffice--which amounts to the same thing. They all wrote--or pretended towrite. That was an itch of the Third Republic. It was a sort of indolentvanity, --intellectual work being the hardest of all to control, and mosteasily lending itself to the game of bluff. They never gave more than adiscreet, though respectful hint, of their great labors. They seemed to beconvinced of the importance of their work, staggering under the weight ofit. At first Christophe was a little embarrassed by the fact that he hadnever heard of them or their works. He tried bashfully to ask about them:he was especially anxious to know what one of them had written, a youngman who was declared by the others to be a master of the theater. He wassurprised to hear that this great dramatist had written a one-act playtaken from a novel, which had been pieced together from a number of shortstories, or, rather, sketches, which he had published in one of theReviews during the past ten years. The baggage of the others was not moreconsiderable: a few one-act plays, a few short stories, a few verses. Someof them had won fame with an article, others with a book "which they weregoing to write. " They professed scorn for long-winded books. They seemedto attach extreme importance to the handling of words. And yet the word"thought" frequently occurred in their conversation: but it did not seemto have the same meaning as is usually given to it: they applied it to thedetails of style. However, there were among them great thinkers, and greatironists, who, when they wrote, printed their subtle and profound remarksin _italics_, so that there might be no mistake. 

They all had the cult of the letter _I_: it was the only cult they had. They tried to proselytize. But, unfortunately, other people weresubscribers to the cult. They were always conscious of their audience intheir way of speaking, walking, smoking, reading a paper, carrying theirheads, looking, bowing to each other. --Such players' tricks are natural toyoung people, and the more insignificant--that is to say, unoccupied--theyare, the stronger hold do they have on them. They are more especiallyparaded before women: for they covet women, and long--even more--to becoveted by them. But even on a chance meeting they will trot out their bagof tricks: even for a passer-by from whom they can expect only a glance ofamazement. Christophe often came across these young strutting peacocks:budding painters, and musicians, art-students who modeled their appearanceon some famous portrait: Van Dyck, Rembrandt, Velasquez, Beethoven; orfitted it to the parts they wish to play: painter, musician, workman, theprofound thinker, the jolly fellow, the Danubian peasant, the naturalman. . . . They were always on the lookout to see if they were attractingattention. When Christophe met them in the street he took a maliciouspleasure in looking the other way and ignoring them. But their discomfiturenever lasted long: a yard or so farther on they would start strutting forthe next comer. --But the young men of Colette's little circle were rathermore subtle: their coxcombry was mental: they had two or three models, whowere not themselves original. Or else they would mimic an idea: Force, Joy, Pity, Solidarity, Socialism, Anarchism, Faith, Liberty: all these wereparts for their playing. They were horribly clever in making the dearestand rarest thoughts mere literary stuff, and in degrading the most heroicimpulses of the human soul to the level of drawing-room commodities, fashionable neckties. 

But in love they were altogether in their element: that was their specialprovince. The casuistry of pleasure had no secrets for them: they wereso clever that they could invent new problems so as to have the honorof solving them. That has always been the occupation of people who havenothing else to do: in default of love, they "make love": above all, theyexplain it. Their notes took up far more room than their text, which, asa matter of fact, was very short. Sociology gave a relish to the mostscabrous thoughts: everything was sheltered beneath the flag of sociology:though they might have had pleasure in indulging their vices, there wouldhave been something lacking if they had not persuaded themselves that theywere laboring in the cause of the new world. That was an eminently Parisiansort of socialism: erotic socialism. 

Among the problems that were then exercising the little Court of Love wasthe equality of men and women in marriage, and their respective rightsin love. There had been young men, honest, protestant, and ratherridiculous, --Scandinavians and Swiss--who had based equality on virtue:saying that men should come to marriage as chaste as women. The Parisiancasuists looked for another sort of equality, an equality based on lossof virtue, saying that women should come to marriage as besmirched asmen, --the right to take lovers. The Parisians had carried adultery, inimagination and practice, to such a pitch that they were beginning to findit rather insipid: and in the world of letters attempts were being made tosupport it by a new invention: the prostitution of young girls, --I meanregularized, universal, virtuous, decent, domestic, and, above all, socialprostitution. --There had just appeared a book on the question, full oftalent, which apparently said all there was to be said: through fourhundred pages of playful pedantry, "strictly in accordance with the rulesof the Baconian method, " it dealt with the "best method of controllingthe relations of the sexes. " It was a lecture on free love, full of talkabout manners, propriety, good taste, nobility, beauty, truth, modesty, morality, --a regular Berquin for young girls who wanted to go wrong. --Itwas, for the moment, the Gospel in which Colette's little court rejoiced, while they paraphrased it. It goes without saying, that, like alldisciples, they discarded all the justice, observation, and even humanitythat lay behind the paradox, and only retained the evil in it. Theyplucked all the most poisonous flowers from the little bed of sweetenedblossoms, --aphorisms of this sort: "The taste for pleasure can only sharpenthe taste for work":--"It is monstrous that a girl should become a motherbefore she has tasted the sweets of life. "--"To have had the love of aworthy and pure-souled man as a girl is the natural preparation of a womanfor a wise and considered motherhood":--"Mothers, " said this author, "should organize the lives of their daughters with the same delicacy anddecency with which they control the liberty of their sons. "--"The timewould come when girls would return as naturally from their lovers as nowthey return from a walk or from taking tea with a friend. "

Colette laughingly declared that such teaching was very reasonable. 

Christophe had a horror of it. He exaggerated its importance and the evilthat it might do. The French are too clever to bring their literature intopractice. These Diderots in miniature are, in ordinary life, like thegenial Panurge of the encyclopedia, honest citizens, not really a whit lesstimorous than the rest. It is precisely because they are so timid in actionthat they amuse themselves with carrying action (in thought) to the limitof possibility. It is a game without any risk. 

But Christophe was not a French dilettante. 

 * * * * *

Among the young men of Colette's circle, there was one whom she seemed toprefer, and, of course, he was the most objectionable of all to Christophe. 

He was one of those young parvenus of the second generation who form anaristocracy of letters, and are the patricians of the Third Republic. Hisname was Lucien Lévy-Coeur. He had quick eyes, set wide apart, an aquilinenose, a fair Van Dyck beard clipped to a point: he was prematurely bald, which did not become him: and he had a silky voice, elegant manners, andfine soft hands, which he was always rubbing together. He always affectedan excessive politeness, an exaggerated courtesy, even with people he didnot like, and even when he was bent on snubbing them. 

Christophe had met him before at the literary dinner, to which he was takenby Sylvain Kohn: and though they had not spoken to each other, the sound ofLévy-Coeur's voice had been enough to rouse a dislike which he could notexplain, and he was not to discover the reason for it until much later. There are sudden outbursts of love; and so there are of hate, --or--(toavoid hurting those tender souls who are afraid of the word as of everypassion)--let us call it the instinct of health scenting the enemy, andmounting guard against him. 

Lévy-Coeur was exactly the opposite of Christophe, and represented thespirit of irony and decay which fastened gently, politely, inexorably, on all the great things that were left of the dying society: the family, marriage, religion, patriotism: in art, on everything that was manly, pure, healthy, of the people: faith in ideas, feelings, great men, in Man. Behindthat mode of thought there was only the mechanical pleasure of analysis, analysis pushed to extremes, a sort of animal desire to nibble at thought, the instinct of a worm. And side by side with that ideal of intellectualnibbling was a girlish sensuality, the sensuality of a blue-stocking: forto Lévy-Coeur everything became literature. Everything was literary copyto him: his own adventures, his vices and the vices of his friends. He hadwritten novels and plays in which, with much talent, he described theprivate life of his relations, and their most intimate adventures, andthose of his friends, his own, his _liaisons_, among others one with thewife of his best friend: the portraits were well-drawn: everybody praisedthem, the public, the wife, and his friend. It was impossible for him togain the confidence or the favors of a woman without putting them into abook. --One would have thought that his indiscretions would have producedstrained relations with his "friends. " But there Was nothing of the kind;they were hardly more than a little embarrassed: they protested as a matterof form: but at heart they were delighted at being held up to the publicgaze, _en déshabille_: so long as their faces were masked, their modestywas undisturbed. But there was never any spirit of vengeance, or even ofscandal, in his tale-telling. He was no worse a man or lover than themajority. In the very chapters in which he exposed his father and motherand his mistress, he would write of them with a poetic tenderness andcharm. He was really extremely affectionate: but he was one of those menwho have no need to respect when they love: quite the contrary: they ratherlove those whom they can despise a little: that makes the object of theiraffection seem nearer to them and more human. Such men are of all theleast capable of understanding heroism and purity. They are not far fromconsidering them lies or weakness of mind. It goes without saying that suchmen are convinced that they understand better than anybody else the heroesof art whom they judge with a patronizing familiarity. 

He got on excellently well with the young women of the rich, idlemiddle-class. He was a companion for them, a sort of depraved servant, onlymore free and confidential, who gave them instruction and roused theirenvy. They had hardly any constraint with him: and, with the lamp of Psychein their hands, they made a careful study of the hermaphrodite, and hesuffered them. 

Christophe could not understand how a girl like Colette, who seemed to haveso refined a nature and a touching eagerness to escape from the degradinground of her life, could find pleasure in such company. Christophe wasno psychologist. Lucien Lévy-Coeur could easily beat him on that score. Christophe was Colette's confidant: but Colette was the confidante ofLucien Lévy-Coeur. That gave him a great advantage. It is very pleasant toa woman to feel that she has to deal with a man weaker than herself. Shefinds food in it at once for her lower and higher instincts: her maternalinstinct is touched by it. Lucien Lévy-Coeur knew that perfectly: one ofthe surest means of touching a woman's heart is to sound that mysteriouschord. But in addition, Colette felt that she was weak, and cowardly, andpossessed of instincts of which she was not proud, though she was notinclined to deny them. It pleased her to allow herself to be persuaded bythe audacious and nicely calculated confessions of her friend that otherswere just the same, and that human nature must be taken for what it is. Andso she gave herself the satisfaction of not resisting inclinations thatshe found very agreeable, and the luxury of saying that it must be so, and that it was wise not to rebel and to be indulgent with what one couldnot--"alas!"--prevent. There was a wisdom in that, the practice of whichcontained no element of pain. 

For any one who can envisage life with serenity, there is a peculiar relishin remarking the perpetual contrast which exists in the very bosom ofsociety between the extreme refinement of apparent civilization and itsfundamental animalism. In every gathering that does not consist only offossils and petrified souls, there are, as it were, two conversationalstrata, one above the other: one--which everybody can hear--between mindand mind: the other--of which very few are conscious, though it is thegreater of the two--between instinct and instinct, the beast in man andwoman. Often these two strata of conversation are contradictory. While mindand mind are passing the small change of convention, body and body say:Desire, Aversion, or, more often: Curiosity, Boredom, Disgust. The beast inman and woman, though tamed by centuries of civilization, and as cowed asthe wretched lions in the tamer's cage, is always thinking of its food. 

But Christophe had not yet reached that disinterestedness which comes onlywith age and the death of the passions. He had taken himself very seriouslyas adviser to Colette. She had asked for his help: and he saw her in thelightness of her heart exposed to danger. So he made no effort to concealhis dislike of Lucien Lévy-Coeur, At first that gentleman maintainedtowards Christophe an irreproachable and ironical politeness. He, too, scented the enemy: but he thought he had nothing to fear from him: he madefun of him without seeming to do so. If only he could have had Christophe'sadmiration he would have been on quite good terms with him, but that henever could obtain: he saw that clearly, for Christophe had not the art ofdisguising his feelings. And so Lucien Lévy-Coeur passed insensibly froman abstract intellectual antagonism to a little, carefully veiled, war, ofwhich Colette was to be the prize. 

She held the balance evenly between her two friends. She appreciatedChristophe's talent and moral superiority: but she also appreciated LucienLévy-Coeur's amusing immorality and wit: and, at bottom, she found morepleasure in it. Christophe did not mince his protestations: she listenedto him with a touching humility which disarmed him. She was quite a goodcreature, but she lacked frankness, partly from weakness, partly fromher very kindness. She was half play-acting: she pretended to think withChristophe. As a matter of fact, she knew the worth of such a friend; butshe was not ready to make any sacrifice for a friendship: she was notready to sacrifice anything for anybody: she just wanted everything to gosmoothly and pleasantly, And so she concealed from Christophe the fact thatshe went on receiving Lucien Lévy-Coeur: she lied with the easy charm ofthe young women of her class who, from their childhood, are expert in thepractice which is so necessary for those who wish to keep their friendsand please everybody. She excused herself by pretending that she wished toavoid hurting Christophe: but in reality it was because she knew that hewas right and wanted to go on doing as she liked without quarreling withhim. Sometimes Christophe suspected her tricks: then he would scold her, and wax indignant. She would go on playing the contrite little girl, and beaffectionate and sorry: and she would look tenderly at him--_feminæ ultimaratio_. --And really it did distress her to think of losing Christophe'sfriendship: she would be charmingly serious and in that way succeed indisarming Christophe for a little while longer. But sooner or later therehad to be an explosion. Christophe's irritation was fed unconsciously by alittle jealousy. And into Colette's coaxing tricks there crept a little, avery little, love, all of which made the rupture only the more violent. 

One day when Christophe had caught Colette out in a flagrant lie he gaveher a definite alternative: she must choose between Lucien Lévy-Coeur andhimself. She tried to dodge the question: and, finally, she vindicated herright to have whatever friends she liked. She was perfectly right: andChristophe admitted that he had been absurd: but he knew also that he hadnot been exacting from egoism: he had a sincere affection for Colette: hewanted to save her even against her will. He insisted awkwardly. Sherefused to answer. He said:

"Colette, do you want us not to be friends any more?"

She replied:

"No, no. I should be sorry if you ceased to be my friend. "

"But you will not sacrifice the smallest thing for our friendship. "

"Sacrifice! What a silly word!" she said. "Why should one always besacrificing one thing for another? It's just a stupid Christian idea. You're nothing but an old parson at heart. "

"Maybe, " he said. "I want one thing or another. I allow nothing betweengood and evil, not so much as the breadth of a hair. "

"Yes, I know, " she said. "That is why I love you. For I do love you:but. . . . "

"But you love the other fellow too?"

She laughed, and said, with a soft look in her eyes and a tender note inher voice:

"Stay!"

He was just about to give in once more when Lucien Lévy-Coeur came in: andhe was welcomed with the same soft look in her eyes and the same tendernote in her voice. Christophe sat for some time in silence watching Coletteat her tricks: then he went away, having made up his mind to break withher. He was sick and sorry at heart. It was so stupid to grow so fond, always to be falling into the trap!

When he reached home he toyed with his books, and idly opened his Bible andread:

". . . _The Lord saith, Because the daughters of Zion are haughty and walkwith stretched forth necks and wanton eyes, walking and mincing as they go, and making a tinkling with their feet, "Therefore the Lord will smite with a scab the crown of the head of thedaughters of Zion, and the Lord will discover their secret parts_ . . . "

He burst out laughing as he thought of Colette's little tricks: and he wentto bed well pleased with himself. Then he thought that he too must havebecome tainted with the corruption of Paris for the Bible to have become ahumorous work to him. But he did not stop saying over and over again thejudgment of the great judiciary humorist: and he tried to imagine itseffect on the head of his young friend. He went to sleep laughing like achild. He had lost all thought of his new sorrow. One more or less. . . . Hewas getting used to it. 

 * * * * *

He did not give up Colette's music-lessons: but he refused to take theopportunities she gave him of continuing their intimate conversations. Itwas no use her being sorry about it or offended, and trying all sorts oftricks: he stuck to his guns: they were rude to each other: of her ownaccord she took to finding excuses for missing the lessons: and he alsomade excuses for declining the Stevens' invitations. 

He had had enough of Parisian society: he could not bear the emptinessof it, the idleness, the moral impotence, the neurasthenia, its aimless, pointless, self-devouring hypercriticism. He wondered how people couldlive in such a stagnant atmosphere of art for art's sake and pleasure forpleasure's sake. And yet the French did live in it: they had beep, a greatnation, and they still cut something of a figure in the world: at least, they seemed to do so to the outside spectator. But where were the springsof their life? They believed in nothing, nothing but pleasure. . . . 

Just as Christophe reached this point in his reflections, he ran into acrowd of young men and women, all shouting at the tops of their voices, dragging a carriage in which was sitting an old priest casting blessingsright and left. A little farther on he found some French soldiers batteringdown the doors of a church with axes, and there were men attacking themwith chairs. He saw that the French did still believe in something--thoughhe could not understand in what. He was told that the State and the Churchwere separated after a century of living together, and that as the Churchhad refused to go with a good grace, standing on its rights and its power, it was being evicted. To Christophe the proceeding seemed ungallant; buthe was so sick of the anarchical dilettantism of the Parisian artists thathe was delighted to find men ready to have their heads broken for a cause, however foolish it might be. 

It was not long before he discovered that there were many such people inFrance. The political journals plunged into the fight like the Homericheroes: they published daily calls to civil war. It is true that it gotno farther than words, and that they very rarely came to blows. But therewas no lack of simple souls to put into action what the others declared inwords. Strange things happened: departments threatened to break away fromFrance, regiments deserted, prefectures were burned, tax-collectors were onhorseback at the head of a company of gendarmes, peasants were armed withscythes, and put their kettles on to boil to defend the churches, which theFree Thinkers were demolishing in the name of liberty: there were popularredeemers who climbed trees to address the provinces of Wine, that hadrisen against the provinces of Alcohol. Everywhere there were millions ofmen shaking hands, all red in the face from shouting, and in the end allgoing for each other. The Republic flattered the people: and then turnedarms against them. The people on their side broke the heads of a few oftheir own young men--officers and soldiers. --And so every one proved toeverybody else the excellence of his cause and his fists. Looked at froma distance, through the newspapers, it was as though the country hadgone back a few centuries, Christophe discovered that France--skepticalFrance--was a nation of fanatics. But it was impossible for him to find outthe meaning of their fanaticism. For or against religion? For or againstReason? For or against the country?--They were for and against everything. They were fanatics for the pleasure of it. 

 * * * * *

He spoke about it one evening to a Socialist deputy whom he met sometimesat the Stevens'. Although he had spoken to him before, he had no idea whatsort of man he was: till then they had only talked about music. Christophewas very surprised to learn that this man of the world was the leader of aviolent party. 

Achille Roussin was a handsome man, with a fair beard, a burring way oftalking, a florid complexion, affable manners, a certain polish on hisfundamental vulgarity, certain peasant tricks which from time to time heused in spite of himself:--a way of paring his nails in public, a vulgarhabit of catching hold of the coat of the man he was talking to, orgripping him by the arm:--he was a great eater, a heavy drinker, a highliver with a gift of laughter, and the appetite of a man of the peoplepushing his way into power: he was adaptable, quick to alter his manners tosort with his surroundings and the person he was talking to, full of ideas, and reasonable in expounding them, able to listen, and to assimilate atonce everything he heard: for the rest he was sympathetic, intelligent, interested in everything, naturally, or as a matter of acquired habit, ormerely out of vanity: he was honest so far as was compatible with hisinterests, or when it was dangerous not to be so. 

He had quite a pretty wife, tall, well made, and well set tip, with acharming figure which was a little too much shown off by her tight dresses, which accentuated and exaggerated the rounded curves of her anatomy: herface was framed in curly black hair: she had big black eyes, a long, pointed chin: her face was big, but quite charming in its general effect, though it was spoiled by the twitch of her short-sighted eyes, and hersilly little pursed-up mouth. She had an affected precise manner, likea bird, and a simpering way of talking: but she was kindly and amiable. She came of a rich shopkeeping family, broad-minded and virtuous, and shewas devoted to the countless duties of society, as to a religion, not tomention the duties, social and artistic, which she imposed on herself:she had her _salon_, dabbled in University Extension movements, and wasbusy with philanthropic undertakings and researches into the psychologyof childhood, --all without any enthusiasm or profound interest, --from amixture of natural kindness, snobbishness, and the harmless pedantry of ayoung woman of education, who always seems to be repeating a lesson, andtaking a pride in showing that she has learned it well. She needed to bebusy, but she did not need to be interested in what she was doing. Itwas like the feverish industry of those women who always have a piece ofknitting in their hands, and never stop clicking their needles, as thoughthe salvation of the world depended on their work, which they themselvesdo not know what to do with. And then there was in her--as in women whoknit--the vanity of the good woman who sets an example to other women. 

The Deputy had an affectionate contempt for her. He had chosen well both asregards his pleasure and his peace of mind. He enjoyed her beauty and askedno more of her: and she asked no more of him. He loved her and deceivedher. She put up with that, provided she had her share of his attention. Perhaps also it gave her a sort of pleasure. She was placid and sensual. She had the attitude of mind of a woman of the harem. 

They had two fine children of four and five years old, whom she lookedafter, like a good mother, with the same amiable, cold attentiveness withwhich she followed her husband's political career, and the latest fashionsin dress and art. And it produced in her the most odd mixture of advancedideas, ultra-decadent art, polite restlessness, and bourgeois sentiment. 

They invited Christophe to go and see them. Madame Roussin was a goodmusician, and played the piano charmingly: she had a delicate, firm touch:with her little head bowed over the keyboard, and her hands poised aboveit and darting down, she was like a pecking hen. She was talented and knewmore about music than most Frenchwomen, but she was as insensible as a fishto the deeper meaning of music: to her it was only a succession of notes, rhythms, and degrees of sound, to which she listened or reproducedcarefully: she never looked for the soul in it, having no use for itherself. This amiable, intelligent, simple woman, who was always readyto do any one a kindness, gave Christophe the graceful welcome which sheextended to everybody. Christophe was not particularly grateful to herfor it: he was not much in sympathy with her: she hardly existed for him. Perhaps it was that unconsciously he could not forgive her acquiescence inher husband's infidelities, of which she was by no means ignorant. Passiveacceptance was of all the vices that which he could least excuse. 

He was more intimate with Achille Roussin. Roussin loved music, as he lovedthe other arts, crudely but sincerely. When he liked a symphony, it becamea thing that he could take into his arms. He had a superficial culture andturned it to good account: his wife had been useful to him there. He wasinterested in Christophe because he saw in him a vigorous vulgarian suchas he was himself. And he found it absorbing to study an original of hisstamp--(he was unwearying in his observation of humanity)--and to discoverhis impressions of Paris. The frankness and rudeness of Christophe'sremarks amused him. He was skeptic enough to admit their truth. He wasnot put out by the fact that Christophe was a German. On the contrary: heprided himself on being above national prejudice. And, when all was saidand done, he was sincerely "human"--(that was his chief quality);--hesympathized with everything human. But that did not prevent his being quiteconvinced of the superiority of the French--an old race, and an oldcivilization--over the Germans, and making fun of the Germans. 

 * * * * *

At Achille Roussin's Christophe met other politicians, the Ministers ofyesterday, and the Ministers of to-morrow. He would have been only too gladto talk to each of them individually, if these illustrious persons hadthought him worthy. In spite of the generally accepted opinion he foundthem much more interesting than the other Frenchmen of his acquaintance. They were more alive mentally, more open to the passions and the greatinterests of humanity. They were brilliant talkers, mostly men from theSouth, and they were amazingly dilettante: individually they were almostas much so as the men of letters. Of course, they were very ignorant aboutart, and especially about foreign art: but they all pretended more orless to some knowledge of it: and often they really loved it. There wereCouncils which were very like the coterie of some little Review. One ofthem would be a playwright: another would scrape on the violin; anotherwould be a besotted Wagnerian. And they all collected Impressionistpictures, read decadent books, and prided themselves on a taste for someultra-aristocratic art, which was almost always in direct oppositionto their ideas. It puzzled Christophe to find these Socialist orRadical-Socialist Ministers, these apostles of the poor and down-trodden, posing as connoisseurs of eclectic art. No doubt they had a perfect rightto do so: but it seemed to him rather disloyal. 

But the odd thing was when these men who in private conversation wereskeptics, sensualists, Nihilists, and anarchists, came to action: at oncethey became fanatics. Even the most dilettante of them when they came intopower became like Oriental despots: they had a mania for orderingeverything, and let nothing alone: they were skeptical in mind andtyrannical in temper. The temptation to use the machinery of administrativecentralization created by the greatest of despots was too great, and it wasdifficult not to abuse it. The result was a sort of republican imperialismon to which there had latterly been grafted an atheistic catholicism. 

For some time past the politicians had made no claim to do anything butcontrol the body--that is to say, money:--they hardly troubled the soulat all, since the soul could not be converted into money. Their own soulswere not concerned with politics: they passed above or below politics, which in France are thought of as a branch--a lucrative, though not veryexalted branch--of commerce and industry: the intellectuals despised thepoliticians, the politicians despised the intellectuals. --But lately therehad been a closer understanding, then an alliance, between the politiciansand the lowest class of intellectuals. A new power had appeared upon thescene, which had arrogated to itself the absolute government of ideas: theFree Thinkers. They had thrown in their lot with the other power, which hadseen in them the perfect machinery of political despotism. They were tryingnot so much to destroy the Church as to supplant it: and, in fact, theycreated a Church of Free Thought which had its catechisms, and ceremonies, its baptisms, its confirmations, its marriages, its regional councils, if not its ecumenicals at Rome. It was most pitifully comic to see thesethousands of poor wretches having to band themselves together in order tobe able to "think freely. " True, their freedom of thought consisted insetting a ban on the thought of others in the name of Reason: for theybelieved in Reason as the Catholics believed in the Blessed Virgin withoutever dreaming for a moment that Reason, like the Virgin, was in itselfnothing, or that the real thing lay behind it. And, just as the CatholicChurch had its armies of monks and its congregations stealthily creepingthrough the veins of the nation, propagating its views and destroying everyother sort of vitality, so the Anti-Catholic Church had its Free Masons, whose chief Lodge, the Grand-Orient, kept a faithful record of all thesecret reports with which their pious informers in all quarters of Francesupplied them. The Republican State secretly encouraged the sacredespionage of these mendicant friars and Jesuits of Reason, who terrorizedthe army, the University, and every branch of the State: and it was nevernoticed that while they pretended to serve the State, they were all thetime aiming at supplanting it, and that the country was slowly movingtowards an atheistic theocracy; very little, if anything, different fromthat of the Jesuits of Paraguay. 

Christophe met some of these gentry at Roussin's. They were all blindfetish-worshippers. At that time they were rejoicing at having removedChrist from the Courts of Law. They thought they had destroyed religionbecause they had destroyed a few pieces of wood and ivory. Others wereconcentrating on Joan of Arc and her banner of the Virgin, which they hadjust wrested from the Catholics. One of the Fathers of the new Church, a general who was waging war on the French of the old Church, had justgiven utterance to an anti-clerical speech in honor of Vercingetorix: heproclaimed the ancient Gaul, to whom Free Thought had erected a statue, to be a son of the people, and the first champion against (the Churchof) Rome. The Ministers of the Marine, by way of purifying the fleet andshowing their horror of war, called their cruisers _Descartes_ and _ErnestRenan_. Other Free Thinkers had set themselves to purify art. Theyexpurgated the classics of the seventeenth century, and did not allow thename of God to sully the _Fables_ of La Fontaine. They did not allow itin music either: and Christophe heard one of them, an old radical, --("_Tobe a radical in old age_, " says Goethe, "_is the height of folly_")--waxindignant at the religious _Lieder_ of Beethoven having been given at apopular concert. He demanded that other words should be used instead of"God. "

"What?" asked Christophe in exasperation. "The Republic?"

Others who were even more radical would accept no compromise and wantedpurely and simply to suppress all religious music and all schools in whichit was taught. In vain did a director of the University of Fine Arts, whowas considered an Athenian in that Boeotia, try to explain that musiciansmust be taught music: for, as he said, with great loftiness of thought, "when you send a soldier to the barracks, you teach him how to use a gunand then how to shoot. And so it is with a young composer: his head isbuzzing with ideas: but he has not yet learned to put them in order. " And, being a little scared by his own courage, he protested with every sentence:"I am an old Free Thinker. . . . I am an old Republican. . . " and he declaredaudaciously that "he did not care much whether the compositions ofPergolese were operas or Masses: all that he wanted to know was, were theyhuman works of art?"--But his adversary with implacable logic answered "theold Free Thinker and Republican" that "there were two sorts of music: thatwhich was sung in churches and that which was sung in other places. " Thefirst sort was the enemy of Reason and the State: and the Reason of theState ought to suppress it. 

All these silly people would have been more ridiculous than dangerous ifbehind them there had not been men of real worth, supporting them, whowere, like them--and perhaps even, more--fanatics of Reason. Tolstoyspeaks somewhere of those "epidemic influences" which prevail in religion, philosophy, politics, art, and science, "insensate influences, the folly ofwhich only becomes apparent to men when they are clear of them, while aslong as they are under their dominion they seem so true to them that theythink them beyond all argument. " Instances are the craze for tulips, beliefin sorcery, and the aberrations of literary fashions. --The religion ofReason was such a craze. It was common to the most ignorant and the mostcultured, to the "sub-veterinaries" of the Chamber, and certain of thekeenest intellects of the University. It was even more dangerous in thelatter than in the former: for with the latter it was mixed up with acredulous and stupid optimism, which sapped its energy: while with theothers it was fortified and given a keener edge by a fanatical pessimismwhich was under no illusion as to the fundamental antagonism of Nature andReason, and they were only the more desperately resolved to wage the war ofabstract Liberty, abstract Justice, abstract Truth, against the malevolenceof Nature. There was behind it all the idealism of the Calvinists, theJansenists, and the Jacobins, the old belief in the fundamental perversityof mankind, which can and must be broken by the implacable pride of theElect inspired by the breath of Reason, --the Spirit of God. It was a veryFrench type, the type of intelligent Frenchman, who is not at all "human. "A pebble as hard as iron: nothing can penetrate it: it breaks everythingthat it touches. 

Christophe was appalled by the conversations that he had at AchilleRoussin's with some of these fanatics. It upset all his ideas about France. He had thought, like so many people, that the French were a well-balanced, sociable, tolerant, liberty-loving people. And he found them lunatics withtheir abstract ideas, their diseased logic, ready to sacrifice themselvesand everybody else for one of their syllogisms. They were always talking ofliberty, but there never were men less able to understand it or to standit. Nowhere in the world were there characters more coldly and atrociouslydespotic in their passion for intellect or their passion for always beingin the right. 

And it was not only true of one party. Every party was the same. Theycould not--they would not--see anything above or beyond their political orreligious formula, or their country, their province, their group, or theirown narrow minds. There were anti-Semites who expended all the forces oftheir being in a blind, impotent hatred of all the privileges of wealth:for they hated all Jews, and called those whom they hated "Jews. " Therewere nationalists who hated--(when they were kinder they stopped shortat despising)--every other nation, and even among their own people, theycalled everybody who did not agree with them foreigners, or renegades, ortraitors. There were anti-protestants who persuaded themselves that allProtestants were English or Germans, and would have them all expelled fromFrance. There were men of the West who denied the existence of anythingeast of the Rhine: men of the North who denied the existence of everythingsouth of the Loire: men of the South who called all those who lived northof the Loire Barbarians: and there were men who boasted of being of Gallicdescent: and, craziest of all, there were "Romans" who prided themselves onthe defeat of their ancestors: and Bretons, and Lorrainians, and Félibres, and Albigeois; and men from Carpentras, and Pontoise, and Quimper-Corentin:they all thought only of themselves, the fact of being themselves wassufficient patent of nobility, and they wild not put up with the idea ofpeople being anything else. There is nothing to be done with such people:they will not listen to argument from any other point of view: they mustburn everybody else at the stake, or be burned themselves. 

Christophe thought that it was lucky that such people should live under aRepublic: for all these little despots did at least annihilate each other. But if any one of them had become Emperor or King, it would have been theend of him. 

He did not know that there is one virtue left to work the salvation ofpeople of that temper of mind:--inconsequence. 

The French politicians were no exception. Their despotism was temperedwith anarchy: they were for ever swinging between two poles. On one handthey relied on the fanatics of thought, on the other they relied on theanarchists of thought. Mixed up with them was a whole rabble of dilettanteSocialists, mere opportunists, who held back from taking any part in thefight until it was won, though they followed in the wake of the army ofFree Thought, and, after every battle won, they swooped down on the spoils. These champions of Reason did not labor in the cause of Reason. . . . _Sicvos non vobis_ . . . But in the cause of the Citizens of the World, who withglad shouts trampled under foot the traditions of the country, and had nointention of destroying one Faith in order to set up another, but in orderto set themselves up and break away from all restraint. 

There Christophe marked the likeness of Lucien Lévy-Coeur. He was notsurprised to learn that Lucien Lévy-Coeur was a Socialist. He only thoughtthat Socialists must be fairly on the road to success to have enrolledLucien Lévy-Coeur. But he did not know that Lucien Lévy-Coeur had alsocontrived to figure in the opposite camp, where he had succeeded in allyinghimself with men of the most anti-Liberal opinions, if not anti-Semite, inpolitics and art, He asked Achille Roussin:

"How can you put up with such men?"

Roussin replied:

"He is so clever! And he is working for us; he is destroying the oldworld. "

"He is doing that all right, " said Christophe. "He is destroying it sothoroughly that I don't see what is going to be left for you to build upagain. Do you think there'll be timber enough left for your new house? Andare you even sure that the worms have not crept into your building-yard?"

Lucien Lévy-Coeur was not the only nibbler at Socialism. The Socialistpapers were staffed by these petty men of letters, with their art for art'ssake, these licentious anarchists who had fastened on all the roads thatmight lead to success. They barred the way to others, and filled thepapers, which styled themselves the organs of the people, with theirdilettante decadence and their _struggle for life_. They were not contentwith being jobbed into positions: they wanted fame. Never had there been atime when there were so many premature Statues, or so many speechesdelivered at the unveiling of them. But queerest of all were the banquetsthat were periodically offered to one or other of the great men of thefraternity by the sycophants of fame, not in celebration of any of theirdeeds, but in celebration of some honor given to them: for those were thethings that most appealed to them. Esthetes, supermen, Socialist Ministers, they were all agreed when it was a question of feasting to celebrate somepromotion in the Legion of Honor founded by the Corsican officer. 

Roussin laughed at Christophe's amazement. He did not think the German farout in his estimation of the supporters of his party. When they were alonetogether he would handle them severely himself. He knew their stupidityand their knavery better than any one: but that did not keep him fromsupporting them in order to retain their support. And if in private henever hesitated to speak of the people in terms of contempt, on theplatform he was a different man. Then he would assume a high-pitched voice, shrill, nasal, labored, solemn tones, a tremolo, a bleat, wide, sweeping, fluttering gestures like the beating of wings: exactly like Mounet-Sully. 

Christophe tried hard to discover exactly how far Roussin believed in hisSocialism. It was obvious that at heart he did not believe in it at all:he was too skeptical. And yet he did believe in it, to a certain extent;and though he knew perfectly well that it was only a part of his mind thatbelieved in it--(perhaps the most important part)--he had arranged hislife and conduct in accordance with it, because it suited him best. Itwas not only his practical interest that was served by it, but also hisvital interests, the foundations of his being and all his actions. HisSocialistic Faith was to him a sort of State religion. --Most people livelike that. Their lives are based on religious, moral, social, or purelypractical beliefs, --(belief in their profession, in their work, in theutility of the part they play in life)--in which they do not, at heart, believe. But they do not wish to know it: for they must have this apparentfaith, this "State religion, " of which every man is priest, to live. 

 * * * * *

Roussin was not one of the worst. There were many, many others who calledthemselves Socialists and Radicals, from--it can hardly be called ambition, for their ambition was so short-sighted, and did not go beyond immediateplunder and their re-election! They pretended to believe in a new order ofsociety. Perhaps there was a time when they believed in it: and they wenton pretending to do so: but, in fact, they had no idea beyond living on thespoils of the dying order of society. This predatory Nihilism was savedby a short-sighted opportunism. The great interests of the future weresacrificed to the egoism of the present. They cut down the army; they wouldhave dislocated the country to please the electors. They were not lackingin cleverness: they knew perfectly well what they ought to have done: butthey did not do it, because it would have cost them too much effort, andthey were incapable of effort. They wanted to arrange their own livesand the life of the nation with the least possible amount of trouble andsacrifice. All down the scale the point was to get the maximum of pleasurewith the minimum of effort. That was their morality, immoral enough, but itwas the only guide in the political muddle, in which the leaders set theexample of anarchy, and the disordered pack of politicians were chasingten hares at once, and letting them all escape one after the other, andan aggressive Foreign Office was yoked with a pacific War Office, andMinisters of War were cutting down the army in order to purify it, NavalMinisters were inciting the workmen in the arsenals, military instructorswere preaching the horrors of war, and all the officials, judges, revolutionaries, and patriots were dilettante. The political demoralizationwas universal. Every man was expecting the State to provide him withoffice, honors, pensions, indemnities: and the Government did, as a matterof fact, feed the appetite of its supporters: honors and pensions were madethe quarry of the sons, nephews, grand-nephews, and valets of those inpower: the deputies were always voting an increase in their own salaries:revenues, posts, titles, all the possessions of the State, were beingblindly squandered. --And, like a sinister echo of the example of the upperclasses, the lower classes were always on the verge of a strike: they hadmen teaching contempt of authority and revolt against the establishedorder; post-office employés burned letters and despatches, workers infactories threw sand or emery-powder into the gears of the machines, menworking in the arsenals sacked them, ships were burned, and artisansdeliberately made a horrible mess of their work, --the destruction not ofriches, but of the wealth of the world. 

And to crown it all the intellectuals amused themselves by discovering thatthis national suicide was based on reason and right, in the sacred rightof every human being to be happy. There was a morbid humanitarianismwhich broke down the distinction between Good and Evil, and developed asentimental pity for the "sacred and irresponsible human" in the criminal, the doting sentimentality of an old man:--it was a capitulation to crime, the surrender of society to its mercies. 

Christophe thought:

"France is drunk with liberty. When she has raved and screamed, she willfall down dead-drunk. And when she wakes up she will find herself inprison. "

 * * * * *

What hurt Christophe most in this demagogy was to see the most violentpolitical measures coldly carried through by these men whose fundamentalinstability he knew perfectly well. The disproportion between theshiftiness of these men and the rigorous Acts that they passed orauthorized was too scandalous. It was as though there were in them twocontradictory things: an inconsistent character, believing in nothing, and discursive Reason, intent on truncating, mowing down, and crushinglife, without regard for anything. Christophe wondered why the peacefulmiddle-class, the Catholics, the officials who were harassed in everyconceivable way, did not throw them all out by the window. He dared nottell Roussin what he thought: but, as he was incapable of concealinganything, Roussin had no difficulty in guessing it. He laughed and said:

"No doubt that is what you or I would do. But there is no danger of themdoing it. They are just a set of poor devils who haven't the energy:they can't do much more than grumble. They're just the fag end ofan aristocracy, idiotic, stultified by their clubs and their sport, prostituted by the Americans and the Jews, and, by way of showing how up todate they are, they play the degraded parts allotted to them in fashionableplays, and support those who have degraded them. They're an apathetic andsurly middle-class: they read nothing, understand nothing, don't wantto understand anything; they only know how to vilify, vilify, vaguely, bitterly, futilely--and they have only one passion: sleep, to lie huddledin sleep on their moneybags, hating anybody who disturbs them, and evenanybody whose tastes differ from theirs, for it does upset them to think ofother people working while they are snoozing! If you knew them you wouldsympathize with us. "

But Christophe could find nothing but disgust with both: for he did nothold that the baseness of the oppressed was any excuse for that of theoppressor. Only too frequently had he met at the Stevens' types of the richdull middle-class that Roussin described, ". . . _L'anime triste di coloro, Che visser senza infamia esenza lodo_, . . . "

He saw only too clearly the reason why Roussin and his friends were surenot only of their power over these people, but of their right to abuse it. They had to hand all the instruments of tyranny. Thousands of officials, who had renounced their will and every vestige of personality, and obeyedblindly. A loose, vulgar way of living, a Republic without Republicans:Socialist papers and Socialist leaders groveling before Royalties when theyvisited Paris: the souls of servants gaping at titles, and gold lace, andorders: they could be kept quiet by just having a bone to gnaw, or theLegion of Honor flung at them. If the Kings had ennobled all the citizensof France, all the citizens of France would have been Royalist. 

The politicians were having a fine time. Of the Three Estates of '89 thefirst was extinct: the second was proscribed, suspect, or had emigrated:the third was gorged by its victory and slept. And, as for the FourthEstate, which had come into existence at a later date, and had become apublic menace in its jealousy, there was no difficulty about squaring that. The decadent Republic treated it as decadent Rome treated the barbarianhordes, that she no longer had the power to drive from her frontiers;she assimilated them, and they quickly became her best watch-dogs. TheMinisters of the middle-class called themselves Socialists, lured awayand annexed to their own party the most intelligent and vigorous of theworking-class: they robbed the proletariat of their leaders, infusedtheir new blood into their own system, and, in return, gorged them withindigestible science and middle-class culture. 

 * * * * *

One of the most curious features of these attempts at distraint by themiddle-class on the people were the Popular Universities. They were littlejumble-sales of scraps of knowledge of every period and every country. Asone syllabus declared, they set out to teach "every branch of physical, biological, and sociological science: astronomy, cosmology, anthropology, ethnology, physiology, psychology, psychiatry, geography, languages, esthetics, logic, etc. " Enough to split the skull of Pico della Mirandola. 

In truth there had been originally, and still was in some of them, acertain grand idealism, a keen desire to bring truth, beauty, and moralitywithin the reach of all, which was a very fine thing. It was wonderful andtouching to see workmen, after a hard day's toil, crowding into narrow, stuffy lecture-rooms, impelled by a thirst for knowledge that was strongerthan fatigue and hunger. But how the poor fellows had been tricked!There were a few real apostles, intelligent human beings, a few uprightwarm-hearted men, with more good intentions than skill to accomplish them;but, as against them, there were hundreds of fools, idiots, schemers, unsuccessful authors, orators, professors, parsons, speakers, pianists, critics, anarchists, who deluged the people with their productions. Everyman jack of them was trying to unload his stock-in-trade. The most thrivingof them were naturally the nostrum-mongers, the philosophical lecturerswho ladled out general ideas, leavened with a few facts, a scientificsmattering, and cosmological conclusions. 

The Popular Universities were also an outlet for the ultra-aristocraticworks of art: decadent etchings, poetry, and music. The aim was theelevation of the people for the rejuvenation of thought and theregeneration of the race. They began by inoculating them with all the fadsand cranks of the middle-class. They gulped them down greedily, not becausethey liked them, but because they were middle-class. Christophe, who wastaken to one of these Popular Universities by Madame Roussin, heard herplay Debussy to the people between _la Bonne Chanson_ of Gabriel Fauré andone of the later quartets of Beethoven. He who had only begun to grasp themeaning of the later works of Beethoven after many years, and long wearylabor, asked some one who sat near him pityingly:

"Do you understand it?"

The man drew himself up like an angry cock, and said:

"Certainly. Why shouldn't I understand it as well as you?"

And by way of showing that he understood it he encored a fugue, glaringdefiantly at Christophe. 

Christophe went away. He was amazed. He said to himself that the swine hadsucceeded in poisoning even the living wells of the nation: the People hadceased to be--"People yourselves!" as a working-man said to one of thewould-be founders of the Theaters of the People. "I am as much of themiddle-class as you. "

 * * * * *

One fine evening when above the darkening town the soft sky was like anOriental carpet, rich in warm faded colors, Christophe walked along by theriver from Notre Dame to the Invalides. In the dim fading light the towerof the cathedral rose like the arms of Moses held up during the battle. The carved golden spire of the Sainte-Chapelle, the flowering Holy Thorn, flashed out of the labyrinth of houses. On the other side of the waterstretched the royal front of the Louvre, and its windows were like wearyeyes lit up with the last living rays of the setting sun. At the back ofthe great square of the Invalides behind its trenches and proud walls, majestic, solitary, floated the dull gold dome, like a symphony of bygonevictories. And at the top of the hill there stood the Arc de Triomphe, bestriding the hill with the giant stride of the Imperial legions. 

And suddenly Christophe thought of it all as of a dead giant lying proneupon the plain. The terror of it clutched at his heart; he stopped to gazeat the gigantic fossils of a fabulous race, long since extinct, that in itslife had made the whole earth ring with the tramp of its armies, --the racewhose helmet was the dome of the Invalides, whose girdle was the Louvre, the thousand arms of whose cathedrals had clutched at the heavens, whotraversed the whole world with the triumphant stride of the Arch ofNapoleon, under whose heel there now swarmed Lilliput. 

III

Without any deliberate effort on his part, Christophe had gained a certaincelebrity in the Parisian circles to which he had been introduced bySylvain Kohn and Goujart. He was seen everywhere with one or other of hisfriends at first nights, and at concerts, and his extraordinary face, hisugliness, the absurdity of his figure and costume, his brusque, awkwardmanners, the paradoxical opinions to which he gave vent from time totime, his undeveloped, but large and healthy intellect, and the romanticstories spread by Sylvain Kohn about his escapades in Germany, and hiscomplications with the police and flight to France, had marked him out forthe idle, restless curiosity of the great cosmopolitan hotel drawing-roomthat Paris has become. As long as he held himself in check, observing, listening, and trying to understand before expressing any opinion, aslong as nothing was known of his work or what he really thought, he wastolerated. The French were pleased with him for having been unable tostay in Germany. And the French musicians especially were delighted withChristophe's unjust pronouncements on German music, and took them allas homage to themselves:--(as a matter of fact, they heard only his oldyouthful opinions, to many of which he would no longer have subscribed:a few articles published in a German Review which had been amplified andcirculated by Sylvain Kohn). --Christophe was interesting and did notinterfere with anybody: there was no danger of his supplanting anybody. He needed only to become the great man of a coterie. He needed only notto write anything, or as little as possible, and not to have anythingperformed, and to supply Goujart and his like with ideas, Goujart and thewhole set of men whose motto is the famous quip--adapted a little:

_"My glass is small: but I drink . . . The wine of others. "_

A strong personality sheds its rays especially on young people who are moreconcerned with feeling than with action. There were plenty of young peopleabout Christophe. They were for the most part idle, will-less, aimless, purposeless. Young men, living in dread of work, fearful of being leftalone with themselves, who sought an armchair immortality, wandering fromcafé to theater, from theater to café, finding all sorts of excuses for notgoing home, to avoid coming face to face with themselves. They came andstayed for hours, dawdling, talking, making aimless conversation, and goingaway empty, aching, disgusted, satiated, and yet famishing, forced to goon with it in spite of loathing. They surrounded Christophe, like Goethe'swater-spaniel, the "lurking specters, " that lie in wait and seize upon asoul and fasten upon its vitality. A vain fool would have found pleasurein such a circle of parasites. But Christophe had no taste for pedestals. He was revolted by the idiotic subtlety of his admirers, who read intoanything he did all sorts of absurd meanings, Renanian, Nietzschean, hermaphroditic. He kicked them out. He was not made for passivity. Everything in him cried aloud for action. He observed so as to understand:he wished to understand so as to act. He was free of the constraint ofany school, and of any prejudice, and he inquired into everything, readeverything, and studied all the forms of thought and the resources of theexpression of other countries and other ages in his art. He seized on allthose which seemed to him effective and true. Unlike the French artistswhom he studied, who were ingenious inventors of new forms, and worethemselves out in the unceasing effort of invention, and gave up thestruggle half-way, he endeavored not so much to invent a new musicallanguage as to speak the authentic language of music with more energy: hisaim was not to be particular, but to be strong. His, passion for strengthwas the very opposite of the French genius of subtlety and moderation. Hescorned style for the sake of style and art for art's sake. The best Frenchartists seemed to him to be no more than pleasure-mongers. One of themost perfect poets in Paris had amused himself with drawing up a "listof the workers in contemporary French poetry, with their talents, theirproductions, and their earnings": and he enumerated "the crystals, theOriental fabrics, the gold and bronze medals, the lace for dowagers, thepolychromatic sculpture, the painted porcelain, " which had been produced inthe workshops of his various colleagues. He pictured himself "in the cornerof a vast factory of letters, mending old tapestry, or polishing up rustyhalberds. "--Such a conception of the artist as a good workman, thinkingonly of the perfection of his craft, was not without an element ofgreatness. But it did not satisfy Christophe: and while he admitted in ita certain professional dignity, he had a contempt for the poor quality oflife which most often it disguised. He could not understand writing for thesake of writing, or talking for the sake of talking. He never said words;he said--or wanted to say--the things themselves. 

_"Ei dice cose, e voi dite parole. . . . "_

After a long period of rest, during which he had been entirely occupiedwith taking in a new world, Christophe suddenly became conscious of animperious need for creation. The antagonism which he felt between himselfand Paris called up all his reserve of force by its challenge of hispersonality. All his passions were brimming in him, and imperiouslydemanding expression. They were of every kind: and they were all equallyinsistent. He tried to create, to fashion music, into which to turn thelove and hatred that were swelling in his heart, and the will and therenunciation, and all the daimons struggling within him, all of whomhad an equal right to live. Hardly had he assuaged one passion inmusic, --(sometimes he hardly had the patience to finish it)--than he hurledhimself at the opposite passion. But the contradiction was only apparent:if they were always changing, they were in truth always the same. Hebeat out roads in music, roads that led to the same goal: his soul was amountain: he tried every pathway up it; on some he wound easily, dallyingin the shade: on others he mounted toilsomely with the hot sun beating upfrom the dry, sandy track: they all led to God enthroned on the summit. Love, hatred, evil, renunciation, all the forces of humanity at theirhighest pitch, touched eternity, and were a part of it. For every man thegateway to eternity is in himself: for the believer as for the atheist, forhim who sees life everywhere as for him who everywhere denies it, and forhim who doubts both life and the denial of it, --and for Christophe in whosesoul there met all these opposing views of life. All the opposites becomeone in eternal Force. For Christophe the chief thing was to wake that Forcewithin himself and in others, to fling armfuls of wood upon the fire, tofeed the flames of Eternity, and make them roar and flicker. Through thevoluptuous night of Paris a great flame darted in his heart. He thoughthimself free of Faith, and he was a living torch of Faith. 

Nothing was more calculated to outrage the French spirit of irony. Faith isone of the feelings which a too civilized society can least forgive: forit has lost it and hates others to possess it. In the blind or mockinghostility of the majority of men towards the dreams of youth there is formany the bitter thought that they themselves were once even as they, andhad ambitions and never realized them. All those who have denied theirsouls, all those who had the seed of work within them, and have not broughtit forth rather to accept the security of an easy, honorable life, think:

"Since I could not do the thing I dreamed, why should they do the thingsthey dream? I will not have them do it. "

How many Hedda Gablers are there among men! What a relentless struggleis there to crush out strength in its new freedom, with what skill is itkilled by silence, irony, wear and tear, discouragement, --and, at thecrucial moment, betrayed by some treacherous seductive art!. . . 

The type is of all nations. Christophe knew it, for he had met it inGermany. Against such people he was armed. His method of defense wassimple: he was the first to attack; pounced on the first move, and declaredwar on them: he forced these dangerous friends to become his enemies. But if such a policy of frankness was an excellent safeguard for hispersonality, it was not calculated to advance his career as an artist. Oncemore Christophe began his German tactics. It was too strong for him. Onlyone thing was altered: his temper: he was in fine fettle. 

Lightheartedly, for the benefit of anybody who cared to listen, heexpressed his unmeasured criticism of French artists: and so he made manyenemies. He did not take the precaution, as a wise man would have done, of surrounding himself with a little coterie. He would have found nodifficulty in gathering about him a number of artists who would gladlyhave admired him if he had admired them. There were some who admired himin advance, investing admiration as it were. They considered any manthey praised as a debtor, of whom, at a given moment, they could demandrepayment. But it was a good investment. --But Christophe was a very badinvestment. He never paid back. Worse than that, he was barefaced enough toconsider poor the works of men who thought his good. Unavowedly they wererancorous, and engaged themselves on the next opportunity to pay him backin kind. 

Among his other indiscretions Christophe was foolish enough to declare waron Lucien Lévy-Coeur. He found him in the way, everywhere, and he could notconceal an extraordinary antipathy for the gentle, polite creature who wasdoing no apparent harm, and even seemed to be kinder than himself, and was, at any rate, far more moderate. He provoked him into argument: and, howeverinsignificant the subject of it might be, Christophe always brought intoit a sudden heat and bitterness which surprised their hearers. It was asthough Christophe were seizing every opportunity of battering at LucienLévy-Coeur, head down: but he could never reach him. His enemy had anextraordinary skill, even when he was most obviously in the wrong, incarrying it off well: he would defend himself with a courtesy which showedup Christophe's bad manners. Christophe still spoke French very badly, interlarding it with slang, and often with very coarse expressions whichhe had picked up, and, like many foreigners, used wrongly, and he wasincapable of outwitting the tactics of Lucien Lévy-Coeur and he ragedfuriously against his gentle irony. Everybody thought him in the wrong, for they could not see what Christophe vaguely felt: the hypocrisy of thatgentleness, which when it was brought up against a force which it could nothold in check, tried quietly to stifle it by silence. He was in no hurry, for, like Christophe, he counted on time, not, as Christophe did, to build, but to destroy. He had no difficulty in detaching Sylvain Kohn and Goujartfrom Christophe, just as he had gradually forced him out of the Stevens'circle. He was isolating Christophe. 

Christophe himself helped him. He pleased nobody, for he would not join anyparty, but was rather against all parties. He did not like the Jews: but heliked the anti-Semites even less. He was revolted by the cowardice of themasses stirred up against a powerful minority, not because it was bad, but because it was powerful, and by the appeal to the basest instincts ofjealousy and hatred. The Jews came to regard him as an anti-Semite, andthe anti-Semites looked on him as a Jew. As for the artists, they felt hishostility. Instinctively Christophe made himself more German than he was, in art. Revolting against the voluptuous ataraxia of a certain class ofParisian music, he set up, with violence, a manly, healthy pessimism. Whenjoy appeared in his music, it was with a want of taste, a vulgar ardor, which were well calculated to disgust even the aristocratic patrons ofpopular art. An erudite, crude form. In his reaction he was not far fromaffecting an apparent carelessness in style and a disregard of externaloriginality, which were bound to be offensive to the French musicians. Andso those of them, to whom he sent some of his work, without any carefulconsideration, visited on it the contempt they had for the belatedWagnerism of the contemporary German school. Christophe did not care: helaughed inwardly, and repeated the lines of a charming musician of theFrench Renaissance--adapted to his own case:

 * * * * * _"Come, come, don't worry about those who will say: 'Christophe has not the counterpoint of A, And he has not such harmony as Monsieur B. ' I have something else which they never will see. "_

But when he tried to have some of his music performed, he found the doorsshut against him. They had quite enough to do to play--or not to play--theworks of young French musicians, and could not bother about those of anunknown German. 

Christophe did not go on trying. He shut himself up in his room and went onwriting. He did not much care whether the people of Paris heard him or not. He wrote for his own pleasure and not for success. The true artist is notconcerned with the future of his work. He is like those painters of theRenaissance who joyously painted mural decorations, knowing full well thatin ten years nothing would be left of them. So Christophe worked on inpeace, quite good-humoredly resigned to waiting for better times, when helpwould come to him from some unexpected source. 

 * * * * *

Christophe was then attracted by the dramatic form. He dared not yetsurrender freely to the flood of his own lyrical impulse. He had to run itinto definite channels. And, no doubt, it is a good thing for a young manof genius, who is not yet master of himself, and does not even know exactlywhat he is, to set voluntary bounds upon himself, and to confine thereinthe soul of which he has so little hold. They are the dikes and sluiceswhich allow the course of thought to be directed. Unfortunately Christophehad not a poet: he had himself to fashion his subjects out of legend andhistory. 

Among the visions which had been floating before his mind for some monthspast were certain figures from the Bible. --That Bible, which his mother hadgiven him as a companion in his exile, had been a source of dreams to him. Although he did not read it in any religious spirit, the moral, or, rather, vital energy of that Hebraic Iliad had been to him a spring in which, inthe evenings, he washed his naked soul of the smoke and mud of Paris. Hewas concerned with the sacred meaning of the book: but it was not theless a sacred book to him, for the breath of savage nature and primitiveindividualities that he found in its pages. He drew in its hymns of theearth, consumed with faith, quivering mountains, exultant skies, and humanlions. 

One of the characters in the book for whom he had an especial tendernesswas the young David. He did not give him the ironic smile of the Florentineboy, or the tragic intensity of the sublime works of Michael Angelo andVerrochio: he knew them not. His David was a young shepherd-poet, witha virgin soul, in which heroism slumbered, a Siegfried of the South, ofa finer race, and more beautiful, and of greater harmony in mind andbody. --For his revolt against the Latin spirit was in vain: unconsciouslyhe had been permeated by that spirit. Not only art influences art, notonly mind and thought, but everything about the artist:--people, things, gestures, movements, lines, the light of each town. The atmosphere of Parisis very powerful: it molds even the most rebellious souls. And the soul ofa German is less capable than any other of resisting it: in vain does hegird himself in his national pride: of all Europeans the German is the mosteasily denationalized. Unwittingly the soul of Christophe had already begunto assimilate from Latin art a clarity, a sobriety, an understanding of theemotions, and even, up to a point, a plastic beauty, which otherwise itnever would have had. His _David_ was the proof of it. 

He had endeavored to recreate certain episodes of the youth of David: themeeting with Saul, the fight with Goliath: and he had written the firstscene. He had conceived it as a symphonic picture with two characters. 

On a deserted plateau, on a moor covered with heather in bloom, the youngshepherd lay dreaming in the sun. The serene light, the hum and buzz oftiny creatures, the sweet whispering of the waving grass, the silverytinkling of the grazing sheep, the mighty beat and rhythm of the earth sangthrough the dreaming boy unconscious of his divine destiny. Drowsing, hisvoice and the notes of his flute joined the harmonious silence: and hissong was so calmly, so limpidly joyous, that, hearing it, there could be nothought of joy or sorrow, only the feeling that it must be so and could notbe otherwise. --Suddenly over the moor reached great shadows: the air wasstill: life seemed to withdraw into the veins of the earth. Only the musicof the flute went on calmly. Saul, with his crazy thoughts, passed. The madKing, racked by his fancy, burned like a flame, devouring itself, flungthis way and that by the wind. He breathed prayers and violent abuse, hurling defiance at the void about him, the void within himself. And whenhe could speak no more and fell breathless to the ground, there rangthrough the silence the smiling peace of the song of the young shepherd, who had never ceased. Then, with a furious beating in his heart, came Saulin silence up to where the boy lay in the heather: in silence he gazed athim: he sat down by his side and placed his fevered hand on the cool browsof the shepherd. Untroubled, David turned, and smiled, and looked at theKing. He laid his hand on Saul's knees, and went on singing and playing hisflute. Evening came: David went to sleep in the middle of his song, andSaul wept. And through the starry night there rose once more the serenejoyous hymn of nature refreshed, the song of thanksgiving of the soulrelieved of its burden. 

When he wrote the scene, Christophe had thought of nothing but his own joy:he had never given a thought to the manner of its performance: and it hadcertainly never occurred to him that it might be produced on the stage. Hemeant it to be sung at a concert at such time as the concert-halls shouldbe open to him. 

One evening he spoke of it to Achille Roussin, and when, by request, he hadtried to give him an idea of it on the piano, he was amazed to see Roussinburst into enthusiasm, and declare that it must at all costs be produced atone of the theaters, and that he would see to it. He was even more amazedwhen, a few days later, he saw that Roussin was perfectly serious: and hisamazement grew to stupefaction when he heard that Sylvain Kohn, Goujart, and Lucien Lévy-Coeur were taking it up. He had to admit that theirpersonal animosity had yielded to their love of art: and he was muchsurprised. The only man who was not eager to see his work produced washimself. It was not suited to the theater: it was nonsense, and almosthurtful to stage it. But Roussin was so insistent, Sylvain Kohn sopersuasive, and Goujart so positive, that Christophe yielded to thetemptation. He was weak. He was so longing to hear his music!

It was quite easy for Roussin. Manager and artist rushed to please him. It happened that a newspaper was organizing a benefit matinee for somecharity. It was arranged that the _David_ should be produced. A goodorchestra was got together. As for the singers, Roussin claimed that he hadfound the ideal representative of David. 

The rehearsals were begun. The orchestra came through the first readingfairly well, although, as usual in France, there was not much disciplineabout it. Saul had a good, though rather tired, voice: and he knew hisbusiness. The David was a handsome, tall, plump, solid lady with asentimental vulgar voice which she used heavily, with a melodramatictremolo and all the café-concert tricks. Christophe scowled. As soon asshe began to sing it was obvious that she could not be allowed to play thepart. After the first pause in the rehearsal he went to the impresario, whohad charge of the business side of the undertaking, and was present, withSylvain Kohn, at the rehearsal. The impresario beamed and said:

"Well, are you satisfied?"

"Yes, " said Christophe. "I think it can be made all right There's only onething that won't do: the singer. She must be changed. Tell her as gentlyas you can: you're used to it. . . . It will be quite easy for you to find meanother. "

The impresario looked disgruntled: he looked at Christophe as though hecould not believe that he was serious; and he said:

"But that's impossible!"

"Why is it impossible?" asked Christophe. 

The impresario looked cunningly at Sylvain Kohn, and replied:

"But she has so much talent!"

"Not a spark, " said Christophe. 

"What!. . . She has a fine voice!"

"Not a bit of it. "

"And she is beautiful. "

"I don't care a damn. "

"That won't hurt the part, " said Sylvain Kohn, laughing. 

"I want a David, a David who can sing: I don't want Helen of Troy, " saidChristophe. 

The impresario rubbed his nose uneasily. 

"It's a pity, a great pity . . . " he said. "She is an excellent artist. . . . Igive you my word for it! Perhaps she is not at her best to-day. You mustgive her another trial. "

"All right, " said Christophe. "But it is a waste of time. "

He went on with the rehearsal. It was worse than ever. He found it hard togo on to the end: it got on his nerves: his remarks to the singer, fromcold and polite, became dry and cutting, in spite of the obvious pains shewas taking to satisfy him, and the way she ogled him by way of winning hisfavor. The impresario prudently stopped the rehearsal just when it seemedto be hopeless. By way of softening the bad effect of Christophe's remarks, he bustled up to the singer and paid her heavy compliments. Christophe, who was standing by, made no attempt to conceal his impatience, called theimpresario, and said:

"There's no room for argument. I won't have the woman. It's unpleasant, Iknow: but I did not choose her. Do what you can to arrange the matter. "

The impresario bowed frigidly, and said coldly:

"I can't do anything. You must see M. Roussin. "

"What has it got to do with M. Roussin? I don't want to bother him withthis business, " said Christophe. 

"That won't bother him, " said Sylvain Kohn ironically. 

And he pointed to Roussin, who had just come in. 

Christophe went up to him. Roussin was in high good humor, and cried:

"What! Finished already? I was hoping to hear a bit of it. Well, maestro, what do you say? Are you satisfied?"

"It's going quite well, " said Christophe. "I don't know how to thankyou. . . . "

"Not at all! Not at all!"

"There is only one thing wrong. "

"What is it? We'll put it right. I am determined to satisfy you. "

"Well . . . The singer. Between ourselves she is detestable. "

The beaming smile on Roussin's face froze suddenly. He said, with someasperity:

"You surprise me, my dear fellow. "

"She is useless, absolutely useless, " Christophe went on. "She has novoice, no taste, no knowledge of her work, no talent. You're lucky not tohave heard her!. . . "

Roussin grew more and more acid. He cut Christophe short, and saidcuttingly:

"I know Mlle. De Sainte-Ygraine. She is a very talented artiste. I havethe greatest admiration for her. Every man of taste in Paris shares myopinion. "

And he turned his back on Christophe, who saw him offer his arm to theactress and go out with her. He was dumfounded, and Sylvain Kohn, who hadwatched the scene delightedly, took his arm and laughed, and said as theywent down the stairs of the theater:--

"Didn't you know that she was his mistress?"

Christophe understood. So it was for her sake and not for his own that hispiece was to be produced! That explained Roussin's enthusiasm, the moneyhe had laid out, and the eagerness of his sycophants. He listened whileSylvain Kohn told him the story of the Sainte-Ygraine: a music-hall singer, who, after various successes in the little vaudeville theaters, had, likeso many of her kind, been fired with the ambition to be heard on a stagemore worthy of her talent. She counted on Roussin to procure her anengagement at the Opéra or the Opéra-Comique: and Roussin, who askednothing better, had seen in the performance of _David_ an opportunity ofrevealing to the Parisian public at no very great risk the lyrical giftsof the new tragedienne, in a part which called for no particular dramaticacting, and gave her an excellent opportunity of displaying the elegance ofher figure. 

Christophe heard the story through to the end: then he shook off SylvainKohn and burst out laughing. He laughed and laughed. When he had done, hesaid:

"You disgust me. You all disgust me. Art is nothing to you. It's alwayswomen, nothing but women. An opera is put on for a dancer, or a singer, forthe mistress of M. So-and-So, or Madame Thingummy. You think of nothing butyour dirty little intrigues. Bless you, I'm not angry with you: you arelike that: very well then, be so and wallow in your mire. But we must partcompany: we weren't made to live together. Good-night. "

He left him, and when he reached home, wrote to Roussin, saying that hewithdrew the piece, and did not disguise his reasons for doing so. 

It meant a breach with Roussin and all his gang. The consequences werefelt at once. The newspapers had made a certain amount of talk about theforthcoming piece, and the story of the quarrel between the composer andthe singer appeared in due course. A certain conductor was adventurousenough to play the piece at a Sunday afternoon concert. His good fortunewas disastrous for Christophe. The _David_ was played--and hissed. Allthe singer's friends had passed the word to teach the insolent musician alesson: and the outside public, who had been bored by the symphonic poem, added their voices to the verdict of the critics. To crown his misfortunes, Christophe was ill-advised enough to accept the invitation to display histalents as a pianist at the same concert by giving a _Fantasia_ for pianoand orchestra. The unkindly disposition of the audience, which had been toa certain extent restrained during the performance of the _David_, out ofconsideration for the interpreters, broke loose, when they found themselvesface to face with the composer, --whose playing was not all that it mighthave been. Christophe was unnerved by the noise in the hall, and stoppedsuddenly half-way through a movement: and he looked jeeringly at theaudience, who were startled into silence, and played _Malbrouck s'enva-t-en guerre_!--and said insolently:

"That is all you are fit for. "

Then he got up and went away. 

There was a terrific row. The audience shouted that he had insulted them, and that he must come and apologize. Next day the papers unanimouslyslaughtered the grotesque German to whom justice had been meted out by thegood taste of Paris. 

And then once more he was left in absolute isolation. Once more Christophefound himself alone, more solitary than ever, in that great, hostile, stranger city. He did not worry about it. He began to think that he wasfated to be so, and would be so all his life. 

He did not know that a great soul is never alone, that, however Fortune maycheat him of friendship, in the end a great soul creates friends by theradiance of the love with which it is filled, and that even in that hour, when he thought himself for ever isolated, he was more rich in love thanthe happiest men and women in the world. 

 * * * * *

Living with the Stevens was a little girl of thirteen or fourteen, to whomChristophe had given lessons at the same time as Colette. She was a distantcousin of Colette's, and her name was Grazia Buontempi. She was a littlegirl with a golden-brown complexion, with cheeks delicately tinged withred: healthy-looking: she had a little aquiline nose, a large well-shapedmouth, always half-open, a round chin, very white, calm clear eyes, softlysmiling, a round forehead framed in masses of long, silky hair, which fellin long, waving locks loosely down to her shoulders. She was like a littleVirgin of Andrea del Sarto, with her wide face and serenely gazing eyes. 

She was Italian. Her parents lived almost all the year round in the countryon an estate in the North of Italy: plains, fields, little canals. From theloggia on the housetop they looked down on golden vines, from which hereand there the black spikes of the cypress-trees emerged. Beyond them werefields, and again fields. Silence. The lowing of the oxen returning fromthe fields, and the shrill cries of the peasants at the plow were to beheard:

_"Ihi!. . . Fat innanz'!. . . "_

Grasshoppers chirruped in the trees, frogs croaked by the waterside. And atnight there was infinite silence under the silver beams of the moon. In thedistance, from time to time, the watchers by the crops, sleeping in huts ofbranches, fired their guns by way of warning thieves that they were awake. To those who heard them drowsily, these noises meant no more than thechiming of a dull clock in the distance, marking the hours of the night. And silence closed again, like a soft cloak, about the soul. 

Round little Grazia life seemed asleep. Her people did not give her muchattention. In the calmness and beauty that was all about her she grew uppeacefully without haste, without fever. She was lazy, and loved to dawdleand to sleep. For hours together she would lie in the garden. She would letherself be borne onward by the silence like a fly on a summer stream. Andsometimes, suddenly, for no reason, she would begin to run. She would runlike a little animal, head and shoulders a little leaning to the right, moving easily and supply. She was like a kid climbing and slithering amongthe stones for the sheer joy of leaping about. She would talk to the dogs, the frogs, the grass, the trees, the peasants, and the beasts in thefarmyard. She adored all the creatures about her, great and small: but shewas less at her ease with the great. She saw very few people. The estatewas isolated and far from any town. Very rarely there came along the dustyroad some trudging, solemn peasant, or lovely country woman, with brighteyes and sunburnt face, walking with a slow rhythm, head high and chestwell out. For days together Grazia lived alone in the silence of thegarden: she saw no one: she was never bored: she was afraid of nothing. 

One day a tramp came, stealing fowls. He stopped dead when he saw thelittle girl lying on the grass, eating a piece of bread and butter andhumming to herself. She looked up at him calmly, and asked him what hewaited. He said:

"Give me something, or I'll hurt you. "

She held out her piece of bread and butter and smiled, and said:

"You must not do harm. "

Then he went away. 

Her mother died. Her father, a kind, weak man, was an old Italian of a goodfamily, robust, jovial, affectionate, but rather childish, and he was quiteincapable of bringing up his child. Old Buontempi's sister, Madame Stevens, came to the funeral, and was struck by the loneliness of the child, anddecided to take her back to Paris for a while, to distract her from hergrief. Grazia and her father wept: but when Madame Stevens had made up hermind to anything, there was nothing for it but to give in: nobody couldstand out against her. She had the brains of the family: and, in her housein Paris, she directed everything, dominated everybody: her husband, her daughter, her lovers:--for she had not denied herself in the matterof love: she went straight at her duties, and her pleasures: she was apractical woman and a passionate--very worldly and very restless. 

Transplanted to Paris, Grazia adored her pretty cousin Colette, whom sheamused. The pretty little savage was taken out into society and to thetheater. They treated her as a child, and she regarded herself as a child, although she was a child no longer. She had feelings which she hid away, for she was fearful of them: accesses of tenderness for some person orthing. She was secretly in love with Colette, and would steal a ribbonor a handkerchief that belonged to her: often in her presence, she couldnot speak a word: and when she expected her, when she knew that she wasgoing to see her, she would tremble with impatience and happiness. At thetheater when she saw her pretty cousin, in evening dress, come into thebox and attract general attention, she would smile humbly, affectionately, lovingly: and her heart would leap when Colette spoke to her. Dressed inwhite, with her beautiful black hair loose and hanging over her shoulders, biting the fingers of her long white cotton gloves, and idly poking herfingers through the holes, --every other minute during the play she wouldturn towards Colette in the hope of meeting a friendly look, to share thepleasure she was feeling, and to say with her clear brown eyes:

"I love you. "

When they were out together in the Bois, outside Paris, she would walk inColette's shadow, sit at her feet; run in front of her, break off branchesthat might be in her way, place stones in the mud for her to walk on. Andone evening in the garden, when Colette shivered and asked for her shawl, she gave a little cry of delight--she was at once ashamed of it--to thinkthat her beloved would be wrapped in something of hers, and would give itback to her presently filled with the scent of her body. 

There were books, certain passages in the poets, which she read insecret--(for she was still given children's books)--which gave herdelicious thrills. And there were more even in certain passages in music, although she was told that she could not understand them: and she persuadedherself that she did not understand them:--but she would turn pale and coldwith emotion. No one knew what was happening within her at such moments. 

Outside that she was just a docile little girl, dreamy, lazy, greedy, blushing on the slightest provocation, now silent for hours together, nowtalking volubly, easily touched to tears and laughter, breaking suddenlyinto fits of sobbing or childish laughter. She loved to laugh, and sillylittle things would amuse her. She never tried to be grown up. She remaineda child. She was, above all, kind and could not bear to hurt anybody, andshe was hurt by the least angry word addressed to herself. She was verymodest and retiring, ready to love and admire anything that seemed good andbeautiful to her, and so she attributed to others qualities which they didnot possess. 

She was being educated, for she was very backward. And that was how shecame to be taught music by Christophe. 

She saw him for the first time at a crowded party in her aunt's house. Christophe, who was incapable of adapting himself to his audience, playedan interminable _adagio_ which made everybody yawn: when it seemed to beover he began again: and everybody wondered if it was ever going to end. Madame Stevens was boiling with impatience: Colette was highly amused: shewas enjoying the absurdity of it, and rather pleased with Christophe forbeing so insensible of it: she felt that he was a force, and she likedthat: but it was comic too: and she would have been the last person todefend him. Grazia alone was moved to tears by the music. She hid herselfaway in a corner of the room. When it was over she went away, so that noone should see her emotion, and also because she could not bear to seepeople making fun of Christophe. 

A few days later, at dinner, Madame Stevens in her presence spoke of herhaving music-lessons from Christophe. Grazia was so upset that she let herspoon drop into her soup-plate, and splashed herself and her neighbor. Colette said she ought first to have lessons in table-manners. MadameStevens added that Christophe was not the person to go to for that. Graziawas glad to be scolded in Christophe's company. 

Christophe began to teach her. She was stiff and frozen, and held her armsclose to her sides, and could not stir: and when Christophe placed hishand on hers, to correct the position of her fingers, and stretched themover the keys, she nearly fainted. She was fearful of playing badly forhim; but in vain did she practise until she nearly made herself ill, andevoked impatient protests from her cousin: she always played vilely whenChristophe was present: she was breathless, and her fingers were as stiffas pieces of wood, or as flabby as cotton: she struck the wrong notes andgave the emphasis all wrong: Christophe would lose his temper, scold her, and go away: then she would long to die. 

He paid no attention to her, and thought only of Colette. Grazia wasenvious of her cousin's intimacy with Christophe: but, although it hurther, in her heart she was glad both for Colette and for Christophe. Shethought Colette so superior to herself that it seemed natural to her thatshe should monopolize attention. --It was only when she had to choosebetween her cousin and Christophe that she felt her heart turn againstColette. With her girlish intuition she saw that Christophe was made tosuffer by Colette's coquetry, and the persistent courtship of her by LucienLévy-Coeur. Instinctively she disliked Lévy-Coeur, and she detested him assoon as she knew that Christophe detested him. She could not understandhow Colette could admit him as a rival to Christophe. She began secretlyto judge him harshly. She discovered certain of his small hypocrisies, andsuddenly changed her manner towards him. Colette saw it, but did not guessthe cause: she pretended to ascribe it to a little girl's caprice. But itwas very certain that she had lost her power over Grazia: as was shown bya trifling incident. One evening, when they were walking together in thegarden, a gentle rain came on, and Colette, tenderly, though coquettishly, offered Grazia the shelter of her cloak: Grazia, for whom, a few weeksbefore, it would have been happiness ineffable to be held close to herbeloved cousin, moved away coldly, and walked on in silence at a distanceof some yards. And when Colette said that she thought a piece of music thatGrazia was playing was ugly, Grazia was not kept from playing and lovingit. 

She was only concerned with Christophe. She had the insight of hertenderness, and saw that he was suffering, without his saying a word. Sheexaggerated it in her childish, uneasy regard for him. She thought thatChristophe was in love with Colette, when he had really no more than anexacting friendship. She thought he was unhappy, and she was unhappy forhim, and she had little reward for her anxiety. She paid for it whenColette had infuriated Christophe: then he was surly and avenged himself onhis pupil, waxing wrathful with her mistakes. One morning when Colette hadexasperated him more than usual, he sat down by the piano so savagely thatGrazia lost the little nerve she had: she floundered: he angrily scoldedher for her mistakes: then she lost her head altogether: he fumed, wrunghis hands, declared that she would never do anything properly, and that shehad better occupy herself with cooking, sewing, anything she liked, only, in Heaven's name, she must not go on with her music! It was not worth thetrouble of torturing people with her mistakes. With that he left her in themiddle of her lesson. He was furious. And poor Grazia wept, not so much forthe humiliation of anything he had said to her, as for despair at not beingable to please Christophe, when she longed to do so, and could only succeedin adding to his sufferings. The greatest grief was when Christophe ceasedto go to the Stevens' house. Then she longed to go home. The poor child, sohealthy, even in her dreams, in whom there was much of the sweet peace ofthe country, felt ill at ease in the town, among the neurasthenic, restlesswomen of Paris. She never dared say anything, but she had come to a fairlyaccurate estimation of the people about her. But she was shy, and, like herfather, weak, from kindness, modesty, distrust of herself. She submittedto the authority of her domineering aunt and her cousin, who was used totyrannizing over everybody. She dared not write to her father, to whom shewrote regularly long, affectionate letters:

"Please, please, take me home!"

And her father dared not take her home, in spite of his own longing: forMadame Stevens had answered his timid advances by saying that Grazia wasvery well off where she was, much better off than she would be with him, and that she must stay for the sake of her education. 

But there came a time when her exile was too hard for the little southerncreature, a time when she had to fly back towards the light. --That wasafter Christophe's concert. She went to it with the Stevens: and shewas tortured by the hideous sight of the rabble amusing themselves withinsulting an artist. . . . An artist? The man who, in Grazia's eyes, was thevery type of art, the personification of all that was divine in life! Shewas on the point of tears; she longed to get away. She had to listen toall the caterwauling, the hisses, the howls, and, when they reached home, to the laughter of Colette as she exchanged pitying remarks with LucienLévy-Coeur. She escaped to her room, and through part of the night shesobbed: she spoke to Christophe, and consoled him: she would gladly havegiven her life for him, and she despaired of ever being able to do anythingto make him happy. It was impossible for her to stay in Paris any longer. She begged her father to take her away, saying:

"I cannot live here any longer; I cannot: I shall die if you leave me hereany longer. "

Her father came at once, and though it was very painful to them both tostand up to her terrible aunt, they screwed up their courage for it by adesperate effort of will. 

Grazia returned to the sleepy old estate. She was glad to get back toNature and the creatures that she loved. Every day she gathered comfortfor her sorrow, but in her heart there remained a little of the melancholyof the North, like a veil of mist, that very slowly melted away beforethe sun. Sometimes she thought of Christophe's wretchedness. Lying on thegrass, listening to the familiar frogs and grasshoppers, or sitting at herpiano, which now she played more often than before, she would dream of thefriend her heart had chosen: she would talk to him, in whispers, for hourstogether, and it seemed not impossible to her that one day he would openthe door and come in to her. She wrote to him, and, after long hesitation, she sent the letter, unsigned, which, one day, with beating heart, she wentsecretly and dropped into the box in the village two miles away, beyond thelong plowed fields, --a kind, good, touching letter, in which she told himthat he was not alone, that he must not be discouraged, that there wasone who thought of him, and loved him, and prayed to God for him, --a poorlittle letter, which was lost in the post, so that he never received it. 

Then the serene, monotonous days succeeded each other in the life of hisdistant friend. And the Italian peace, the genius of tranquillity, calmhappiness, silent contemplation, once more took possession of that chasteand silent heart, in whose depths there still burned, like a littleconstant flame, the memory of Christophe. 

 * * * * *

But Christophe never knew of the simple love that watched over him fromafar, and was later to fill so great a room in his life. Nor did he knowthat at that same concert, where he had been insulted, there sat the womanwho was to be the beloved, the dear companion, destined to walk by hisside, shoulder to shoulder, hand in hand. 

He was alone. He thought himself alone. But he did not suffer overmuch. Hedid not feel that bitter anguish that had given him such great agony inGermany. He was stronger, riper: he knew that it must be so. His illusionsabout Paris were destroyed: men were everywhere the same: he must be a lawunto himself, and not waste strength in a childish struggle with the world:he must be himself, calmly, tranquilly. As Beethoven had said, "If wesurrender the forces of our lives to life, what, then, will be left for thenoblest and highest?" He had firmly grasped a knowledge of his nature andthe temper of his race, which formerly he had so harshly judged. The morehe was oppressed by the atmosphere of Paris, the more keenly did he feelthe need of taking refuge in his own country, in the arms of the poets andmusicians, in whom the best of Germany is garnered and preserved. As soonas he opened their books his room was filled with the sound of the sunlitRhine and lit by the loving smiles of old friends new found. 

How ungrateful he had been to them! How was it he had failed to feel thetreasure of their goodness and honesty? He remembered with shame all theunjust, outrageous things he had said of them when he was in Germany. Thenhe saw only their defects, their awkward ceremonious manners, their tearfulidealism, their little mental hypocrisies, their cowardice. Ah! How smallwere all these things compared with their great virtues! How could he havebeen so hard upon their weaknesses, which now made them even more moving inhis eyes: for they were more human for them! In his reaction he was themore attracted to those of them to whom he had been most unjust. Whatthings he had said about Schubert and Bach! And now he felt so near tothem. Now it was as though these noble souls, whose foibles he had soscorned, leaned over him, now that he was in exile and far from his ownpeople, and smiled kindly and said:

"Brother, we are here! Courage! We too have had more than our share ofmisery . . . Bah! one wins through it. . . . "

He heard the soul of Johann Sebastian Bach roaring like the sea:hurricanes, winds howling, the clouds of life scudding, --men and womendrunk with joy, sorrow, fury, and the Christ, all meekness, the Prince ofPeace, hovering above them, --towns awakened by the cries of the watchmen, running with glad shouts, to meet the divine Bridegroom, whose footstepsshake the earth, --the vast store of thoughts, passions, musical forms, heroic life, Shakespearean hallucinations, Savonarolaesque prophecies, pastoral, epic, apocalyptic visions, all contained in the stunted body ofthe little Thuringian _cantor_, with his double chin, and little shiningeyes under the wrinkled lids and the raised eyebrows . . . --he could see himso clearly! somber, jovial, a little absurd, with his head stuffed full ofallegories and symbols, Gothic and rococo, choleric, obstinate, serene, with a passion for life, and a great longing for death . . . --he saw himin his school, a genial pedant, surrounded by his pupils, dirty, coarse, vagabond, ragged, with hoarse voices, the ragamuffins with whom hesquabbled, and sometimes fought like a navvy, one of whom once gave hima mighty thrashing . . . --he saw him with his family, surrounded by histwenty-one children, of whom thirteen died before him, and one was anidiot, and the rest were good musicians who gave little concerts. . . . Sickness, burial, bitter disputes, want, his genius misunderstood:--andthrough and above it all, his music, his faith, deliverance and light, joyhalf seen, felt, desired, grasped, --God, the breath of God kindling hisbones, thrilling through his flesh, thundering from his lips. . . . O Force!Force! Thrice joyful thunder of Force!. . . 

Christophe took great draughts of that force. He felt the blessing of thatpower of music which issues from the depths of the German soul. Oftenmediocre, and even coarse, what does it matter? The great thing is thatit is so, and that it flows plenteously. In France music is gatheredcarefully, drop by drop, and passed through Pasteur filters into bottles, and then corked. And the drinkers of stale water are disgusted by therivers of German music! They examine minutely the defects of the German menof genius!

"Poor little things!"--thought Christophe, forgetting that he himself hadonce been just as absurd--"they find fault with Wagner and Beethoven! Theymust have faultless men of genius!. . . As though, when the tempest rages, itwould take care not to upset the existing order of things!. . . "

He strode about Paris rejoicing in his strength. If he were misunderstood, so much the better! He would be all the freer. To create, as genius must, awhole world, organically constituted according to his own inward laws, theartist must live in it altogether. An artist can never be too much alone. What is terrible is to see his ideas reflected in a mirror which deformsand stunts them. He must say nothing to others of what he is doing until hehas done it: otherwise he would never have the courage to go on to the end:for it would no longer be his idea, but the miserable idea of others thatwould live in him. 

Now that there was nothing to disturb his dreams, they bubbled forth likesprings from all the corners of his soul, and from every stone of the roadsby which he walked. He was living in a visionary state. Everything he sawand heard called forth in him creatures and things different from those hesaw and heard. He had only to live to find everywhere about him the lifeof his heroes. Their sensations came to him of their own accord. The eyesof the passers-by, the sound of a voice borne by the wind, the light ona lawn, the birds singing in the trees of the Luxembourg, a convent-bellringing so far away, the pale sky, the little patch of sky seen from hisroom, the sounds and shades of sound of the different hours of the day, allthese were not in himself, but in the creatures of his dreams. --Christophewas happy. 

But his material position was worse than ever. He had lost his few pupils, his only resource. It was September, and rich people were out of town, andit was difficult to find new pupils. The only one he had was an engineer, acrazy, clever fellow, who had taken it into his head, at forty, to become agreat violinist. Christophe did not play the violin very well: but he knewmore about it than his pupil: and for some time he gave him three hours aweek at two francs an hour. But at the end of six weeks the engineer gottired of it, and suddenly discovered that painting was his vocation. --Whenhe imparted his discovery to Christophe, Christophe laughed heartily: but, when he had done laughing, he reckoned up his finances, and found that hehad in hand the twelve francs which his pupil had just paid him for hislast lessons. That did not worry him: he only said to himself that he mustcertainly set about finding some other means of living, and start once moregoing from publisher to publisher. That was not very pleasant. . . . Pff!. . . It was useless to torment himself in advance. It was a jolly day. He wentto Meudon. 

He had a sudden longing for a walk. As he walked there rose in him scrapsof music. He was as full of it as a hive of honey: and he laughed aloud atthe golden buzzing of his bees. For the most part it was changing music. And lively leaping rhythms, insistent, haunting. . . . Much good it is tocreate and fashion music buried within four walls! There you can only makecombinations of subtle, hard, unyielding harmonies, like the Parisians!

When he was weary he lay down in the woods. The trees were half in leaf, the sky was periwinkle blue. Christophe dozed off dreamily, and in hisdreams there was the color of the sweet light falling from October clouds. His blood throbbed. He listened to the rushing flood of his ideas. Theycame from all corners of the earth: worlds, young and old, at war, rags andtatters of dead souls, guests and parasites that once had dwelled withinhim, as in a city. The words that Gottfried had spoken by the grave ofMelchior returned to him: he was a living tomb, filled with the dead, striving in him, --all his unknown forefathers. He listened to thosecountless lives, it delighted him to set the organ roaring, the roaring ofthat age-old forest, full of monsters, like the forest of Dante. He wasno longer fearful of them as he had been in his youth. For the master wasthere: his will. It was a great joy to him to crack his whip and make thebeasts howl, and feel the wealth of living creatures in himself. He wasnot alone. There was no danger of his ever being alone. He was a host inhimself. Ages of Kraffts, healthy and rejoicing in their health. Againsthostile Paris, against a hostile people, he could set a whole people: thefight was equal. 

 * * * * *

He had left the modest room--it was too expensive--which he occupied andtaken an attic in the Montrouge district. It was well aired, though ithad no other advantage. There was a continual draught. But he wanted tobreathe. From his window he had a wide view over the chimneys of Paris toMontmartre in the background. It had not taken him long to move: a handcartwas enough: Christophe pushed it himself. Of all his possessions the mostprecious to him, after his old bag, was one of those casts, which havelately become so popular, of the death-mask of Beethoven. He packed it withas much care as though it were a priceless work of art. He never let it outof his sight. It was an oasis in the midst of the desert of Paris. And alsoit served him as a moral thermometer. The death-mask indicated more clearlythan his own conscience the temperature of his soul, the character of hismost secret thoughts: now a cloudy sky, now the gusty wind of the passions, now fine calm weather. 

He had to be sparing with his food. He only ate once a day, at one in theafternoon. He bought a large sausage, and hung it up in his window: a thickslice of it, a hunk of bread, and a cup of coffee that he made himself werea feast for the gods. He would have preferred two such feasts. He was angrywith himself for having such a good appetite. He called himself to task, and thought himself a glutton, thinking only of his stomach. He lost flesh:he was leaner than a famished dog. But he was solidly built, he had an ironconstitution, and his head was clear. 

He did not worry about the morrow, though he had good reason for doing so. As long as he had in hand money enough for the day he never bothered aboutit. When he came to the end of his money he made up his mind to go theround of the publishers once more. He found no work. He was on his wayhome, empty, when, happening to pass the music-shop where he had beenintroduced to Daniel Hecht by Sylvain Kohn, he went in without rememberingthat he had already been there under not very pleasant circumstances. Thefirst person he saw was Hecht. He was on the point of turning tail: but hewas too late: Hecht had seen him. Christophe did not wish to seem to beavoiding him: he went up to Hecht, not knowing what to say to him, andfully prepared to stand up to him as arrogantly as need be: for he wasconvinced that Hecht would be unsparingly insolent. But he was nothingof the kind. Hecht coldly held out his hand, muttered some conventionalinquiry after his health, and, without waiting for any request fromChristophe, he pointed to the door of his office, and stepped aside to lethim pass. He was secretly glad of the visit, which he had foreseen, thoughhe had given up expecting it. Without seeming to do so, he had carefullyfollowed Christophe's doings: he had missed no opportunity of hearing hismusic: he had been at the famous performance of the _David_: and, despisingthe public, he had not been greatly surprised at its hostile reception, since he himself had felt the beauty of the work. There were probably nottwo people in Paris more capable than Hecht of appreciating Christophe'sartistic originality. But he took care not to say anything about it, notonly because his vanity was hurt by Christophe's attitude towards himself, but because it was impossible for him to be amiable: it was the peculiarlyungracious quality of his nature. He was sincerely desirous of helpingChristophe: but he would not have stirred a finger to do so: he was waitingfor Christophe to come and ask it of him. And now that Christophe hadcome, --instead of generously seizing the opportunity of wiping out thememory of their previous misunderstanding by sparing his visitor anyhumiliation, he gave himself the satisfaction of hearing him make hisrequest at length: and he even went so far as to offer Christophe, at leastfor the time being, the work which he had formerly refused. He gave himfifty pages of music to transpose for mandoline and guitar by the nextday. After which, being satisfied that he had made him truckle down, hefound him less distasteful work, but always so ungraciously that it wasimpossible to be grateful to him for it: Christophe had to be grounddown by necessity before he would ever go to Hecht again. In any case hepreferred to earn his money by such work, however irritating it mightbe, than accept it as a gift from Hecht, as it was once more offered tohim:--and, indeed, Hecht meant it kindly: but Christophe had been consciousof Hecht's original intention to humiliate him: he was forced to accepthis conditions, but nothing would induce him to accept any favor fromhim: he was willing to work for him:--by giving and giving he squared theaccount:--but he would not be under any obligation to him. Unlike Wagner, that impudent mendicant where his art was concerned, he did not place hisart above himself: the bread that he had not earned himself would havechoked him. --One day, when he brought some work that he had sat up allnight to finish, he found Hecht at table. Hecht, remarking his pallor andthe hungry glances that involuntarily he cast at the dishes, felt sure thathe had not eaten that day, and invited him to lunch. He meant kindly, buthe made it so apparent that he had noticed Christophe's straits that hisinvitation looked like charity: Christophe would have died of hunger ratherthan accept. He could not refuse to sit down at the table--(Hecht said hewanted to talk to him):--but he did not touch a morsel: he pretended thathe had just had lunch. His stomach was aching with hunger. 

Christophe would gladly have done without Hecht: but the other publisherswere even worse. --There were also wealthy amateurs who had conceived somescrap of a musical idea, and could not even write it down. They would sendfor Christophe, hum over their lucubrations, and say:

"Isn't it fine?"

Then they would give them to him for elaboration, --(to be written):--andthen they would appear under their own names through some great publishinghouse. They were quite convinced that they had composed them themselves. Christophe knew such a one, a distinguished nobleman, a strange, restlesscreature, who would suddenly call him "Dear friend, " grasp him by thearm, and burst into a torrent of enthusiastic demonstrations, talking andgiggling, babbling and telling funny stories, interlarded with cries ofecstatic laughter: Beethoven, Verlaine, Fauré, Yvette Guilbert. . . . He madehim work, and failed to pay. He worked it out in invitations to lunch andhandshakes. Finally he sent Christophe twenty francs, which Christophe gavehimself the foolish luxury of returning. That day he had not twenty sousin the world: and he had to buy a twenty-five centimes stamp for a letterto his mother. It was Louisa's birthday, and Christophe would not for theworld have failed her: the poor old creature counted on her son's letter, and could not have endured disappointment. For some weeks past she had beenwriting to him more frequently, in spite of the pain it caused her. Shewas suffering from her loneliness. But she could not bring herself tojoin Christophe in Paris: she was too timid, too much attached to her ownlittle town, to her church, her house, and she was afraid of traveling. Andbesides, if she had wanted to come, Christophe had not enough money: he hadnot always enough for himself. 

He had been given a great deal of pleasure once by receiving a letter fromLorchen, the peasant girl for whose sake he had plunged into the brawl withthe Prussian soldiers:[Footnote: See _Jean-Christophe_--I, "Revolt. "] shewrote to tell him that she was going to be married: she gave him news ofhis mother, and sent him a basket of apples and a piece of cake to eat inher honor. They came in the nick of time. That evening with Christophe wasa fast, Ember Days, Lent: only the butt end of the sausage hanging by thewindow was left. Christophe compared himself to the anchorite saints fed bya crow among the rocks. But no doubt the crow was hard put to it to feedall the anchorites, for he never came again. 

In spite of all his difficulties Christophe kept his end up. He washed hislinen in his basin, and cleaned his boots, whistling like a blackbird. Heconsoled himself with the saying of Berlioz: "Let us raise our heads abovethe miseries of life, and let us blithely sing the familiar gay refrain, _Dies iræ_. . . . "--He used to sing it sometimes, to the dismay of hisneighbors, who were amazed and shocked to hear him break off in the middleand shout with laughter. 

He led a life of stern chastity. As Berlioz remarked: "The lover's life isa life for the idle and the rich. " Christophe's poverty, his daily huntfor bread, his excessive sobriety, and his creative fever left him neitherthe time nor the taste for any thought of pleasure. He was more thanindifferent about it: in his reaction against Paris he had plunged into asort of moral asceticism. He had a passionate need of purity, a horror ofany sort of dirtiness. It was not that he was rid of his passions. At othertimes he had been swept headlong by them. But his passions remained chasteeven when he yielded to them: for he never sought pleasure through them butthe absolute giving of himself and fulness of being. And when he saw thathe had been deceived he flung them furiously from him. Lust was not tohim a sin like any other. It was the great Sin, that which poisons thevery springs of life. All those in whom the old Christian belief has notbeen crusted over with strange conceptions, all those who still feel inthemselves the vigor and life of the races, which through the strengtheningof an heroic discipline have built up Western civilization, will haveno difficulty in understanding him. Christophe despised cosmopolitansociety, whose only aim and creed was pleasure. --In truth it is good toseek pleasure, to desire pleasure for all men, to combat the crampingpessimistic beliefs, that have come to weigh upon humanity through twentycenturies of Gothic Christianity. But that can only be upon conditionthat it is a generous faith, earnestly desirous of the good of others. But instead of that, what happens? The most pitiful egoism. A handful ofloose-living men and women trying to give their senses the maximum ofpleasure with the minimum of risk, while they take good care that the restshall drudge for it. --Yes, no doubt, they have their parlor Socialism!. . . But they know perfectly well that their doctrine of pleasure is onlypracticable for "well-fed" people, for a select pampered few, that it ispoison to the poor. . . . 

"The life of pleasure is a rich man's life. "

 * * * * *

Christophe was neither rich nor likely to become so. When he made a littlemoney he spent it at once on music: he went without food to go to concerts. He would take cheap seats in the gallery of the _Théâtre du Châtelet_: andhe would steep himself in music: he found both food and love in it. He hadsuch a hunger for happiness and so great a power of enjoying it that theimperfections of the orchestra never worried him: he would stay for two orthree hours, drowsy and beatific, and wrong notes or defective taste neverprovoked in him more than an indulgent smile: he left his critical facultyoutside: he was there to love, not to judge. Around him the audience satmotionless, with eyes half closed, letting itself be borne on by the greattorrent of dreams. Christophe fancied them as a mass of people curled upin the shade, like an enormous cat, weaving fantastic dreams of lust andcarnage. In the deep golden shadows certain faces stood out, and theirstrange charm and silent ecstasy drew Christophe's eyes and heart: he lovedthem: he listened through them: he became them, body and soul. One woman inthe audience became aware of it, and between her and Christophe during theconcert there was woven one of those obscure sympathies, which touch thevery depths, though never by one word are they translated into the regionof consciousness, while, when the concert is over and the thread that bindssoul to soul is snapped, nothing is left of it. It is a state familiarto lovers of music, especially when they are young and do most whollysurrender: the essence of music is so completely love, that the full savorof it is not won unless it be enjoyed through another, and so it is that, at a concert, we instinctively seek among the throng for friendly eyes, fora friend with whom to share a joy too great for ourselves alone. 

Among such friends, the friends of one brief hour, whom Christophe markedout for choice of love, the better to taste the sweetness of the music, hewas attracted by one face which he saw again and again, at every concert. It was the face of a little grisette who seemed to adore music withoutunderstanding it at all. She had an odd little profile, a short, straightnose, almost in line with her slightly pouting lips and delicately moldedchin, fine arched eyebrows, and clear eyes: one of those pretty littlefaces behind the veil of which one feels joy and laughter concealed by calmindifference. It is perhaps in such light-hearted girls, little creaturesworking for their living, that one finds most the old serenity that is nomore, the serenity of the antique statues and the faces of Raphael. Thereis but one moment in their lives, the first awakening of pleasure: all toosoon their lives are sullied. But at least they have lived for one lovelyhour. 

It gave Christophe an exquisite pleasure to look at her: a pretty facewould always warm his heart: he could enjoy without desire: he found joy init, force, comfort, --almost virtue. It goes without saying that she quicklybecame aware that he was watching her: and, unconsciously, there was set upbetween them a magnetic current. And as they met at almost every concert, almost always in the same places, they quickly learned each other's likesand dislikes. At certain passages they would exchange meaning glances: whenshe particularly liked some melody she would just put out her tongue asthough to lick her lips: or, to show that she did not think much of it, shewould disdainfully wrinkle up her pretty nose. In these little tricks ofhers there was a little of that innocent posing of which hardly any onecan be free when he knows that he is being watched. During serious musicshe would sometimes try to look grave and serious: and she would turn herprofile towards him, and look absorbed, and smile to herself, and lookout of the corner of her eye to see if he were watching. They had becomevery good friends, without exchanging a word, and even without havingattempted--at least Christophe did not--to meet outside. 

At last by chance at an evening concert they found themselves sittingnext each other. After a moment of smiling hesitation they began to talkamicably. She had a charming voice and said many stupid things about music:for she knew nothing about it and wanted to seem as if she knew: but sheloved it passionately. She loved the worst and the best, Massenet andWagner: only the mediocre bored her. Music was a physical pleasure to her:she drank it in through all the pores of her skin as Danaë did the goldenrain. The prelude of _Tristan_ made her blood run cold: and she lovedfeeling herself being carried away, like some warrior's prey, by the_Symphonia Eroica_. She told Christophe that Beethoven was deaf and dumb, and that, in spite of it all, if she had known him, she would have lovedhim, although he was precious ugly. Christophe protested that Beethovenwas not so very ugly: then they argued about beauty and ugliness: and sheagreed that it was a matter of taste: what was beautiful for one person wasnot so for another: "We're not golden louis and can't please every one. " Hepreferred her when she did not talk: he understood her better. During thedeath of Isolde she held out her hand to him: her hand was warm and moist:he held it in his until the end of the piece: they could feel life coursingthrough the veins of their clasped hands. 

They went out together: it was near midnight. They walked back to the LatinQuarter talking eagerly: she had taken his arm and he took her home: butwhen they reached the door, and she seemed to suggest that he should goup and see her room, he disregarded her smile and the friendliness in hereyes and left her. At first she was amazed, then furious: then she laughedaloud at the thought of his stupidity: and then, when she had reached herroom and began to undress, she felt hurt and angry, and finally wept insilence. When next she met him at a concert she tried to be dignified andindifferent and crushing. But he was so kind to her that she could not holdto her resolution. They began to talk once more: only now she was a littlereserved with him. He talked to her warmly but very politely and alwaysabout serious things, and the music to which they were listening and whatit meant to him. She listened attentively and tried to think as he did. Themeaning of his words often escaped her: but she believed him all the same. She was grateful to Christophe and had a respect for him which she hardlyshowed. By tacit agreement they only spoke to each other at concerts. He met her once surrounded with students. They bowed gravely. She nevertalked about him to any one. In the depths of her soul there was a littlesanctuary, a quality of beauty, purity, consolation. 

And so Christophe, by his presence, by the mere fact of his existence, exercised an influence that brought strength and solace. Wherever he passedhe unconsciously left behind the traces of his inward light. He was thelast to have any notion of it. Near him, in the house where he lived, therewere people whom he had never seen, people who, without themselvessuspecting it, gradually came under the spell of his beneficent radiance. 

For several weeks Christophe had no money for concerts even by fasting: andin his attic under the roof, now that winter was coming in, he was numbedwith the cold: he could not sit still at his table. Then he would getup and walk about Paris, trying to warm himself. He had the faculty offorgetting the seething town about him, and slipping away into space andthe infinite. It was enough for him to see above the noisy street thedead, frozen moon, hung there in the abysm of the sky, or the sun, like adisc, rolling through the white mist; then Paris would sink down into theboundless void and all the life of it would seem to be no more than thephantom of a life that had been once, long, long ago . . . Ages ago . . . Thesmallest tiny sign, imperceptible to the common lot of men, of the greatwild life of Nature, so sparsely covered with the livery of civilization, was enough to make it all come rushing mightily up before his gaze. Thegrass growing between the stones of the streets, the budding of a treestrangled by its cast-iron cage, airless, earthless, on some bleakboulevard: a dog, a passing bird, the last relics of the beasts andbirds that thronged the primeval world, which man has since destroyed: awhirling cloud of flies: the mysterious epidemic that raged through a wholedistrict:--these were enough in the thick air of that human hothouse tobring the breath of the Spirit of the Earth up to slap his cheeks and whiphis energy to action. 

During those long walks, when he was often starving, and often hadnot spoken to a soul for days together, his wealth of dreams seemedinexhaustible. Privation and silence had aggravated his morbid heatedcondition. At night he slept feverishly, and had exhausting dreams: he sawonce more and never ceased to see the old house and the room in which hehad lived as a child: he was haunted by musical obsessions. By day hetalked and never ceased to talk to the creatures within himself and thebeings whom he loved, the absent and the dead. 

One cold afternoon in December, when the grass was covered with frost, andthe roofs of the houses and the great domes were glistening through thefog, and the trees, with their cold, twisted, naked branches, gropingthrough the mist that hung about them, looked like great weeds at thebottom of the sea, --Christophe, who had been shivering all day and couldnot get warm again, went into the Louvre, which he hardly knew at all. 

Till then painting had never moved him much. He was too much absorbed bythe world within himself to grasp the world of color and form. They onlyacted on him through their music and rhythm, which only brought him anindistinguishable echo of their truth. No doubt his instinct did obscurelydivine the selfsame laws that rule the harmony of visible form, as of theform of sounds, and the deep waters of the soul, from which spring the tworivers of color and sound, to flow down the two sides of the mountain oflife. But he only knew one side of the mountain, and he was lost in thekingdom of the eye, which was not his. And so he missed the secret of themost exquisite, and perhaps the most natural charm of clear-eyed France, the queen of the world of light. 

Even had he been interested in painting, Christophe was too German toadapt himself to so widely different a vision of things. He was not one ofthose up-to-date Germans who decry the German way of feeling, and persuadethemselves that they admire and love French Impressionism or the artists ofthe eighteenth century, --except when they go farther and are convinced thatthey understand them better than the French. Christophe was a barbarian, perhaps: but he was frank about it. The pink flesh of Boucher, the fatchins of Watteau, the bored shepherds and plump, tight-laced shepherdesses, the whipped-cream souls, the virtuous oglings of Greuze, the tucked shirtsof Fragonard, all that bare-legged poesy interested him no more than afashionable, rather spicy newspaper. He did not see its rich and brilliantharmony; the voluptuous and sometimes melancholy dreams of that oldcivilization, the highest in Europe, were foreign to him. As for the Frenchschool of the seventeenth century, he liked neither its devout ceremony norits pompous portraits: the cold reserve of the gravest of the masters, acertain grayness of soul that clouded the proud works of Nicolas Poussinand the pale faces of Philippe de Champaigne, repelled Christophe fromold French art. And, once more, he knew nothing about it. If he had knownanything about it he would have misunderstood it. The only modern painterwhose fascination he had felt at all in Germany, Boecklin of Basle, had notprepared him much for Latin art. Christophe remembered the shock of hisimpact with that brutal genius, which smacked of earth and the musty smellof the heroic beasts that it had summoned forth. His eyes, seared by theraw light, used to the frantic motley of that drunken savage, could hardlyadapt themselves to the half-tints, the dainty and mellifluous harmonies ofFrench art. 

But no man with impunity can live in a foreign land. Unknown to him it setsits seal upon him. In vain does he withdraw into himself: upon a day hemust wake up to find that something has changed. 

There was a change in Christophe on that evening when he wandered throughthe rooms of the Louvre. He was tired, cold, hungry; he was alone. Aroundhim darkness was descending upon the empty galleries, and sleeping formsawoke. Christophe was very cold as he walked in silence among Egyptiansphinxes, Assyrian monsters, bulls of Persepolis, gleaming snakes fromPalissy. He seemed to have passed into a magic world: and in his heartthere was a strange, mysterious emotion. The dream of humanity wrapped himabout, --the strange flowers of the soul. . . . 

In the misty gilded light of the picture-galleries, and the gardens ofrich brilliant hues, and painted airless fields, Christophe, in a stateof fever, on the very brink of illness, was visited by a miracle. --Hewas walking, numbed by hunger, by the coldness of the galleries, by thebewildering mass of pictures: his head was whirling. When he reached theend of the gallery that looks on to the river, he stood before the _GoodSamaritan_ of Rembrandt, and leaned on the rail in front of the pictures tokeep himself from falling: he closed his eyes for a moment. When he openedthem on the picture in front of him--he was quite close to it--and he washeld spellbound. . . . 

Day was spent. Day was already far gone; it was already dead. The invisiblesun was sinking down into the night. It was the magic hour when dreams andvisions come mounting from the soul, saddened by the labors of the day, still, musing drowsily. All is silent, only the beating of the heart isheard. In the body there is hardly the strength to move, hardly to breathe;sadness; resignation; only an immense longing to fall into the arms ofa friend, a hunger for some miracle, a feeling that some miracle mustcome. . . . It comes! A flood of golden light flames through the twilight, iscast upon the walls of the hovel, on the shoulder of the stranger bearingthe dying man, touches with its warmth those humble objects, and those poorcreatures, and the whole takes on a new gentleness, a divine glory. It isthe very God, clasping in his terrible, tender arms the poor wretches, weak, ugly, poor, unclean, the poor down-at-heel rascal, the miserablecreatures, with twisted haggard faces, thronging outside the window, theapathetic, silent creatures standing in mortal terror, --all the pitifulhuman beings of Rembrandt, the herd of obscure broken creatures who knownothing, can do nothing, only wait, tremble, weep, and pray. --But theMaster is there. He will come: it is known that He will come. Not HeHimself is seen: only the light that goes before, and the shadow of thelight which He casts upon all men. . . . 

Christophe left the Louvre, staggering and tottering. His head ached. Hecould not see. In the street it was raining, but he hardly noticed thepuddles between the flags and the water trickling down from his shoes. Over the Seine the yellowish sky was lit up, as the day waned, by aninward flame--like the light of a lamp. Still Christophe was spellbound, hypnotized. It seemed as though nothing existed: not the carriages rattlingover the stones with a pitiless noise: the passers-by were not banging intohim with their wet umbrellas: he was not walking in the street: perhaps hewas sitting at home and dreaming: perhaps he had ceased to exist. . . . Andsuddenly, --(he was so weak!)--he turned giddy and felt himself fallingheavily forward. . . . It was only for the flash of a second: he clenched hisfists, hurled himself backward, and recovered his balance. 

At that very moment when he emerged into consciousness his eyes met theeyes of a woman standing on the other side of the street, who seemed tobe looking for recognition. He stopped dead, trying to remember when hehad seen her before. It was only after a moment or two that he could placethose sad, soft eyes: it was the little French governess whom, unwittingly, he had had dismissed in Germany, for whom he had been looking for so longto beg her to forgive him. She had stopped, too, in the busy throng, andwas looking at him. Suddenly he saw her try to cross through the crowd ofpeople and step down into the road to come to him. He rushed to meet her:but they were separated by a block in the traffic: he saw her again for amoment struggling on the other side of that living wall: he tried to forcehis way through, was knocked over by a horse, slipped and fell on theslippery asphalt, and was all but run over. When he got up, covered withmud, and succeeded in reaching the other side of the street, she haddisappeared. 

He tried to follow her, but he had another attack of giddiness, and he hadto give it up. Illness was close upon him: he felt that, but he would notsubmit to it. He set his teeth, and would not go straight home, but wentfar out of his way. It was just a useless torment to him: he had to admitthat he was beaten: his legs ached, he dragged along, and only reached homewith frightful difficulty. Half-way up the stairs he choked, and had to sitdown. When he got to his icy room he refused to go to bed: he sat in hischair, wet through; his head was heavy and he could hardly breathe, and hedrugged himself with music as broken as himself. He heard a few fugitivebars of the _Unfinished Symphony_ of Schubert. Poor Schubert! He, too, wasalone when he wrote that, feverish, somnolent, in that semitorpid conditionwhich precedes the last great sleep: he sat dreaming by the fireside: allround him were heavy drowsy melodies, like stagnant water: he dwelt onthem, like a child half-asleep delighting in some self-told story, andrepeating some passage in it twenty times: so sleep comes, then death. . . . And Christophe heard fleetingly that other music, with burning hands, closed eyes, a little weary smile, heart big with sighs, dreaming of thedeliverance of death:--the first chorus in the Cantata of J. S. Bach:"_Dear God, when shall I die?_". . . It was sweet to sink back into the softmelodies slowly floating by, to hear the distant, muffled clangor of thebells. . . . To die, to pass into the peace of earth!. . . _Und dann selber Erdewerden_. . . . "And then himself to become earth. . . . "

Christophe shook off these morbid thoughts, the murderous smile of thesiren who lies in wait for the hours of weakness of the soul. He got up, and tried to walk about his room: but he could not stand. He was shakingand shivering with fever. He had to go to bed. He felt that it was seriousthis time: but he did not lay down his arms: he never was of those who, when they are ill, yield utterly to their illness: he struggled, he refusedto be ill, and, above all, he was absolutely determined not to die. He hadhis poor mother waiting for him in Germany. And he had his work to do: hewould not yield to death. He clenched his chattering teeth, and firmlygrasped his will that was oozing away: he was like a sturdy swimmerbattling with the waves dashing over him. At every moment, down he plunged:his mind wandered, endless fancies haunted him, memories of Germany and ofParisian society: he was obsessed by rhythms and scraps of melody whichwent round, and round, and round, like horses in a circus: the sudden shockof the golden light of the _Good Samaritan_: the tense, stricken faces inthe shadow: and then, dark nothingness and night. Then up he would comeonce more, wrenching away the grimacing mists, clenching his fists, andsetting his jaw. He clung to all those whom he loved in the present and thepast, to the face of the friend he had just seen in the street, his dearmother, and to the indestructible life within himself, that he felt waslike a rock, impervious to death. But once more the rock was covered by thetide: the waves dashed over it, and tore his soul away from its hold uponit: it was borne headlong and dashed by the foam. And Christophe struggledin delirium, babbling strangely, conducting and playing an imaginaryorchestra: trombones, horns, cymbals, timbals, bassoons, double-bass, . . . He scraped, blew, beat the drum, frantically. The poor wretch was bubblingover with suppressed music. For weeks he had been unable to hear or playany music, and he was like a boiler at high pressure, near bursting-point. Certain insistent phrases bored into his brain like gimlets, pierced hisskull, and made him scream with agony. After these attacks he would fallback on his pillow, dead tired, wet through, utterly weak, breathless, choking. He had placed his water-jug by his bedside, and he took greatdraughts of it. The various noises of the adjoining rooms, the banging ofthe attic doors, made him start. He was filled with a delirious disgust forthe creatures swarming round him. But his will fought on, sounded a warlikeclarion-note, declaring battle on all devils. . . . "_Und wenn die Welt vollTeufel wär, und wollten uns verschlingen, so fürchten wir uns nicht sosehr_. . . . " ("And even though the world were full of devils, all seeking todevour us, we should not be afraid. . . . "). 

And over the sea of scalding shadows that dashed over him, there came asudden calm, glimpses of light, a gentle murmuring of violins and viols, the clear triumphant notes of trumpets and horns, while, almost motionless, like a great wall, there rose from the sick man's soul an indomitable song, like a choral of J. S. Bach. 

 * * * * *

While he was fighting against the phantoms of fever and the choking inhis lungs, he was dimly aware that some one had opened the door, and thata woman entered with a candle in her hand. He thought it was anotherhallucination. He tried to speak, but could not, and fell back on hispillow. When, every now and then, he was brought for a moment back toconsciousness, he felt that his pillow had been raised, that his feet hadbeen wrapped up, that there was something burning his back, or he would seethe woman, whose face was not altogether unfamiliar, sitting at the foot ofhis bed. Then he saw another face, that of a doctor using a stethoscope. Christophe could not hear what they were saying, but he gathered that theywere talking of sending him to the hospital. He tried to protest, to cryout that he would not go, that he would die where he was, alone: but hecould only frame incomprehensible sounds. But the woman understood him: forshe took his part, and reassured him. He tried hard to find out who shewas. As soon as he could, with frightful effort, frame a sentence, he askedher. She replied that she lived in the next attic and had heard him moaningthrough the wall, and had taken the liberty of coming in, thinking thathe wanted help. She begged him respectfully not to wear himself out withtalking. He obeyed her. He was worn out with the effort he had made: he laystill and said nothing: but his brain went on working, painfully gatheringtogether its scattered memories. Where had he seen her?. . . At last heremembered: yes, he had met her on the attic landing: she was a servant, and her name was Sidonie. 

He watched her with half-closed eyes, so that she could not see him. Shewas little, and had a grave face, a wide forehead, hair drawn back, so thather temples were exposed; her cheeks were pale and high-boned; she had ashort nose, pale blue eyes, with a soft, steady look in them, thick lipstightly pressed together, an anemic complexion, a humble, deliberate, andrather stiff manner. She looked after Christophe with busy silent devotion, without a spark of familiarity, and without ever breaking down the reserveof a servant who never forgets class differences. 

However, little by little, when he was better and could talk to her, Christophe's affectionate cordiality made Sidonie talk to him a littlemore freely: but she was always on her guard: there were obviously certainthings which she would not tell. She was a mixture of humility and pride. Christophe learned that she came from Brittany, where she had left herfather, of whom she spoke very discreetly: but Christophe gathered that hedid nothing but drink, have a good time, and live on his daughter: she putup with it, without saying anything, from pride: and she never failed tosend him part of her month's wages: but she was not taken in. She had alsoa younger sister who was preparing for a teacher's examination, and she wasvery proud of her. She was paying almost all the expenses of her education. She worked frightfully hard, with grim determination. 

"Have you a good situation?" asked Christophe. 

"Yes. But I am thinking of leaving. "

"Why? Aren't they good to you?"

"Oh! no. They're very good to me. "

"Don't they pay you enough?"

"Yes. . . . "

He did not quite understand: he tried to understand, and encouraged her totalk. She had nothing to tell him but the monotony of her life, and thedifficulty of earning a living: she did not lay any stress on it: she wasnot afraid of work: it was a necessity to her, almost a pleasure. She neverspoke of the thing that tried her most: boredom. He guessed it. Little bylittle, with the intuition of perfect sympathy, he saw that her sufferingwas increasing, and it was made more acute for him by the memory of thetrials supported by his own mother in a similar existence. He saw, asthough he had lived it, the drab, unhealthy, unnatural existence--theordinary existence imposed on servants by the middle-classes:--employerswho were not so much unkind as indifferent sometimes leaving her for daystogether without speaking a word outside her work. The hours and hoursspent in the stuffy kitchen, the one small window, blocked up by a meatsafe, looking out on to a white wall. And her only pleasure was when shewas told carelessly that her sauce was good or the meat well cooked. Acramped airless life with no prospect, with no ray of desire or hope, without interest of any kind. --The worst time of all for her was when heremployers went away to the country. They economized by not taking her withthem: they paid her wages for the month, but not enough to take her home:they gave her permission to go at her own expense. She would not, she couldnot do that. And so she was left alone in the deserted house. She had nodesire to go out, and did not even talk to other servants, whose coarsenessand immorality she despised. She never went out in search of amusement: shewas naturally serious, economical, and afraid of misadventure. She sat inher kitchen, or in her room, from whence across the chimneys she could seethe top of a tree in the garden of a hospital. She did not read, but triedto work listlessly: she would sit there dreaming, bored, bored to tears:she had a singular and infinite capacity for weeping: it was her onlypleasure. But when her boredom weighed too heavily on her she could noteven weep: she was frozen, sick at heart, and dead. Then she would pullherself together: or life would return of its own accord. She would thinkof her sister, listen to a barrel-organ in the distance, and dream, andslowly count the days until she had gained such and such a sum of money:she would be out in her reckoning, and begin to count all over again: shewould fall asleep. So the days passed. . . . 

The fits of depression alternated with outbursts of childish chatter andlaughter. She would make fun of herself and other people. She watched andjudged her employers, and their anxieties fed by their want of occupation, and her mistress's moods and melancholy, and the so-called interests ofthese so-called people of culture, how they patronized a picture, or apiece of music, or a book of verse. With her rude common sense, as farremoved from the snobbishness of the very Parisian servants as from thecrass stupidity of the very provincial girls, who only admire what they donot understand, she had a respectful contempt for their dabbling in music, their pointless chatter, and all those perfectly useless and tiresomeintellectual smatterings which play so large a part in such hypocriticalexistences. She could not help silently comparing the real life, with whichshe grappled, with the imaginary pains and pleasures of that cushionedlife, in which everything seems to be the product of boredom. She wasnot in revolt against it. Things were so: things were so. She acceptedeverything, knaves and fools alike. She said:

"It takes all sorts to make a world. "

Christophe imagined that she was borne up by her religion: but one day shesaid, speaking of others who were richer and more happy:

"But in the end we shall all be equal. "

"When?" asked Christophe. "After the social revolution?"

"The revolution?" said she. "Oh, there'll be much water flowing underbridges before that. I don't believe that stuff. Things will always be thesame. "

"When shall we all be equal, then?"

"When we're dead, of course! That's the end of everybody. "

He was surprised by her calm materialism. He dared not say to her:

"Isn't it a frightful thing, in that case, if there is only one life, thatit should be the like of yours, while there are so many others who arehappy?"

But she seemed to have guessed his thought: she went on phlegmatically, resignedly, and a little ironically:

"One has to put up with it. Everybody cannot draw a prize. I've drawn ablank: so much the worse!"

She never even thought of looking for a more profitable place outsideFrance. (She had once been offered a situation in America. ) The idea ofleaving the country never entered her head. She said:

"Stones are hard everywhere. "

There was in her a profound, skeptical, and mocking fatalism. She wasof the stock that has little or no faith, few considered reasons forliving, and yet a tremendous vitality--the stock of the French peasantry, industrious and apathetic, riotous and submissive, who have no great loveof life, but cling to it, and have no need of artificial stimulants to keepup their courage. 

Christophe, who had not yet come across them, was astonished to find in thegirl an absence of all faith: he marveled at her tenacious hold on life, without pleasure or purpose, and most of all he admired her sturdy moralsense that had no need of prop or support. Till then he had only seenthe French people through naturalistic novels, and the theories of themannikins of contemporary literature, who, reacting from the art of thecentury of pastoral scenes and the Revolution, loved to present natural manas a vicious brute, in order to sanctify their own vices. . . . He was amazedwhen he discovered Sidonie's uncompromising honesty. It was not a matter ofmorality but of instinct and pride. She had her aristocratic pride. For itis foolish to imagine that everybody belonging to the people is "popular. "The people have their aristocrats just as the upper classes have theirvulgarians. The aristocrats are those creatures whose instincts, andperhaps whose blood, are purer than those of the others: those who know andare conscious of what they are, and must be true to themselves. They are inthe minority: but, even when they are forced to live apart, the others knowthat they are the salt of the earth: and the fact of their existence is acheck upon the others, who are forced to model themselves upon them, orto pretend to do so. Every province, every village, every congregation ofmen, is, to a certain degree, what its aristocrats are: and public opinionvaries accordingly, and is, in one place, severe, in another, lax. Thepresent anarchy and upheaval of the majority will not change the unvoicedpower of the minority. It is more dangerous for them to be uprooted fromtheir native soil and scattered far and wide in the great cities. Buteven so, lost amid strange surroundings, living in isolation, yet theindividualities of the good stock persist and never mix with those aboutthem. --Sidonie knew nothing, wished to know nothing, of all that Christophehad seen in Paris. She was no more interested in the sentimental andunclean literature of the newspapers than in the political news. She didnot even know that there were Popular Universities: and, if she had known, it is probable that she would have put herself out as little to go to themas she did to hear a sermon. She did her work, and thought for herself: shewas not concerned with what other people thought. Christophe congratulatedher. 

"Why is that surprising?" she asked. "I am like everybody else. You haven'tmet any French people. "

"I've been living among them for a year, " said Christophe, "and I haven'tmet a single one who thought of anything but amusing himself or of apingthose who amuse him. "

"That's true, " said Sidonie. "You have only seen rich people. The rich arethe same everywhere. You've seen nothing at all. "

"That's true, " said Christophe. "I'm beginning. "

For the first time he caught a glimpse of the people of France, men andwomen who seem to be built for eternity, who are one with the earth, who, like the earth, have seen so many conquering races, so many masters of aday, pass away, while they themselves endure and do not pass. 

 * * * * *

When he was getting better and was allowed to get up for a little, thefirst thing he thought of was to pay Sidonie back for the expenses shehad incurred during his illness. It was impossible for him to go aboutParis looking for work, and he had to bring himself to write to Hecht:he asked him for an advance on account of future work. With his amazingcombination of indifference and kindliness Hecht made him wait a fortnightfor a reply--a fortnight during which Christophe tormented himself andpractically refused to touch any of the food Sidonie brought him, and wouldonly accept a little bread and milk, which she forced him to take, and thenhe grumbled and was angry with himself because he had not earned it: then, without a word, Hecht sent him the sum he asked: and not once during themonths of Christophe's illness did Hecht make any inquiry after him. He hada genius for making himself disliked even when he was doing a kindness. Even in his kindness Hecht could not be generous. 

Sidonie came every day in the afternoon and again in the evening. Shecooked Christophe's dinner for him. She made no noise, but went quietlyabout her business: and when she saw the dilapidated condition of hisclothes she took them away to mend them. Insensibly there had crept anelement of affection into their relation. Christophe talked at length abouthis mother: and that touched Sidonie: she would put herself in Louisa'splace, alone in Germany: and she had a maternal feeling for Christophe, andwhen he talked to her he tried to trick his need of mothering and love, from which a man suffers most when he is weak and ill. He felt nearerLouisa with Sidonie than with anybody else. Sometimes he would confide hisartistic troubles to her. She would pity him gently, though she seemed toregard such sorrows of the intellect ironically. That, too, reminded him ofhis mother and comforted him. 

He tried to get her to confide in him: but she was much less open than he. He asked her jokingly why she did not get married. And she would reply inher usual tone of mocking resignation that "it was not allowed for servantsto marry: it complicates things too much. Besides, she was sure to make abad choice, and that is not pleasant. Men are sordid creatures. They comecourting when a woman has money, squeeze it out of her, and then leave herin the lurch. She had seen too many cases of that and was not inclined todo the same. "--She did not tell him of her own unfortunate experience:her future husband had left her when he found that she was giving allher earnings to her family. --Christophe used to see her in the courtyardmothering the children of a family living in the house. When she metthem alone on the stairs she would sometimes embrace them passionately. Christophe would fancy her occupying the place of a lady of hisacquaintance: she was not a fool, and she was no plainer than many anotherwoman: he declared that in the lady's place she would have been the betterwoman of the two. There are so many splendid lives hidden in the world, unknown and unsuspected! And, on the other hand, the hosts of the livingdead, who encumber the earth, and take up the room and the happiness ofothers in the light of the sun!. . . 

Christophe had no ulterior thought. He was fond, too fond of her: he lether coddle him like a child. 

Some days Sidonie would be queer and depressed: but he attributed that toher work. Once when they were talking she got up suddenly and left him, making some excuse about her work. Finally, after a day when Christophe hadbeen more confidential than usual, she broke off her visits for a time: andwhen she came back she would only talk to him constrainedly. He wonderedwhat he could have done to offend her. He asked her. She replied quicklythat he had not offended her: but she stayed away again. A few days latershe told him that she was going away: she had given up her situation andwas leaving the house. Coldly and reservedly she thanked him for allhis kindness, told him she hoped he would soon recover, and that hismother would remain in good health, and then she said good-by. He was soastonished at her abrupt departure that he did not know what to say: hetried to discover her reasons: she replied evasively. He asked her whereshe was going: she did not reply, and, to cut short his questions, she gotup to go. As she reached the door he held out his hand: she grasped itwarmly: but her face did not betray her, and to the end she maintained herstiff, cold manner. She went away. 

He never understood why. 

 * * * * *

He dragged through the winter--a wet, misty, muddy winter. Weeks on endwithout sun. Although Christophe was better he was by no means recovered. He still had a little pain in his lungs, a lesion which healed slowly, andfits of coughing which kept him from sleeping at night. The doctor hadforbidden him to go out. He might just as well have ordered him to go tothe Riviera or the Canary Islands. He had to go out! If he did not go outto look for his dinner, his dinner would certainly not come to look forhim. --And he was ordered medicines which he could not afford. And so hegave up consulting doctors: it was a waste of money: and besides he wasalways ill at ease with them: they could not understand each other: theylived in separate worlds. They had an ironical and rather contemptuous pityfor the poor devil of an artist who claimed to be a world to himself, andwas swept along like a straw by the river of life. He was humiliated bybeing examined, and prodded, and handled by these men. He was ashamed ofhis sick body, and thought:

"How glad I shall be when _it_ is dead!"

In spite of loneliness, illness, poverty, and so many other causes ofsuffering, Christophe bore his lot patiently. He had never been so patient. He was surprised at himself. Illness is often a blessing. By ravaging thebody it frees the soul and purifies it: during the nights and days offorced inaction thoughts arise which are fearful of the raw light of day, and are scorched by the sun of health. No man who has never been ill canhave a thorough knowledge of himself. 

His illness had, in a queer way, soothed Christophe. It had purged him ofthe coarser elements of his nature. Through his most subtle nerves he feltthe world of mysterious forces which dwell in each of us, though the tumultof life prevents our hearing them. Since his visit to the Louvre, in hishours of fever, the smallest memories of which were graven upon his mind, he had lived in an atmosphere like that of the Rembrandt picture, warm, soft, profound. He too felt in his heart the magic beams of an invisiblesun. And although he did not believe, he knew that he was not alone: a Godwas holding him by the hand, and leading him to the predestined goal of hisendeavors. He trusted in Him like a little child. 

For the first time for years he felt that he must rest. The lassitude ofhis convalescence was in itself a rest for him after the extraordinarytension of mind that had gone before his illness and had left him stillexhausted. Christophe, who for many months had been continually on thealert and strained upon his guard, felt the fixity of his gaze slowlyrelax. He was not less strong for it: he was more human. The great thoughrather monstrous quality of life of the man of genius had passed into thebackground: he found himself a man like the rest, purged of the fanaticismof his mind, and all the hardness and mercilessness of his actions. Hehated nothing: he gave no thought to things that exasperated him, or, ifhe did, he shrugged them off: he thought less of his own troubles and moreof the troubles of others. Since Sidonie had reminded him of the silentsuffering of the lowly, fighting on without complaint, all over the world, he forgot himself in them. He who was not usually sentimental now hadperiods of that mystic tenderness which is the flower of weakness andsickness. In the evening, as he sat with his elbows on the window-sill, gazing down into the courtyard and listening to all the mysterious noisesof the night, . . . A voice singing in a house near by, made moving by thedistance, or a little girl artlessly strumming Mozart, . . . He thought:

"All you whom I love though I know you not! You whom life has not sullied;you, who dream of great things, that you know to be impossible, while youfight for them against the envious world, --may you be happy--it is so goodto be happy!. . . Oh, my friends, I know that you are there, and I holdmy arms out to you. . . . There is a wall between us. Stone by stone I ambreaking it down, but I am myself broken in the labor of it. Shall we everbe together? Shall I reach you before another wall is raised up between us:the wall of death?. . . No matter! Though all my life I am alone, so only Imay work for you, do you good, and you may love me a little, later on, whenI am dead!. . . "

 * * * * *

So the convalescent Christophe was nursed by those two good foster-mothers"_Liebe und Noth_" (Love and Poverty). 

 * * * * *

While his will was thus in abeyance Christophe felt a longing to be withpeople. And, although he was still very weak, and it was a very foolishthing to do, he used to go out early in the morning when the stream ofpeople poured out of the residential streets on their way to their work, or in the evening, when they were returning. His desire was to plunge intothe refreshing bath of human sympathy. Not that he spoke to a soul. He didnot even try to do so. It was enough for him to watch the people pass, andguess what they were, and love them. With fond pity he used to watch theworkers hurrying along, all, as it were, already worn out by the businessof the day, --young men and girls, with pale faces, worn expressions, andstrange smiles, --thin, eager faces beneath which there passed desires andanxieties, all with a changing irony, --all so intelligent, too intelligent, a little morbid, the dwellers in a great city. They all hurried along, themen reading the papers, the women nibbling and munching. Christophe wouldhave given a month of his life to let one poor girl, whose eyes wereswollen with sleep, who passed near him with a little nervous, mincingwalk, sleep on for a few hours more. Oh! how she would have jumped at it, if she had been offered the chance! He would have loved to pluck all theidle rich people out of their rooms, hermetically sealed at that hour, where they were so ungratefully lying at their ease, and replace them intheir beds, in their comfortable existence, with all these eager, wearybodies, these fresh souls, not abounding with life, but alive and greedyof life. In that hour he was full of kindness towards them: and he smiledat their alert, thin little faces, in which there were cunning andingenuousness, a bold and simple desire for pleasure, and, behind all, honest little souls, true and industrious. And he was not hurt when someof the girls laughed in his face, or nudged each other to point out thestrange young man staring at them so hard. 

And he would lounge about the riverside, lost in dreams. That was hisfavorite walk. It did a little satisfy his longing for the great river thathad sung the lullaby of his childhood. Ah! it was not _Vater Rhein_! It hadnone of his all-puissant might: none of the wide horizons, vast plains overwhich the mind soars and is lost. A river with gray eyes, gowned in palegreen, with finely drawn, correct features, a graceful river, with supplemovements, wearing with sparkling nonchalance the sumptuous and sober garbof her city, the bracelets of its bridges, the necklets of its monuments, and smiling at her own prettiness, like a lovely woman strolling throughthe town. . . . The delicious light of Paris! That was the first thing thatChristophe had loved in the city: it filled his being sweetly, sweetly: andimperceptibly, slowly, it changed his heart. It was to him the most lovelymusic, the only music in Paris. He would spend hours in the evening walkingby the river, or in the gardens of old France, tasting the harmoniesof the light of day touching the tall trees bathed in purple mist, thegray statues and ruins, the worn stones of the royal monuments which hadabsorbed the light of centuries, --that smooth atmosphere, made of palesunshine and milky vapor, in which, on a cloud of silvery dust, therefloats the laughing spirit of the race. 

One evening he was leaning over the parapet near the Saint-Michel Bridge, and looking at the water and absently turning over the books in one of thelittle boxes. He chanced upon a battered old volume of Michelet and openedit at random. He had already read a certain amount of that historian, andhad been put off by his Gallic boasting, his trick of making himself drunkwith words, and his halting style. But that evening he was held from thevery first words: he had lighted on the trial of Joan of Arc. He knew theMaid of Orleans through Schiller: but hitherto she had only been a romanticheroine who had been endowed with an imaginary life by a great poet. Suddenly the reality was presented to him and gripped his attention. Heread on and on, his heart aching for the tragic horror of the gloriousstory: and when he came to the moment when Joan learns that she is to diethat evening and faints from fear, his hands began to tremble, tears cameinto his eyes, and he had to stop. He was weak from his illness: he hadbecome absurdly sensitive, and was himself exasperated by it. --When heturned once more to the book it was late and the bookseller was shutting uphis boxes. He decided to buy the book and hunted through his pockets: hehad exactly six sous. Such scantiness was not rare and did not bother him:he had paid for his dinner, and counted on getting some money out of Hechtnext day for some copying he had done. But it was hard to have to wait aday! Why had he spent all he had on his dinner? Ah! if only he could offerthe bookseller the bread and sausages that were in his pockets, in payment!

Next morning, very early, he went to Hecht's to get his money: but ashe was passing the bridge which bears the name of the archangel ofbattle--"the brother in Paradise" of Joan of Arc--he could not helpstopping. He found the precious book once more in the bookseller's box, andread it right through: he stayed reading it for nearly two hours and missedhis appointment with Hecht: and he wasted the whole day waiting to see him. At last he managed to get his new commission and the money for the old. Atonce he rushed back to buy the book, although he had read it. He was afraidit might have been sold to another purchaser. No doubt that would not havemattered much: it was quite easy to get another copy: but Christophe didnot know whether the book was rare or not: and besides, he wanted thatparticular book and no other. Those who love books easily become fetishworshipers. The pages from which the well of dreams springs forth aresacred to them, even when they are dirty and spotted. 

In the silence of the night, in his room, Christophe read once more theGospel of the Passion of Joan of Arc: and now there was nothing to makehim restrain his emotion. He was filled with tenderness, pity, infinitesorrow for the poor little shepherdess in her coarse peasant clothes, tall, shy, soft-voiced, dreaming to the sound of bells--(she loved them ashe did)--with her lovely smile, full of understanding and kindness, andher tears, that flowed so readily--tears of love, tears of pity, tears ofweakness: for she was at once so manlike and so much a woman, the pure andvaliant girl, who tamed the savage lusts of an army of bandits, and calmly, with her intrepid sound good sense, her woman's subtlety, and her gentlepersistency, alone, betrayed on all hands, for months together foiled thethreats and hypocritical tricks of a gang of churchmen and lawyers, --wolvesand foxes with bloody eyes and fangs--who closed a ring about her. 

What touched Christophe most nearly was her kindness, her tenderness ofheart, --weeping after her victories, weeping over her dead enemies, overthose who had insulted her, giving them consolation when they were wounded, aiding them in death, knowing no bitterness against those who sold her, and even at the stake, when the flames roared about her, thinking not ofherself, thinking only of the monk who exorcised her, and compelling himto depart. She was "gentle in the most bitter fight, good even amongstthe most evil, peaceful even in war. Into war, the triumph of Satan, shebrought the very Spirit of God. "

And Christophe, thinking of himself, said:

"And into my fight I have not brought enough of the Spirit of God. "

He read the fine words of the evangelist of Joan of Arc:

"Be kind, and seek always to be kinder, amid all the injustice of men andthe hardships of Fate. . . . Be gentle and of a good countenance even inbitter quarrels, win through experience, and never let it harm that inwardtreasure. . . . "

And he said within himself:

"I have sinned. I have not been kind. I have not shown good-will towardsmen. I have been too hard. --Forgive me. Do not think me your enemy, youagainst whom I wage war! For you too I seek to do good. . . . But you must bekept from doing evil. . . . "

And, as he was no saint, the thought of them was enough to kindle his angeragain. What he could least forgive them was that when he saw them, and sawFrance, through them, he found it impossible to conceive such a flower ofpurity and poetic heroism ever springing from such a soil. And yet it wasso. Who could say that such a flower would not spring from it a secondtime? The France of to-day could not be worse than that of Charles VII, thedebauched and prostituted nation from which the Maid sprang. The temple wasempty, fouled, half in ruins. No matter! God had spoken in it. 

Christophe was seeking a Frenchman whom he could love for the love ofFrance. 

It was about the end of March. For months Christophe had not spoken to asoul nor had a single letter, except every now and then a few lines fromhis mother, who did not know that he was ill and did not tell him that sheherself was ill. His relation with the outside world was confined to hisjourneys to the music shop to take or bring away his work. He arranged togo there at times when he knew that Hecht would be out--to avoid havingto talk to him. The precaution was superfluous, for the only time he metHecht, he hardly did more than ask him a few indifferent questions abouthis health. 

He was immured in a prison of silence when, one morning, he received aninvitation from Madame Roussin to a musical _soirée_: a famous quartet wasto play. The letter was very friendly in tone, and Roussin had added a fewcordial lines. He was not very proud of his quarrel with Christophe: theless so as he had since quarreled with the singer and now condemned her inno sparing terms. He was a good fellow: he never bore those whom he hadwronged any grudge. And he would have thought it preposterous for any ofhis victims to be more thin-skinned than himself. And so, when he had thepleasure of seeing them again, he never hesitated about holding out hishand. 

Christophe's first impulse was to shrug his shoulders and vow that hewould not go. But he wavered as the day of the concert came nearer. He wasstifling from never hearing a human voice or a note of music. But he vowedagain that he would never set foot inside the Roussins' house. But when theday came he went, raging against his own cowardice. 

He was ill rewarded. Hardly did he find himself once more in the gatheringof politicians and snobs than he was filled with an aversion for them moreviolent than ever: for during his months of solitude he had lost the trickof such people. It was impossible to hear the music: it was a profanation;Christophe made up his mind to go as soon as the first piece was over. 

He glanced round among the faces of those people who were even physicallyso antipathetic to him. At the other end of the room he saw a face, theface of a young man, looking at him, and then he turned away at once. There was in the face a strange quality of candor which among such bored, indifferent people was most striking. The eyes were timid, but dear anddirect. French eyes, which, once they marked a man, went on looking athim with absolute truth, hiding nothing of the soul behind them, missingnothing of the soul of the man at whom they gazed. They were familiar toChristophe. And yet he did not know the face. It was that of a young manbetween twenty and twenty-five, short, slightly stooping, delicate-looking, beardless, and melancholy, with chestnut hair, irregular features, thoughfine, a certain crookedness which gave it an expression not so much ofuneasiness as of bashfulness, which was not without charm, and seemed tocontradict the tranquillity of the eyes. He was standing in an open door:and nobody was paying any attention to him. Once more Christophe lookedat him: and once more he met his eyes, which turned away timidly with adelightful awkwardness: once more he "recognized" them: it seemed to himthat he had seen them in another face. 

Christophe, as usual, was incapable of concealing what he felt, and movedtowards the young man: but as he made his way he wondered what he shouldsay to him: and he hesitated and stood still looking to right and left, asthough he were moving without any fixed object. But the young man was nottaken in, and saw that Christophe was moving towards himself: he was sonervous at the thought of speaking to him that he tried to slip into thenext room: but he was glued to his place by his very bashfulness. So theycame face to face. It was some moments before they could find anything tosay. And as they went on standing like that each thought the other mustthink him absurd. At last Christophe looked straight at the young man, andsaid with a smile, in a gruff voice:

"You're not a Parisian?"

In spite of his embarrassment the young man smiled at this unexpectedquestion, and replied in the negative. His light voice, with its hint of amusical quality, was like some delicate instrument. 

"I thought not, " said Christophe. And, as he saw that he was a littleconfused by the singular remark, he added:

"It is no reproach. "

But the young man's embarrassment was only increased. 

There was another silence. The young man made an effort to speak: his lipstrembled: it seemed that he had a sentence on the tip of his tongue, but hecould not bring himself to speak it. Christophe eagerly studied his mobileface, the muscles of which he could see twitching under the clear skin:he did not seem to be of the same clay as the people all about him in theroom, with their heavy, coarse faces, which were only a continuation oftheir necks, part and parcel of their bodies. In the young man's face thesoul shone forth: in every part of it there was a spiritual life. 

He could not bring himself to speak. Christophe went on genially:

"What are you doing among all these people?"

He spoke out loud with that strange freedom of manner which made him hated. His friend blushed and could not help looking round to see if he had beenheard: and Christophe disliked the movement. Then, instead of answering, heasked with a shy, sweet smile:

"And you?"

Christophe began to laugh as usual, rather loudly. 

"Yes. And I, " he said delightedly. 

The young man at last summoned up his courage. 

"I love your music so much!" he said, in a choking voice. 

Then he stopped and tried once more, vainly, to get the better of hisshyness. He was blushing, and knew it: and he blushed the more, up to histemples and round to his ears. Christophe looked at him with a smile, andlonged to take him in his arms. The young man looked at him timidly. 

"No, " he said. "Of course, I can't . . . I can't talk about that . . . Nothere. . . . "

Christophe took his hand with a grin. He felt the stranger's thin fingerstremble in his great paw and press it with an involuntary tenderness: andthe young man felt Christophe's paw affectionately crush his hand. Theyceased to hear the chatter of the people round them. They were alonetogether and they knew that they were friends. 

It was only for a second, for then Madame Roussin touched Christophe on thearm with her fan and said:

"I see that you have introduced yourselves and don't need me to do so. Theboy came on purpose to meet you this evening. "

Then, rather awkwardly, they parted. 

Christophe asked Madame Roussin:

"Who is he?"

"What?" said she. "You don't know him? He is a young poet and writes veryprettily. One of your admirers. He is a good musician and plays the pianoquite nicely. It is no good discussing you in his presence: he is madabout you. The other day he all but came to blows about you with LucienLévy-Coeur. "

"Oh! Bless him for that!" said Christophe. 

"Yes, I know you are unjust to poor Lucien. And yet he too loves yourwork. "

"Ah! don't tell me that! I should hate myself. "

"It is so, I assure you. "

"Never! never! I will not have it. I forbid him to do so. "

"Just what your admirer said. You are both mad. Lucien was just explainingone of your compositions to us. The shy boy you met just now got up, trembling with anger, and forbade him to mention your name. Think of it!. . . Fortunately I was there. I laughed it off: Lucien did the same: and theboy was utterly confused and relapsed into silence: and in the end heapologized. "

"Poor boy!" said Christophe. 

He was touched by it. 

"Where did he go?" he asked, without listening to Madame Roussin, who hadalready begun to talk about something else. 

He went to look for him. But his unknown friend had disappeared. Christophereturned to Madame Roussin:

"Tell me, what is his name?"

"Who?" she asked. 

"The boy you were talking about just now. "

"Your young poet?" she said. "His name is Olivier Jeannin. "

The name rang in Christophe's ears like some familiar melody. The shadowyfigure of a girl floated for a moment before his eyes. But the new image, the image of his friend blotted it out at once. 

 * * * * *

Christophe went home. He strode through the streets of Paris mingling withthe throng. He saw nothing, heard nothing; he was insensible to everythingabout him. He was like a lake cut off from the rest of the world by a ringof mountains. Not a breath stirred, not a sound was heard, all was still. Peace. He said to himself over and over again:

"I have a friend. "

ANTOINETTE

I

The Jeannins were one of those old French families who have remainedstationary for centuries in the same little corner of a province, and havekept themselves pure from any infusion of foreign blood. There are moreof them than one would think in France, in spite of all the changes inthe social order: it would need a great upheaval to uproot them fromthe soil to which they are held by so many ties, the profound nature ofwhich is unknown to them. Reason counts for nothing in their devotion tothe soil, and interest for very little: and as for sentimental historicmemories, they only hold good for a few literary men. What does bind themirresistibly is the obscure though very strong feeling, common to the dulland the intelligent alike, of having been for centuries past a parcel ofthe land, of living in its life, breathing the same air, hearing the heartof it beating against their own, like the heart of the beloved, feeling itsslightest tremor, the changing hours and seasons and days, bright or dull, and hearing the voices and the silence of all things in Nature. It is notalways the most beautiful country, nor that which has the greatest charm oflife, that most strongly grips the affections, but rather it is the regionwhere the earth seems simplest and most humble, nearest man, speaking tohim in a familiar friendly tongue. 

Such was the country in the center of France where the Jeannins lived. A flat, damp country, an old sleepy little town, wearily gazing at itsreflection in the dull waters of a still canal: round about it weremonotonous fields, plowed fields, meadows, little rivers, woods, and againmonotonous fields. . . . No scenery, no monuments, no memories. Nothingattractive. It is all dull and oppressive. In its drowsy torpor is a hiddenforce. The soul tasting it for the first time suffers and revolts againstit. But those who have lived with it for generations cannot break free:it eats into their very bones: and the stillness of it, the harmoniousdullness, the monotony, have a charm for them and a sweet savor which theycannot analyze, which they malign, love, and can never forget. 

 * * * * *

The Jeannins had always lived there. The family could be traced back tothe sixteenth century, living in the town or its neighborhood: for ofcourse they had a great-uncle who had devoted his life to drawing up thegenealogical tree of their obscure line of humble, industrious people:peasants, farmers, artisans, then clerks, country notaries, working inthe subprefecture of the district, where Augustus Jeannin, the father ofthe present head of the house, had successfully established himself as abanker: he was a clever man, with a peasant's cunning and obstinacy, buthonest as men go, not over-scrupulous, a great worker, and a good liver:he had made himself respected and feared everywhere by his genial malice, his bluntness of speech, and his wealth. Short, thick-set, vigorous, withlittle sharp eyes set in a big red face, pitted with smallpox, he had beenknown as a petticoat-hunter: and he had not altogether lost his taste forit. He loved a spicy yarn and good eating. It was a sight to see him atmeals, with his son Antoine sitting opposite him, with a few old friendsof their kidney: the district judge, the notary, the Archdeacon of theCathedral:--(old Jeannin loved stuffing the priest: but also he could stuffwith the priest, if the priest were good at it):--hearty old fellows builton the same Rabelaisian lines. There was a running fire of terrific storiesto the accompaniment of thumps on the table and roars of laughter, andthe row they made could be heard by the servants in the kitchen and theneighbors in the street. 

Then old Augustus caught a chill, which turned to pneumonia, through goingdown into his cellars one hot summer's day in his shirt-sleeves to bottlehis wine. In less than twenty-four hours he had departed this life for thenext world, in which he hardly believed, properly equipped with all theSacraments of the Church, having, like a good Voltairian provincial, submitted to it at the last moment in order to pacify his women, and alsobecause it did not matter one way or the other. . . . And then, one neverknows. . . . 

His son Antoine succeeded him in business. He was a fat little man, rubicund and expansive, clean-shaven, except for his mutton-chop whiskers, and he spoke quickly and with a slight stutter, in a loud voice, accompanying his remarks with little quick, curt gestures. He had not hisfather's grasp of finance: but he was quite a good manager. He had onlyto look after the established undertakings, which went on developing dayby day, by the mere fact of their existence. He had the advantage of abusiness reputation in the district, although he had very little to dowith the success of the firm's ventures. He only contributed method andindustry. For the rest he was absolutely honorable, and was everywheredeservedly esteemed. His pleasant unctuous manners, though perhaps a littletoo familiar for some people, a little too expansive, and just a littlecommon, had won him a very genuine popularity in the little town andthe surrounding country. He was more lavish with his sympathy than withhis money: tears came readily to his eyes: and the sight of poverty sosincerely moved him that the victim of it could not fail to be touchedby it. 

Like most men living in small towns, his thoughts were much occupied withpolitics. He was an ardent moderate Republican, an intolerant Liberal, apatriot, and, like his father, extremely anti-clerical. He was a member ofthe Municipal Council: and, like the rest of his colleagues, he delightedin playing tricks on the _curé_ of the parish, or on the Lent preacher, who roused so much enthusiasm in the ladies of the town. It must not beforgotten that the anti-clericalism of the little towns in France isalways, more or less, an episode in domestic warfare, and is a subtle formof that silent, bitter struggle between husbands and wives, which goes onin almost every house. 

Antoine Jeannin had also some literary pretensions. Like all provincials ofhis generation, he had been brought up on the Latin Classics, many pages ofwhich he knew by heart, and also a mass of proverbs, and on La Fontaine andBoileau, --the Boileau of _L'Art Poétique_, and, above all, of _Lutrin_, --onthe author of _La Pucelle_, and the _poetæ minores_ of the eighteenthcentury, in whose manner he squeezed out a certain number of poems. He wasnot the only man of his acquaintance possessed by that particular mania, and his reputation gained by it. His rhyming jests, his quatrains, couplets, acrostics, epigrams, and songs, which were sometimes ratherrisky, though they had a certain coarsely witty quality, were often quoted. He was wont to sing the mysteries of digestion: the Muse of the Loiredistricts is fain to blow her trumpet like the famous devil of Dante:

". . . _Ed egli avea del cul fatto trombetta. _"

This sturdy, jovial, active little man had taken to wife a woman of avery different character, --the daughter of a country magistrate, Lucie deVilliers. The De Villiers--or rather Devilliers, for their name had splitin its passage through time, like a stone which cracks in two as it goeshurtling down a hillside--were magistrates from father to son; they were ofthat old parliamentary race of Frenchmen who had a lofty idea of the law, and duty, the social conventions, their personal, and especially theirprofessional, dignity, which was fortified by perfect honesty, temperedwith a certain conscious uprightness. During the preceding century they hadbeen infected by nonconformist Jansenism, which had given them a grumblingpessimistic quality, as well as a contempt for the Jesuit attitude of mind. They did not see life as beautiful: and, rather than smooth away life'sdifficulties, they preferred to exaggerate them so as to have good reasonto complain. Lucie de Villiers had certain of these characteristics, whichwere so directly opposed to the not very refined optimism of her husband. She was tall--taller than he by a head--slender, well made; she dressedwell and elegantly, though in a rather sober fashion, which made herseem--perhaps designedly--older than she was: she was of a high moralquality: but she was hard on other people; she would countenance no fault, and hardly even a caprice: she was thought cold and disdainful. She wasvery pious, and that gave rise to perpetual disputes with her husband. For the rest, they were very fond of each other: and, in spite of theirfrequent disagreements, they could not have lived without each other. Theywere both rather unpractical: he from want of perception--(he was alwaysin danger of being taken in by good looks and fine words), --she from herabsolute inexperience of business--(she knew nothing about it: and havingalways been kept outside it, she took no interest in it). 

 * * * * *

They had two children: a girl, Antoinette, the elder by five years; and aboy, Olivier. 

Antoinette was a pretty dark-haired child, with a charming, honest face ofthe French type, round, with sharp eyes, a round forehead, a fine chin, a little straight nose--"one of those very pretty, fine, noble noses" (asan old French portrait-painter says so charmingly) "in which there wasa certain imperceptible play of expression, which animated the face, and revealed the subtlety of the workings of her mind as she talked orlistened. " She had her father's gaiety and carelessness. 

Olivier was a delicate fair boy, short, like his father, but very differentin character. His health had been undermined by one illness after anotherwhen he was a child: and although, as a result, he was petted by hisfamily, his physical weakness had made him a melancholy, dreamy little boy, who was afraid of death and very poorly equipped for life. He was shy, andpreferred to be alone: he avoided the society of other children: he wasill at ease with them: he hated their games and quarrels: their brutalityfilled him with horror. He let them strike him, not from want of courage, but from timidity, because he was afraid to defend himself, afraid ofhurting them: they would have bullied the life out of him, but for thesafeguard of his father's position. He was tender-hearted and morbidlysensitive: a word, a sign of sympathy, a reproach, were enough to make himburst into tears. His sister was much sturdier, and laughed at him, andcalled him a "little fountain. "

The two children were devoted to each other: but they were too differentto live together. They went their own ways and lived in their own dreams. As Antoinette grew up, she became prettier: people told her so, and shewas well aware of it: it made her happy, and she wove romances about thefuture. Olivier, in his sickly melancholy, was always rubbed up the wrongway by contact with the outer world: and he withdrew into the circle of hisown absurd little brain: and he told himself stories. He had a burning, almost feminine, longing to love and be loved: and, living alone, away fromboys of his own age, he had invented two or three imaginary friends: onewas called Jean, another Étienne, another François: he was always withthem. He never slept well, and he was always dreaming. In the morning, whenhe was lifted out of bed, he would forget himself, and sit with his barelegs dangling down, or sometimes with two stockings on one leg. He would gooff into a dream with his hands in the basin. He would forget himself athis desk in the middle of writing or learning a lesson: he would dream forhours on end: and then he would suddenly wake up, horrified to find that hehad learned nothing. At dinner he was abashed if any one spoke to him: hewould reply two minutes after he had been spoken to: he would forget whathe was going to say in the middle of a sentence. He would doze off to themurmuring of his thoughts and the familiar sensations of the monotonousprovincial days that marched so slowly by: the great half-empty house, onlypart of which they occupied: the vast and dreadful barns and cellars: themysterious closed rooms, the fastened shutters, the covered furniture, veiled mirrors, and the chandeliers wrapped up: the old family portraitswith their haunting smiles: the Empire engravings, with their virtuous, suave heroism: _Alcibiades and Socrates in the House of the Courtezan_, _Antiochus and Stratonice_, _The Story of Epaminondas_, _BelisariusBegging_. . . . Outside, the sound of the smith shoeing horses in the smithyopposite, the uneven clink of the hammers on the anvil, the snorting ofthe broken-winded horses, the smell of the scorched hoofs, the slapping ofthe pats of the washerwomen kneeling by the water, the heavy thuds of thebutcher's chopper next door, the clatter of a horse's hoofs on the stonesof the street, the creaking of a pump, or the drawbridge over the canal, the heavy barges laden with blocks of wood, slowly passing at the endof the garden, drawn along by a rope: the little tiled courtyard, witha square patch of earth, in which two lilac-trees grew, in the middleof a clump of geraniums and petunias: the tubs of laurel and floweringpomegranate on the terrace above the canal: sometimes the noise of a fairin the square hard by, with peasants in bright blue smocks, and gruntingpigs. . . . And on Sunday, at church, the precentor, who sang out of tune, andthe old priest, who went to sleep as he was saying Mass: the family walkalong the station road, where all the time he had to take off his hatpolitely to other wretched beings, who were under the same impression ofthe necessity of going for a walk all together, --until at last they reachedthe sunny fields, above which larks soared invisible, --or along by thestill mirror of the canal, on both sides of which were poplars rustling inline. . . . And then there was the great provincial Sunday dinner, when theywent on and on eating and talking about food learnedly and with gusto: foreverybody was a connoisseur: and, in the provinces, eating is the chiefoccupation, the first of all the arts. And they would talk business, and tell spicy yarns, and every now and then discuss their neighbors'illnesses, going into endless detail. . . . And the little boy, sitting in hiscorner, would make no more noise than a little mouse, pick at his food, eathardly anything, and listen with all his ears. Nothing escaped him: andwhen he did not understand, his imagination supplied the deficiency. He hadthat singular gift, which is often to be remarked in the children of oldfamilies and an old stock, on which the imprint of the ages is too stronglymarked, of divining thoughts, which have never passed through their mindsbefore, and are hardly comprehensible to them. --Then there was the kitchen, where bloody and succulent mysteries were concocted: and the old servantwho used to tell him frightful and droll stories. . . . At last came evening, the silent flitting of the bats, the terror of the monstrous creaturesthat were known to swarm in the dark depths of the old house: huge rats, enormous hairy spiders: and he would say his prayers, kneeling at the, footof his bed, and hardly know what he was saying: the little cracked bell ofthe convent hard by would sound the bed-time of the nuns;--and so to bed, the Island of Dreams. . . . 

The best times of the year were those that they spent in spring and autumnat their country house some miles away from the town. There he could dreamat his ease: he saw nobody. Like most of the children of their class, thelittle Jeannins were kept apart from the common children: the childrenof servants and farmers, who inspired them with fear and disgust. Theyinherited from their mother an aristocratic--or, rather, essentiallymiddle-class--disdain for all who worked with their hands. Olivier wouldspend the day perched up in the branches of an ash reading marvelousstories: delightful folklore, the _Tales_ of Musæus, or Madame d'Aulnoy, or the _Arabian Nights_, or stories of travel. For he had that strangelonging for distant lands, "those oceanic dreams, " which sometimes possessthe minds of boys in the little provincial towns of France. A thicket laybetween the house and himself, and he could fancy himself very far away. But he knew that he was really near home, and was quite happy: for he didnot like straying too far alone: he felt lost with Nature. Round him thewind whispered through the trees. Through the leaves that hid his nesthe could see the yellowing vines in the distance, and the meadows wherethe straked cows were at pasture, filling the silence of the sleepingcountry-side with their plaintive long-drawn lowing. The strident cockscrowed to each other from farm to farm. There came up the irregular beat ofthe flails in the barns. The fevered life of myriads of creatures swelledand flowed through the peace of inanimate Nature. Uneasily Olivier wouldwatch the ever hurrying columns of the ants, and the bees big with theirbooty, buzzing like organ-pipes, and the superb and stupid wasps who knownot what they want--the whole world of busy little creatures, all seeminglydevoured by the desire to reach their destination. . . . Where is it? Theydo not know. No matter where! Somewhere. . . . Olivier was fearful amid thatblind and hostile world. He would start, like a young hare, at the sound ofa pine-cone falling, or the breaking of a rotten branch. . . . He would findhis courage again when he heard the rattling of the chains of the swing atthe other end of the garden, where Antoinette would be madly swinging toand fro. 

She, too, would dream: but in her own fashion. She would spend the dayprowling round the garden, eating, watching, laughing, picking at thegrapes on the vines like a thrush, secretly plucking a peach from thetrellis, climbing a plum-tree, or giving it a little surreptitious shake asshe passed to bring down a rain of the golden mirabelles which melt in themouth like scented honey. Or she would pick the flowers, although that wasforbidden: quickly she would pluck a rose that she had been coveting allday, and run away with it to the arbor at the end of the garden. Then shewould bury her little nose in the delicious scented flower, and kiss it, and bite it, and suck it: and then she would conceal her booty, and hide itin her bosom between her little breasts, at the wonder of whose coming shewould gaze in eager fondness. . . . And there was an exquisite forbidden joyin taking off her shoes and stockings, and walking bare-foot on the coolsand of the paths, and on the dewy turf, and on the stones, cold in theshadow, burning in the sun, and in the little stream that ran along theoutskirts of the wood, and kissing with her feet, and legs, and knees, water, earth, and light. Lying in the shadow of the pines, she would holdher hands up to the sun, and watch the light play through them, and shewould press her lips upon the soft satin skin of her pretty rounded arms. She would make herself crowns and necklets and gowns of ivy-leaves andoak-leaves: and she would deck them with the blue thistles, and barberryand little pine-branches, with their green fruit: and then she looked likea little savage Princess. And she would dance for her own delight round andround the fountain; and, with arms outstretched, she would turn and turnuntil her head whirled, and she would slip down on the lawn and bury herface in the grass, and shout with laughter for minutes on end, unable tostop herself, without knowing why. 

So the days slipped by for the two children, within hail of each other, though neither ever gave a thought to the other, --except when it wouldsuddenly occur to Antoinette to play a prank on her brother, and throwa handful of pine-needles in his face, or shake the tree in which hewas sitting, threatening to make him fall, or frighten him by springingsuddenly out upon him and yelling:

"Ooh! Ooh!. . . "

Sometimes she would be seized by a desire to tease him. She would make himcome down from his tree by pretending that her mother was calling him. Then, when he had climbed down, she would take his place and refuse tobudge. Then Olivier would whine and threaten to tell. But there was nodanger of Antoinette staying in the tree for long: she could not keep stillfor two minutes. When she had done with taunting Olivier from the top ofhis tree, when she had thoroughly infuriated him and brought him almost totears, then she would slip down, fling her arms round him, shake him, andlaugh, and call him a "little muff, " and roll him on the ground, and rubhis face with handfuls of grass. He would try to struggle: but he wasnot strong enough. Then he would lie still, flat on his black, like acockchafer, with his thin arms pinned to the ground by Antoinette's stronglittle hands: and he would look piteous and resigned. Antoinette couldnot resist that: she would look at her vanquished prisoner, and burst outlaughing and kiss him suddenly, and let him go--not without the partingattention of a little gag of fresh grass in his mouth: and that he detestedmost of all, because it made him sick. And he would spit and wipe hismouth, and storm at her, while she ran away as hard as she could, pealingwith laughter. She was always laughing. Even when she was asleep shelaughed. Olivier, lying awake in the next room, would suddenly start up inthe middle of the stories he was telling himself, at the sound of the wildlaughter and the muttered words which she would speak in the silence of thenight. Outside, the trees would creak with the wind, an owl would hoot, inthe distant villages and the farms in the heart of the woods dogs wouldbark. In the dim phosphorescence of the night Olivier would see the dark, heavy branches of the pines moving like ghosts outside his window: andAntoinette's laughter would comfort him. 

 * * * * *

The two children were very religious, especially Olivier. Their father usedto scandalize them with his anti-clerical professions of faith, but he didnot interfere with them: and, at heart, like so many men of his class whoare unbelievers, he was not sorry that his family should believe for him:for it is always good to have allies in the opposing camp, and one is neversure which way Fortune will turn. He was a Deist, and he reserved the rightto summon a priest when the time came, as his father had done: even if itdid no good, it could do no harm: one insures against fire, even if one hasno reason to believe that the house will be burned down. 

Olivier was morbidly inclined towards mysticism. There were times when hedoubted whether he existed. He was credulous and soft-hearted, and neededa prop: he took a sorrowful delight in confession, in the comfort ofconfiding in the invisible Friend, whose arms are always open to you, towhom you can tell everything, who understands and forgives everything: hetasted the sweetness of the waters of humility and love, from which thesoul issues pure, cleansed, and comforted. It was so natural to him tobelieve, that he could not understand how any one could doubt: he thoughtpeople did so from wickedness, and that God would punish them. He used topray secretly that his father might find grace: and he was delighted when, one day, as they went into a little country church, he saw his fathermechanically make the sign of the cross. The stories of the Gospel weremixed up in his mind with the marvelous tales of Rübezahl, and Gracieuseand Percinet, and the Caliph Haroun-al-Raschid. When he was a little boy heno more doubted the truth of the one than the other. And just as he was notsure that he did not know Shacabac of the cleft lips, and the loquaciousbarber, and the little hunchback of Casgar, just as when he was out walkinghe used to look about for the black woodpecker which bears in its beak themagic root of the treasure-seeker, so Canaan and the Promised Land becamein his childish imagination certain regions in Burgundy or Berrichon. Around hill in the country, with a little tree, like a shabby old feather, at the summit, seemed to him to be like the mountain where Abraham hadbuilt his pyre. A large dead bush by the edge of a field was the BurningBush, which the ages had put out. Even when he was older, and his criticalfaculty had been awakened, he loved to feed on the popular legends whichenshrined his faith: and they gave him so much pleasure, though he nolonger accepted them implicitly, that he would amuse himself by pretendingto do so. So for a long time on Easter Saturday he would look out for thereturn of the Easter bells, which went away to Rome on the Thursday before, and would come floating through the air with little streamers. He didfinally admit that it was not true: but he did not give up looking skywardswhen he heard them ringing: and once--though he knew perfectly well that itcould not be--he fancied he saw one of them disappearing over the housewith blue ribbons. 

It was vitally necessary for him to steep himself in the world of legendand faith. He avoided life. He avoided himself. Thin, pale, puny, hesuffered from being so, and could not bear its being talked about. He wasnaturally pessimistic, no doubt inheriting it from his mother, and hispessimism was fed by his morbidity. He did not know it: thought everybodymust be like himself: and the queer little boy of ten, instead of rompingin the gardens during his play-time, used to shut himself up in his room, and, carefully picking his words, wrote his will. 

He used to write a great deal. Every evening he used laboriously andsecretly to write his diary--he did not know why, for he had nothing tosay, and he said nothing worth saying. Writing was an inherited mania withhim, the age-old itch of the French provincial--the old indestructiblestock--who every day, until the day of his death, with an idiotic patiencewhich is almost heroic, writes down in detail what he has seen, said, done, heard, eaten, and drunk. For his own pleasure, entirely. It is not forother eyes. No one will ever read it: he knows that: he never reads itagain himself. 

 * * * * *

Music, like religion, was for Olivier a shelter from the too vivid light ofday. Both brother and sister were born musicians, --especially Olivier, whohad inherited the gift from his mother. Their taste, as it needed to be, was excellent. There was no one capable of forming it in the province, where no music was ever heard but that of the local band, which playednothing but marches, or--on its good days--selections from Adolphe Adam, and the church organist who played romanzas, and the exercises of the youngladies of the town who strummed a few valses and polkas, the overtureto the _Caliph of Bagdad_, _la Chasse du Jeune Henri_, and two or threesonatas of Mozart, always the same, and always with the same mistakes, oninstruments that were sadly out of tune. These things were invariablyincluded in the evening's program at parties. After dinner, those who hadtalent were asked to display it: at first they would blush and refuse, butthen they would yield to the entreaties of the assembled company: and theywould play their stock pieces without their music. Every one would thenadmire the artist's memory and her beautiful touch. 

The ceremony was repeated at almost every party, and the thought of itwould altogether spoil the children's dinner. When they had to play the_Voyage en Chine_ of Bazin, or their pieces of Weber as a duet, they gaveeach other confidence, and were not very much afraid. But it was tortureto them to have to play alone. Antoinette, as usual, was the braver of thetwo. Although it bored her dreadfully, --as she knew that there was no wayout of it, she would go through with it, sit at the piano with a determinedair, and gallop through her _rondo_ at breakneck speed, stumbling overcertain passages, make a hash of others, break off, turn her head, and say, with a smile:

"Oh! I can't remember. . . . "

Then she would start off again a few bars farther on, and go on to the end. And she would make no attempt to conceal her pleasure at having finished:and when she returned to her chair, amid the general chorus of praise, shewould laugh and say:

"I made such a lot of mistakes. "

But Olivier was not so easy to handle. He could not bear making a show ofhimself in public, and being "the observed of all observers. " It was badenough for him to have to speak in company. But to have to play, especiallyfor people who did not like music--(that was obvious to him)--for peoplewhom music actually bored, people who only asked him to play as a matter ofhabit, seemed to him to be neither more nor less than tyranny, and he triedvainly to revolt against it. He would refuse obstinately. Sometimes hewould escape and go and hide in a dark room, in a passage, or even in thebarn, in spite of his horror of spiders. His refusal would make the guestsonly insist the more, and they would quiz him: and his parents wouldsternly order him to play, and even slap him when he was too impudentlyrebellious. And in the end he always had to play, --of course unwillinglyand sulkily. And then he would suffer agonies all night because he hadplayed so badly, partly from vanity, and partly from his very genuine lovefor music. 

The taste of the little town had not always been so banal. There had been atime when there were quite good chamber concerts at several houses. MadameJeannin used often to speak of her grandfather, who adored the violoncello, and used to sing airs of Gluck, and Dalayrac, and Berton. There was a largevolume of them in the house, and a pile of Italian songs. For the oldgentleman was like M. Andrieux, of whom Berlioz said: "He _loved_ Gluck. "And he added bitterly: "He also _loved_ Piccinni. "--Perhaps of the twohe preferred Piccinni. At all events, the Italian songs were in a largemajority in her grandfather's collection. They had been Olivier's firstmusical nourishment. Not a very substantial diet, rather like thosesweetmeats with which provincial children are stuffed: they corrupt thepalate, destroy the tissues of the stomach, and there is always a danger oftheir killing the appetite for more solid nutriment. But Olivier could notbe accused of greediness. He was never offered any more solid food. Havingno bread, he was forced to eat cake. And so, by force of circumstance, itcame about that Cimarosa, Paesiello, and Rossini fed the mystic, melancholylittle boy, who was more than a little intoxicated by his draughts of the_Asti spumante_ poured out for him, instead of milk, by these bacchanalianSatyrs, and the two lively, ingenuously, lasciviously smiling Bacchante ofNaples and Catania--Pergolesi and Bellini. 

He played a great deal to himself, for his own pleasure. He was saturatedwith music. He did not try to understand what he was playing, but gavehimself up to it. Nobody ever thought of teaching him harmony, and it neveroccurred to him to learn it. Science and the scientific mind were foreignto the nature of his family, especially on his mother's side. All thelawyers, wits, and humanists of the De Villiers were baffled by any sortof problem. It was told of a member of the family--a distant cousin--as aremarkable thing that he had found a post in the _Bureau des Longitudes_. And it was further told how he had gone mad. The old provincialmiddle-classes, robust and positive in temper, but dull and sleepy as aresult of their gigantic meals and the monotony of their lives, are veryproud of their common sense: they have so much faith in it that they boastthat there is no difficulty which cannot be resolved by it: and they arenever very far from considering men of science as artists of a sort, moreuseful than the others, but less exalted, because at least artists serveno useful purpose, and there is a sort of distinction about their loungingexistence. --(Besides, every business man flatters himself that he mighthave been an artist if he had cared about it. )--While scientists are notfar from being manual laborers, --(which is degrading), --just master-workmenwith more education, though they are a little cracked: they are mighty fineon paper: but outside their arithmetic factories they're nobody. They wouldnot be much use without the guidance of common-sense people who have someexperience of life and business. 

Unfortunately, it is not proven that their experience of life and businessgoes so far as these people like to think. It is only a routine, ringingthe changes on a few easy cases. If any unforeseen position arises, in which they have to decide quickly and vigorously, they are alwaysdisgruntled. 

Antoine Jeannin was that sort of man. Everything was so nicely adjusted, and his business jogged along so comfortably in its place in the life ofthe province, that he had never encountered any serious difficulty. He hadsucceeded to his father's position without having any special aptitude forthe business: and, as everything had gone well, he attributed it to hisown brilliant talents. He loved to say that it was enough to be honest, methodical, and to have common sense: and he intended handing down hisbusiness to his son, without any more regard for the boy's tastes thanhis father had had for his own. He did not do anything to prepare him forit. He let his children grow up as they liked, so long as they were good, and, above all, happy: for he adored them. And so the two children wereas little prepared for the struggle of life as possible: they were likehothouse flowers. But, surely, they would always live like that? In thesoft provincial atmosphere, in the bosom of their wealthy, influentialfamily, with a kindly, gay, jovial father, surrounded by friends, one ofthe leading men of the district, life was so easy, so bright and smiling. 

 * * * * *

Antoinette was sixteen. Olivier was about to be confirmed. His mind wasfilled with all kinds of mystic dreams. In her heart Antoinette heardthe sweet song of new-born hope soaring, like the lark in April, in thespringtime of her life. It was a joy to her to feel the flowering of herbody and soul, to know that she was pretty, and to be told so. Her father'simmoderate praises were enough to turn her head. 

He was in ecstasies over her: he delighted in her little coquetries, to seeher eying herself in her mirror, to watch her little innocent tricks. Hewould take her on his knees, and tease her about her childish love-affairs, and the conquests she had made, and the suitors that he pretended had cometo him a-wooing: he would tell her their names: respectable citizens, eachmore old and ugly than the last. And she would cry out in horror, and breakinto rippling laughter, and put her arms about her father's neck, and pressher cheek close to his. And he would ask which was the happy man of herchoice: was it the District Attorney, who, the Jeannins' old maid used tosay, was as ugly as the seven deadly sins? Or was it the fat notary? Andshe would slap him playfully to make him cease, or hold her hand over hismouth. He would kiss her little hands, and jump her up and down on hisknees, and sing the old song

 "What would you, pretty maid? An ugly husband, eh?"

And she would giggle and tie his whiskers under his chin, and reply withthe refrain:

 "A handsome husband I, No ugly man, madame. "

She would declare her intention of choosing for herself. She knew that shewas, or would be, very rich, --(her father used to tell her so at everyturn)--she was a "fine catch. " The sons of the distinguished families ofthe country were already courting her, setting a wide white net of flatteryand cunning snares to catch the little silver fish. But it looked as thoughthe fish would elude them all: for Antoinette saw all their tricks, andlaughed at them: she was quite ready to be caught, but not against herwill. She had already made up her mind to marry. 

The noble family of the district--(there is generally one noble family toevery district, claiming descent from the ancient lords of the province, though generally its origin goes no farther back than some purchaser ofthe national estates, some commissary of the eighteenth century, or someNapoleonic army-contractor)--the Bonnivets, who lived some few milesaway from the town, in a castle with tall towers with gleaming slates, surrounded by vast woods, in which were innumerable fish-ponds, themselvesproposed for the hand of Mademoiselle Jeannin. Young Bonnivet was veryassiduous in his courtship of Antoinette. He was a handsome boy, ratherstout and heavy for his age, who did nothing but hunt and eat, and drinkand sleep: he could ride, dance, had charming manners, and was not morestupid than other young men. He would ride into the town, or drive in hisbuggy and call on the banker, on some business pretext: and sometimes hewould bring some game or a bouquet of flowers for the ladies. He wouldseize the opportunity to pay court to Antoinette. They would walk in thegarden together. He would pay her lumbering compliments, and pull hismustache, and make jokes, and make his spurs clatter on the tiles of theterrace. Antoinette thought him charming. Her pride and her affections wereboth tickled. She would swim in those first sweet hours of young love. Olivier detested the young squire, because he was strong, heavy, brutal, had a loud laugh, and hands that gripped like a vise, and a disdainfultrick of always calling him: "Boy . . . " and pinching his cheeks. He detestedhim above all, --without knowing it, --because he dared to love his sister:. . . His sister, his very own, his, and she could not belong to any oneelse!. . . 

 * * * * *

Disaster came. Sooner or later there must come a crisis in the lives of theold middle-class families which for centuries have vegetated in the samelittle corner of the earth, and have sucked it dry. They sleep in peace, and think themselves as eternal as the earth that bears them. But the soilbeneath them is dry and dead, their roots are sapped: just the blow ofan ax, and down they come. Then they talk of accidents and unforeseenmisfortunes. There would have been no accident if there had been morestrength in the tree: or, at least, would have been no more than a suddenstorm, wrenching away a few branches, but never shaking the tree. 

Antoine Jeannin was weak, trustful, and a little vain. He loved to throwdust in people's eyes, and easily confounded "seeming" and "being. " Hespent recklessly, though his extravagance, moderated by fits of remorse asthe result of the age-old habit of economy--(he would fling away pounds, and haggle over a farthing)--never seriously impaired his capital. He wasnot very cautious in business either. He never refused to lend money to hisfriends: and it was not difficult to be a friend of his. He did not alwaystrouble to ask for a receipt: he kept a rough account of what was owing tohim, and never asked for payment before it was offered him. He believedin the good faith of other men, and supposed that they would believe inhis own. He was much more timid than his jocular, easy-going manners ledpeople to suppose. He would never have dared to refuse certain importunateborrowers, or to let his doubts of their solvency appear. That arose from amixture of kindness and pusillanimity. He did not wish to offend anybody, and he was afraid of being insulted. So he was always giving way. And, byway of carrying it off, he would lend with alacrity, as though his debtorswere doing him a service by borrowing his money. And he was not far frombelieving it; his vanity and optimism had no difficulty in persuading himthat every business he touched was good business. 

Such ways of dealing were not calculated to alienate the sympathies of hisdebtors: he was adored by the peasants, who knew that they could alwayscount on his good nature, and never hesitated to resort to him. But thegratitude of men--even of honest men--is a fruit that must be gathered ingood season. If it is left too long upon the tree, it quickly rots. Aftera few months M. Jeannin's debtors would begin to think that his assistancewas their right: and they were even inclined to think that, as M. Jeanninhad been so glad to help them, it must have been to his interest to do so. The best of them considered themselves discharged--if not of the debt, atleast of the obligation of gratitude--by the present of a hare they hadkilled, or a basket of eggs from their fowlyard, which they would come andoffer to the banker on the day of the great fair of the year. 

As hitherto only small sums had been lent, and M. Jeannin had only had todo with fairly honest people, there were no very awkward consequences: theloss of money--of which the banker never breathed a word to a soul--wasvery small. But it was a very different matter when M. Jeannin knocked upagainst a certain company promoter who was launching a great industrialconcern, and had got wind of the banker's easy-going ways and financialresources. This gentleman, who wore the ribbon of the Legion of Honor, and pretended to be intimate with two or three Ministers, an Archbishop, an assortment of senators, and various celebrities of the literary andfinancial world, and to be in touch with an omnipotent newspaper, had avery imposing manner, and most adroitly assumed the authoritative andfamiliar tone most calculated to impress his man. By way of introductionand recommendation, with a clumsiness which would have aroused thesuspicions of a quicker man than M. Jeannin, he produced certain ordinarycomplimentary letters which he had received from the illustrious persons ofhis acquaintance, asking him to dinner, or thanking him for some invitationthey had received: for it is well known that the French are never niggardlywith such epistolary small change, nor particularly chary of shaking handswith, and accepting invitations from, an individual whom they have onlyknown for an hour--provided only that he amuses them and does not ask themfor money: and even as regards that, there are many who would not refuse tolend their new friend money so long as others did the same. And it wouldbe a poor lookout for a clever man bent on relieving his neighbor of hissuperfluous money if he could not find a sheep who could be induced to jumpthe fence so that all the rest would follow. --If other sheep had not takenthe fence before him, M. Jeannin would have been the first. He was of thewoolly tribe which is made to be fleeced. He was seduced by his visitor'sexalted connections, his fluency and his trick of flattery, and also by thefirst fine results of his advice. He only risked a little at first, andwon: then he risked much: finally he risked all: not only his own money, but that of his clients as well. He did not tell them about it: he was surehe would win: he wanted to overwhelm them with the great thing he had donefor them. 

The venture collapsed. He heard of it indirectly through one of hisParisian correspondents who happened to mention the new crash, without everdreaming that Jeannin was one of the victims: for the banker had not saida word to anybody: with incredible irresponsibility, he had not taken thetrouble--even avoided--asking the advice of men who were in a positionto give him information: he had done the whole thing secretly, in theinfatuated belief in his infallible common sense, and he had been satisfiedwith the vaguest knowledge of what he was doing. There are such momentsof aberration in life: moments, it would seem, when a man is marked outfor ruin, when he is fearful lest any one should come to his aid, when heavoids all advice that might save him, hides away, and rushes headlong, madly, shaking himself free for the fatal plunge. 

M. Jeannin rushed to the station, utterly sick at heart, and took train forParis. He went to look for his man. He flattered himself with the hope thatthe news might be false, or, at least, exaggerated. Naturally he did notfind the fellow, and received further news of the collapse, which was ascomplete as possible. He returned distracted, and said nothing. No onehad any idea of it yet. He tried to gain a few weeks, a few days. In hisincurable optimism, he tried hard to believe that he would find a way tomake good, if not his own losses, at least those of his clients. He triedvarious expedients, with a clumsy haste which would have removed anychance of succeeding that he might have had. He tried to borrow, but waseverywhere refused. In his despair, he staked the little he had left onwildly speculative ventures, and lost it all. From that moment there wasa complete change in his character. He relapsed into an alarming state ofterror: still he said nothing: but he was bitter, violent, harsh, horriblysad. But still, when he was with strangers, he affected his old gaiety;but no one could fail to see the change in him: it was attributed to hishealth. With his family he was less guarded: and they saw at once thathe was concealing some serious trouble. They hardly knew him. Sometimeshe would burst into a room and ransack a desk, flinging all the papershiggledy-piggledy on to the floor, and flying into a frenzy because hecould not find what he was looking for, or because some one offered to helphim. Then he would stand stock still in the middle of it all, and when theyasked him what he was looking for, he did not know himself. He seemed tohave lost all interest in his family: or he would kiss them with tears inhis eyes. He could not sleep. He could not eat. 

Madame Jeannin saw that they were on the eve of a catastrophe: but she hadnever taken any part in her husband's affairs, and did not understand them. She questioned him: he repulsed her brutally: and, hurt in her pride, shedid not persist. But she trembled, without knowing why. 

The children could have no suspicion of the impending disaster. Antoinette, no doubt, was too intelligent not, like her mother, to have a presentimentof some misfortune: but she was absorbed in the delight of her buddinglove: she refused to think of unpleasant things: she persuaded herself thatthe clouds would pass--or that it would be time enough to see them when itwas impossible to disregard them. 

Of the three, the boy Olivier was perhaps the nearest to understandingwhat was going on in his unhappy father's soul. He felt that his fatherwas suffering, and he suffered with him in secret. But he dared not sayanything: naturally he could do nothing, and he was helpless. And then he, too, thrust back the thought of sad things, the nature of which he couldnot grasp: like his mother and sister, he was superstitiously inclined tobelieve that perhaps misfortune, the approach of which he did not wish tosee, would not come. Those poor wretches who feel the imminence of dangerdo readily play the ostrich: they hide their heads behind a stone, andpretend that Misfortune will not see them. 

 * * * * *

Disturbing rumors began to fly. It was said that the bank's credit wasimpaired. In vain did the banker assure his clients that it was perfectlyall right, on one pretext or another the more suspicious of them demandedtheir money. M. Jeannin felt that he was lost: he defended himselfdesperately, assuming a tone of indignation, and complaining loftily andbitterly of their suspicions of himself: he even went so far as to beviolent and angry with some of his old clients, but that only let him downfinally. Demands for payment came in a rush. On his beam-ends, at bay, hecompletely lost his head. He went away for a few days to gamble with hislast few banknotes at a neighboring watering-place, was cleaned out in aquarter of an hour, and returned home. His sudden departure set the littletown by the ears, and it was said that he had cleared out: and MadameJeannin had had great difficulty in coping with the wild, anxious inquiriesof the people: she begged them to be patient, and swore that her husbandwould return. They did not believe her, although they would have been onlytoo glad to do so. And so, when it was known that he had returned, therewas a general sigh of relief: there were many who almost believed thattheir fears had been baseless, and that the Jeannins were much too shrewdnot to get out of a hole by admitting that they had fallen into it. Thebanker's attitude confirmed that impression. Now that he no longer had anydoubt as to what he must do, he seemed to be weary, but quite calm. Hechatted quietly to a few friends whom he met in the station road on his wayhome, talking about the drought and the country not having had any waterfor weeks, and the superb condition of the vines, and the fall of theMinistry, announced in the evening papers. 

When he reached home he pretended not to notice his wife's excitement, whohad run to meet him when she heard him come in, and told him volubly andconfusedly what had happened during his absence. She scanned his featuresto try and see whether he had succeeded in averting the unknown danger:but, from pride, she did not ask him anything: she was waiting for him tospeak first. But he did not say a word about the thing that was tormentingthem both. He silently disregarded her desire to confide in him, and to gethim to confide in her. He spoke of the heat, and of how tired he was, andcomplained of a racking headache: and they sat down to dinner as usual. 

He talked little, and was dull, lost in thought, and his brows were knit:he drummed with his fingers on the table: he forced himself to eat, knowingthat they were watching him, and looked with vague, unseeing eyes at hischildren, who were intimidated by the silence, and at his wife, who satstiffly nursing her injured vanity, and, without looking at him, markinghis every movement. Towards the end of dinner he seemed to wake up: hetried to talk to Antoinette and Olivier, and asked them what they had beendoing during his absence: but he did not listen to their replies, andheard only the sound of their voices: and although he was staring at them, his gaze was elsewhere. Olivier felt it: he stopped in the middle of hisprattle, and had no desire to go on. But, after a moment's embarrassment, Antoinette recovered her gaiety: she chattered merrily, like a magpie, laidher head on her father's shoulder, or tugged his sleeve to make him listento what she was saying. M. Jeannin said nothing: his eyes wandered fromAntoinette to Olivier, and the crease in his forehead grew deeper anddeeper. In the middle of one of his daughter's stories he could bear it nolonger, and got up and went and looked out of the window to conceal hisemotion. The children folded their napkins, and got up too. Madame Jeannintold them to go and play in the garden: in a moment or two they could beheard chasing each other down the paths and screaming. Madame Jeanninlooked at her husband, whose back was turned towards her, and she walkedround the table as though to arrange something. Suddenly she went up tohim, and, in a voice hushed by her fear of being overheard by the servantsand by the agony that was in her, she said:

"Tell me, Antoine, what is the matter? There is something the matter . . . You are hiding something . . . Has something dreadful happened? Are you ill?"

But once more M. Jeannin put her off, and shrugged his shoulders, and saidharshly:

"No! No, I tell you! Let me be!"

She was angry, and went away: in her fury, she declared that, no matterwhat happened to her husband, she would not bother about it any more. 

M. Jeannin went down into the garden. Antoinette was still larking about, and tugging at her brother to make him run. But the boy declared suddenlythat he was not going to play any more: and he leaned against the wall ofthe terrace a few yards away from his father. Antoinette tried to go onteasing him: but he drove her away and sulked: then she called him names:and when she found she could get no more fun out of him, she went in andbegan to play the piano. 

M. Jeannin and Olivier were left alone. 

"What's the matter with you, boy? Why won't you play?" asked the fathergently. 

"I'm tired, father. "

"Well, let us sit here on this seat for a little. "

They sat down. It was a lovely September night. A dark, clear sky. The sweet scent of the petunias was mingled with the stale and ratherunwholesome smell of the canal sleeping darkly below the terrace wall. Great moths, pale and sphinx-like, fluttered about the flowers, with alittle whirring sound. The even voices of the neighbors sitting at theirdoors on the other side of the canal rang through the silent air. In thehouse Antoinette was playing a florid Italian cavatina. M. Jeannin heldOlivier's hand in his. He was smoking. Through the darkness behind whichhis father's face was slowly disappearing the boy could see the red glow ofthe pipe, which gleamed, died away, gleamed again, and finally went out. Neither spoke. Then Olivier asked the names of the stars. M. Jeannin, likealmost all men of his class, knew nothing of the things of Nature, andcould not tell him the names of any save the great constellations, whichare known to everyone: but he pretended that the boy was asking theirnames, and told him. Olivier made no objection: it always pleased him tohear their beautiful mysterious names, and to repeat them in a whisper. Besides, he was not so much wanting to know their names as instinctively tocome closer to his father. They said nothing more. Olivier looked at thestars, with his head thrown back and his mouth open: he was lost in drowsythoughts: he could feel through all his veins the warmth of his father'shand. Suddenly the hand began to tremble. That seemed funny to Olivier, andhe laughed and said sleepily:

"Oh, how your hand is trembling, father!"

M. Jeannin removed his hand. 

After a moment Olivier, still busy with his own thoughts, said:

"Are you tired, too, father?"

"Yes, my boy. "

The boy replied affectionately:

"You must not tire yourself out so much, father. "

M. Jeannin drew Olivier towards him, and held him to his breast andmurmured:

"My poor boy!. . . "

But already Olivier's thoughts had flown off on another tack. The churchclock chimed eight o'clock. He broke away, and said:

"I'm going to read. "

On Thursdays he was allowed to read for an hour after dinner, untilbedtime: it was his greatest joy: and nothing in the world could induce himto sacrifice a minute of it. 

M. Jeannin let him go. He walked up and down the terrace for a little inthe dark. Then he, too, went in. 

In the room his wife and the two children were sitting round the lamp. Antoinette was sewing a ribbon on to a blouse, talking and humming thewhile, to Olivier's obvious discomfort, for he was stopping his ears withhis fists so as not to hear, while he pored over his book with knittedbrows, and his elbows on the table. Madame Jeannin was mending stockingsand talking to the old nurse, who was standing by her side and giving anaccount of her day's expenditure, and seizing the opportunity for a littlegossip: she always had some amusing tale to tell in her extraordinarylingo, which used to make them roar with laughter, while Antoinette wouldtry to imitate her. M. Jeannin watched them silently. No one noticed him. He wavered for a moment, sat down, took up a book, opened it at random, shut it again, got up: he could not sit still. He lit a candle and saidgood-night. He went up to the children and kissed them fondly: theyreturned his kiss absently without looking up at him, --Antoinette beingabsorbed in her work, and Olivier in his book. Olivier did not eventake his hands from his ears, and grunted "Good-night, " and went onreading:--(when he was reading even if one of his family had fallen intothe fire, he would not have looked up). --M. Jeannin left the room. Helingered in the next room, for a moment. His wife came out soon, the oldnurse having gone to arrange the linen-cupboard. She pretended not to seehim. He hesitated, then came up to her, and said:

"I beg your pardon. I was rather rude just now. "

She longed to say to him:

"My dear, my dear, that is nothing: but, tell me, what is the matter withyou? Tell me, what is hurting you so?"

But she jumped at the opportunity of taking her revenge, and said:

"Let me be! You have been behaving odiously. You treat me worse than youwould a servant. "

And she went on in that strain, setting forth all her grievances volubly, shrilly, rancorously. 

He raised his hands wearily, smiled bitterly, and left her. 

 * * * * *

No one heard the report of the revolver. Only, next day, when it was knownwhat had happened, a few of the neighbors remembered that, in the middle ofthe night, when the streets were quiet, they had noticed a sharp noise likethe cracking of a whip. They did not pay any attention to it. The silenceof the night fell once more upon the town, wrapping both living and deadabout with its mystery. 

Madame Jeannin was asleep, but woke up an hour or two later. Not seeing herhusband by her side she got up and went anxiously through all the rooms, and downstairs to the offices of the bank, which were in an annex of thehouse: and there, sitting in his chair in his office, she found M. Jeanninhuddled forward on his desk in a pool of blood, which was still drippingdown on to the floor. She gave a scream, dropped her candle, and fainted. She was heard in the house. The servants came running, picked her up, tookcare of her, and laid the body of M. Jeannin on a bed. The door of thechildren's room was locked. Antoinette was sleeping happily. Olivier heardthe sound of voices and footsteps: he wanted to go and see what it was allabout: but he was afraid of waking his sister, and presently he went tosleep again. 

Next morning the news was all over the town before they knew anything. Their old nurse came sobbing and told them. Their mother was incapable ofthinking of anything: her condition was critical. The two children wereleft alone in the presence of death. At first they were more fearful thansorrowful. And they were not allowed to weep in peace. The cruel legalformalities were begun the first thing in the morning. Antoinette hidaway in her room, and with all the force of her youthful egoism clungto the only idea which could help her to thrust back the horror of theoverwhelming reality: the thought of her lover: all day long she waited forhim to come. Never had he been more ardent than the last time she had seenhim, and she had no doubt that, as soon as he heard of the catastrophe, hewould hasten to share her grief. --But nobody came, or wrote, or gave onesign of sympathy. As soon as the news of the suicide was out, people whohad intrusted their money to the banker rushed to the Jeannins' house, forced their way in, and, with merciless cruelty, stormed and screamed atthe widow and the two children. 

In a few days they were faced with their utter ruin: the loss of a dearone, the loss of their fortune, their position, their public esteem, andthe desertion of their friends. A total wreck. Nothing was left to providefor them. They had all three an uncompromising feeling for moral purity, which made their suffering all the greater from the dishonor of which theywere innocent. Of the three Antoinette was the most distraught by theirsorrow, because she had never really known suffering. Madame Jeanninand Olivier, though they were racked by it, were more inured to it. Instinctively pessimistic, they were overwhelmed but not surprised. Theidea of death had always been a refuge to them, as it was now, more thanever: they longed for death. It is pitiful to be so resigned, but not soterrible as the revolt of a young creature, confident and happy, lovingevery moment of her life, who suddenly finds herself face to face with suchunfathomable, irremediable sorrow, and death which is horrible to her. . . . 

Antoinette discovered the ugliness of the world in a flash. Her eyes wereopened: she saw life and human beings as they are: she judged her father, her mother, and her brother. While Olivier and Madame Jeannin wepttogether, in her grief she drew into herself. Desperately she pondered thepast, the present, and the future: and she saw that there was nothing leftfor her, no hope, nothing to support her: she could count on no one. 

The funeral took place, grimly, shamefully. The Church refused to receivethe body of the suicide. The widow and orphans were deserted by thecowardice of their former friends. One or two of them came for a moment:and their embarrassment was even harder to bear than the absence of therest. They seemed to make a favor of it, and their silence was big withreproach and pitying contempt. It was even worse with their relations:not only did they receive no single word of sympathy, but they werevisited with bitter reproaches. The banker's suicide, far from removingill-feeling, seemed to be hardly less criminal than his failure. Respectable people cannot forgive those who kill themselves. It seems tothem monstrous that a man should prefer death to life with dishonor: andthey would fain call down all the rigor of the law on him who seems to say:

"There is no misery so great as that of living with you. "

The greatest cowards are not the least ready to accuse him of cowardice. And when, in addition, the suicide, by ending his life, touches theirinterests and their revenge, they lose all control. --Not for one moment didthey think of all that the wretched Jeannin must have suffered to come toit. They would have had him suffer a thousand times more. And as he hadescaped them, they transferred their fury to his family. They did not admitit to themselves: for they knew they were unjust. But they did it all thesame, for they needed a victim. 

Madame Jeannin, who seemed to be able to do nothing but weep and moan, recovered her energy when her husband was attacked. She discovered then howmuch she had loved him: and she and her two children, who had no idea whatwould become of them in the future, all agreed to renounce their claim toher dowry, and to their own personal estate, in order, as far as possible, to meet M. Jeannin's debts. And, since it had become impossible for them tostay in the little town, they decided to go to Paris. 

 * * * * *

Their departure was something in the nature of a flight. 

On the evening of the day before, --(a melancholy evening towards the endof September: the fields were disappearing behind the white veil of mist, out of which, as they walked along the road, on either side the fantasticshapes of the dripping, shivering bushes started forth, looking like theplants in an aquarium), --they went together to say farewell to the gravewhere he lay. They all three knelt on the narrow curbstone which surroundedthe freshly turned patch of earth. They wept in silence; Olivier sobbed. Madame Jeannin mopped her eyes mournfully. She augmented her grief andtortured herself by saying to herself over and over again the words she hadspoken to her husband the last time she had seen him alive. Olivier thoughtof that last conversation on the seat on the terrace. Antoinette wondereddreamily what would become of them. None of them ever dreamed ofreproaching the wretched man who had dragged them down in his own ruin. ButAntoinette thought:

"Ah! dear father, how we shall suffer!"

The mist grew more dense, the cold damp pierced through to their bones. ButMadame Jeannin could not bring herself to go. Antoinette saw that Olivierwas shivering and she said to her mother:

"I am cold. "

They got up. Just as they were going, Madame Jeannin turned once moretowards the grave, gazed at it for the last time, and said:

"My dear, my dear!"

They left the cemetery as night was falling. Antoinette held Olivier's icyhand in hers. 

They went back to the old house. It was their last night under theroof-tree where they had always slept, where their lives and the lives oftheir parents had been lived--the walls, the hearth, the little patch ofearth were so indissolubly linked with the family's joys and sorrows, asalmost themselves to be part of the family, part of their life, which theycould only leave to die. 

Their boxes were packed. They were to take the first train next day beforethe shops were opened: they wanted to escape their neighbors' curiosity andmalicious remarks. --They longed to cling to each other and stay together:but they went instinctively to their rooms and stayed there: there theyremained standing, never moving, not even taking off their hats and cloaks, touching the walls, the furniture, all the things they were going to leave, pressing their faces against the window-panes, trying to take away withthem in memory the contact of the things they loved. At last they made aneffort to shake free from the absorption of their sorrowful thoughts andmet in Madame Jeannin's room, --the family room, with a great recess at theback, where, in old days, they always used to foregather in the evening, after dinner, when there were no visitors. In old days!. . . How far off theyseemed now!--They sat silently round the meager fire: then they all kneltby the bed and said their prayers: and they went to bed very early, forthey had to be up before dawn. But it was long before they slept. 

About four o'clock in the morning Madame Jeannin, who had looked at herwatch every hour or so to see whether it was not time to get ready, lit hercandle and got up. Antoinette, who had hardly slept at all, heard her andgot up too. Olivier was fast asleep. Madame Jeannin gazed at him tenderlyand could not bring herself to wake him. She stole away on tiptoe and saidto Antoinette:

"Don't make any noise: let the poor boy enjoy his last moments here!"

The two women dressed and finished their packing. About the house hoveredthe profound silence of the cold night, such a night as makes all livingthings, men and beasts, cower away for warmth into the depths of sleep. Antoinette's teeth were chattering: she was frozen body and soul. 

The front door creaked upon the frozen air. The old nurse, who had the keyof the house, came for the last time to serve her employers. She was shortand fat, short-winded, and slow-moving from her portliness, but she wasremarkably active for her age: she appeared with her jolly face muffledup, and her nose was red, and her eyes were wet with tears. She washeart-broken when she saw that Madame Jeannin had got up without waitingfor her, and had herself lit the kitchen fire. --Olivier woke up as she camein. His first impulse was to close his eyes, turn over, and go to sleepagain. Antoinette came and laid her hand gently on her brother's shoulder, and she said in a low voice:

"Olivier, dear, it is time to get up. "

He sighed, opened his eyes, saw his sister's face leaning over him: shesmiled sadly and caressed his face with her hand. She said:

"Come!"

He got up. 

They crept out of the house, noiselessly, like thieves. They all hadparcels in their hands. The old nurse went in front of them trundling theirboxes in a wheelbarrow. They left behind almost all their possessions, andtook away, so to speak, only what they had on their backs and a changeof clothes. A few things for remembrance were to be sent after them bygoods-train: a few books, portraits, the old grandfather's clock, whosetick-tock seemed to them to be the beating of their hearts. --The air waskeen. No one was stirring in the town: the shutters were closed and thestreets empty. They said nothing: only the old servant spoke. MadameJeannin was striving to fix in her memory all the images which told her ofall her past life. 

At the station, out of vanity, Madame Jeannin took second-class tickets, although she had vowed to travel third: but she had not the courage to facethe humiliation in the presence of the railway clerks who knew her. Shehurried into an empty compartment with her two children and shut the door. Hiding behind the curtains they trembled lest they should see any one theyknew. But no one appeared: the town was hardly awake by the time theyleft: the train was empty: there were only a few peasants traveling byit, and some oxen, who hung their heads out of their trucks and bellowedmournfully. After a long wait the engine gave a slow whistle, and the trainmoved on through the mist. The fugitives drew the curtains and pressedtheir faces against the windows to take a last long look at the littletown, with its Gothic tower just appearing through the mist, and the hillcovered with stubby fields, and the meadows white and steaming with thefrost; already it was a distant dream-landscape, fading out of existence. And when the train turned a bend and passed into a cutting, and they couldno longer see it, and were sure there was no one to see them, they gave wayto their emotion. With her handkerchief pressed to her lips Madame Jeanninsobbed. Olivier flung himself into her arms and with his head on her kneeshe covered her hands with tears and kisses. Antoinette sat at the other endof the compartment and looked out of the window and wept in silence. Theydid not all weep for the same reason. Madame Jeannin and Olivier werethinking only of what they had left behind them. Antoinette was thinkingrather of what they were going to meet: she was angry with herself: she, too, would gladly have been absorbed in her memories. . . . --She was right tothink of the future: she had a truer vision of the world than her motherand brother. They were weaving dreams about Paris. Antoinette herself hadlittle notion of what awaited them there. They had never been there. MadameJeannin imagined that, though their position would be sad enough, therewould be no reason for anxiety. She had a sister in Paris, the wife of awealthy magistrate: and she counted on her assistance. She was convincedalso that with the education her children had received and their naturalgifts, which, like all mothers, she overestimated, they would have nodifficulty in earning an honest living. 

 * * * * *

Their first impressions were gloomy enough. As they left the station theywere bewildered by the jostling crowd of people in the luggage-room and theconfused uproar of the carriages outside. It was raining. They could notfind a cab, and had to walk a long way with their arms aching with theirheavy parcels, so that they had to stop every now and then in the middleof the street at the risk of being run over or splashed by the carriages. They could not make a single driver pay any attention to them. At lastthey managed to stop a man who was driving an old and disgustingly dirtybarouche. As they were handing in the parcels they let a bundle of rugsfall into the mud. The porter who carried the trunk and the cabmantraded on their ignorance, and made them pay double. Madame Jeannin gavethe address of one of those second-rate expensive hotels patronized byprovincials who go on going to them, in spite of their discomfort, becausetheir grandfathers went to them thirty years ago. They were fleeced there. They were told that the hotel was full, and they were accommodated with onesmall room for which they were charged the price of three. For dinner theytried to economize by avoiding the table d'hôte: they ordered a modestmeal, which cost them just as much and left them famishing. Their illusionsconcerning Paris had come toppling down as soon as they arrived. And, during that first night in the hotel, when they were squeezed into onelittle, ill-ventilated room, they could not sleep: they were hot and coldby turns, and could not breathe, and started at every footstep in thecorridor, and the banging of the doors, and the furious ringing of theelectric bells: and their heads throbbed with the incessant roar of thecarriages and heavy drays: and altogether they felt terrified of themonstrous city into which they had plunged to their utter bewilderment. 

Next day Madame Jeannin went to see her sister, who lived in a luxuriousflat in the _Boulevard Hausmann_. She hoped, though she did not say so, that they would be invited to stay there until they had found their feet. The welcome she received was enough to undeceive her. The Poyet-Delormeswere furious at their relative's failure: especially Madame Delorme, whowas afraid that it would be set against her, and might injure her husband'scareer, and she thought it shameless of the ruined family to come andcling to them, and compromise them even more. The magistrate was of thesame opinion: but he was a kindly man: he would have been more inclinedto help, but for his wife's intervention--to which he knuckled under. Madame Poyet-Delorme received her sister with icy coldness. It cut MadameJeannin to the heart: but she swallowed down her pride: she hinted at thedifficulty of her position and the assistance she hoped to receive from thePoyets. Her sister pretended not to understand, and did not even ask her tostay to dinner: they were ceremoniously invited to dine at the end of theweek. The invitation did not come from Madame Poyet either, but from themagistrate, who was a little put out at his wife's treatment of her sister, and tried to make amends for her curtness: he posed as the good-naturedman: but it was obvious that it did not come easily to him and that he wasreally very selfish. The unhappy Jeannins returned to their hotel withoutdaring to say what they thought of their first visit. 

They spent the following days in wandering about Paris, looking for a fiat:they were worn out with going up stairs, and disheartened by the sight ofthe great barracks crammed full of people, and the dirty stairs, and thedark rooms, that seemed so depressing to them after their own big house inthe country. They grew more and more depressed. And they were always shyand timid in the streets, and shops, and restaurants, so that they werecheated at every turn. Everything they asked for cost an exorbitant sum: itwas as though they had the faculty of turning everything they touched intogold: only, it was they who had to pay out the gold. They were incrediblysimple and absolutely incapable of looking after themselves. 

Though there was little left to hope for from Madame Jeannin's sister, thepoor lady wove illusions about the dinner to which they were invited. Theydressed for it with fluttering hearts. They were received as guests, andnot as relations--though nothing more was expended on the dinner than theceremonious manner. The children met their cousins, who were almost thesame age as themselves, but they were not much more cordial than theirfather and mother. The girl was very smart and coquettish, and spoke tothem with a lisp and a politely superior air, with affectedly honeyedmanners which disconcerted them. The boy was bored by this duty-dinner withtheir poor relations: and he was as surly as could be. Madame Poyet-Delormesat up stiffly in her chair, and, even when she handed her a dish, seemedto be reading her sister a lesson. Madame Poyet-Delorme talked trivialitiesto keep the conversation from becoming serious. They never got beyondtalking of what they were eating for fear of touching upon any intimateand dangerous topic. Madame Jeannin made an effort to bring them round tothe subject next her heart: Madame Poyet-Delorme cut her short with somepointless remark, and she had not the courage to try again. 

After dinner she made her daughter play the piano by way of showing off hertalents. The poor girl was embarrassed and unhappy and played execrably. The Poyets were bored and anxious for her to finish. Madame Poyet exchangedglances with her daughter, with an ironic curl of her lips: and as themusic went on too long she began to talk to Madame Jeannin about nothing inparticular. At last Antoinette, who had quite lost her place, and saw toher horror that, instead of going on, she had begun again at the beginning, and that there was no reason why she should ever stop, broke off suddenly, and ended with two inaccurate chords and a third which was absolutelydissonant. Monsieur Poyet said:

"Bravo!"

And he asked for coffee. 

Madame Poyet said that her daughter was taking lessons with Pugno: and theyoung lady "who was taking lessons with Pugno" said:

"Charming, my dear. . . . "

And asked where Antoinette had studied. 

The conversation dropped. They had exhausted the knick-knacks in thedrawing-room and the dresses of Madame and Mademoiselle Poyet. MadameJeannin said to herself:

"I must speak now. I must. . . . "

And she fidgeted. Just as she had pulled herself together to begin, MadamePoyet mentioned casually, without any attempt at an apology, that they werevery sorry but they had to go out at half-past nine: they had an invitationwhich they had been unable to decline. The Jeannins were at a loss, andgot up at once to go. The Poyets made some show of detaining them. Buta quarter of an hour later there was a ring at the door: the footmanannounced some friends of the Poyets, neighbors of theirs, who lived in theflat below. Poyet and his wife exchanged glances, and there were hurriedwhisperings with the servants. Poyet stammered some excuse, and hurriedthe Jeannins into the next room. (He was trying to hide from his friendsthe existence, and the presence in his house, of the compromising family. )The Jeannins were left alone in a room without a fire. The children werefurious at the affront. Antoinette had tears in her eyes and insisted ontheir going. Her mother resisted for a little: but then, after they hadwaited for some time, she agreed. They went out. In the hall they werecaught by Poyet, who had been told by a servant, and he muttered excuses:he pretended that he wanted them to stay: but it was obvious that he wasonly eager for them to go. He helped them on with their cloaks, and hurriedthem to the door with smiles and handshakes and whispered pleasantries, andclosed the door on them. When they reached their hotel the children burstinto angry tears. Antoinette stamped her foot, and swore that she wouldnever enter their house again. 

Madame Jeannin took a flat on the fourth floor near the _Jardin desPlantes_. The bedrooms looked on to the filthy walls of a gloomy courtyard:the dining-room and the drawing-room--(for Madame Jeannin insisted onhaving a drawing-room)--on to a busy street. All day long steam-trams wentby and hearses crawling along to the Ivry Cemetery. Filthy Italians, with ahorde of children, loafed about on the seats, or spent their time in shrillargument. The noise made it impossible to have the windows open: and in theevening, on their way home, they had to force their way through crowds ofbustling, evil-smelling people, cross the thronged and muddy streets, passa horrible pothouse, that was on the ground floor of the next house, inthe door of which there were always fat, frowsy women with yellow hair andpainted faces, eying the passers-by. 

Their small supply of money soon gave out. Every evening with sinkinghearts they took stock of the widening hole in their purse. They triedto stint themselves: but they did not know how to set about it: that isa science which can only be learned by years of experimenting, unless ithas been practised from childhood. Those who are not naturally economicalmerely waste their time in trying to be so: as soon as a fresh opportunityof spending money crops up, they succumb to the temptation: they are alwaysgoing to economize next time: and when they do happen to make a littlemoney, or to think they have made it, they rush out and spend ten times theamount on the strength of it. 

At the end of a few weeks the Jeannins' resources were exhausted. MadameJeannin had to gulp down what was left of her pride, and, unknown to herchildren, she went and asked Poyet for money. She contrived to see himalone at his office, and begged him to advance her a small sum until theyhad found work to keep them alive. Poyet, who was weak and human enough, tried at first to postpone the matter, but finally acceded to her request. He gave her two hundred francs in a moment of emotion, which mastered him, and he repented of it immediately afterwards, --when he had to make hispeace with Madame Poyet, who was furious with her husband's weakness, andher sister's slyness. 

 * * * * *

All day and every day the Jeannins were out and about in Paris, lookingfor work. Madame Jeannin, true to the prejudices of her class, would nothear of their engaging in any other profession than those which are called"liberal"--no doubt because they leave their devotees free to starve. Shewould even have gone so far as to forbid her daughter to take a post asa family governess. Only the official professions, in the service of theState, were not degrading in her eyes. They had to discover a means ofletting Olivier finish his education so that he might become a teacher. Asfor Antoinette, Madame Jeannin's idea was that she should go to a schoolto teach, or to the Conservatoire to win the prize for piano playing. Butthe schools at which she applied already had teachers enough, who weremuch better qualified than her daughter with her poor little elementarycertificate: and, as for music, she had to recognize that Antoinette'stalent was quite ordinary compared with that of so many others who did notget on at all. They came face to face with the terrible struggle for life, and the blind waste of talent, great and small, for which Paris can find nouse. 

The two children lost heart and exaggerated their uselessness: theybelieved that they were mediocre, and did their best to convince themselvesand their mother that it was so. Olivier, who had had no difficulty inshining at his provincial school, was crushed by his various rebuffs: heseemed to have lost possession of all his gifts. At the school for which hewon a scholarship, the results of his first examinations were so disastrousthat his scholarship was taken away from him. He thought himself utterlystupid. At the same time he had a horror of Paris, and its swarminginhabitants, and the disgusting immorality of his schoolfellows, and theirshameful conversation, and the bestiality of a few of them who did notspare him from their abominable proposals. He was not even strong enough toshow his contempt for them. He felt degraded by the mere thought of theirdegradation. With his mother and sister, he took refuge in the heartfeltprayers which they used to say every evening after the day of deceptionsand private humiliations, which to their innocence seemed to be a taint, of which they dared not tell each other. But, in contact with the latentspirit of atheism which is in the air of Paris, Olivier's faith wasbeginning to crumble away, without his knowledge, like whitewash tricklingdown a wall under the beating of the rain. He went on believing: but allabout him God was dying. 

His mother and sister pursued their futile quest. Madame Jeannin turnedonce more to the Poyets, who were anxious to be quit of them, and offeredthem work. Madame Jeannin was to go as reader to an old lady who wasspending the winter in the South of France. A post was found for Antoinetteas governess in a family in the West, who lived all the year round in thecountry. The terms were not bad, but Madame Jeannin refused. It was notso much for herself that she objected to a menial position, but she wasdetermined that Antoinette should not be reduced to it, and unwillingto part with her. However unhappy they might be, just because they wereunhappy, they wished to be together. --Madame Poyet took it very badly. Shesaid that people who had no means of living had no business to be proud. Madame Jeannin could not refrain from crying out upon her heartlessness. Madame Poyet spoke bitterly of the bankruptcy and of the money that MadameJeannin owed her. They parted, and the breach between them was final. Allrelationship between them was broken off. Madame Jeannin had only onedesire left: to pay back the money she had borrowed. But she was unable todo that. 

They resumed their vain search for work. Madame Jeannin went to see thedeputy and the senator of her department, men whom Monsieur Jeannin hadoften helped. Everywhere she was brought face to face with ingratitudeand selfishness. The deputy did not even answer her letters, and when shecalled on him he sent down word that he was out. The senator commiseratedher ponderously on her unhappy position, which he attributed to "thewretched Jeannin, " whose suicide he stigmatized harshly. Madame Jeannindefended her husband. The senator said that of course he knew that thebanker had acted, not from dishonesty, but from stupidity, and that he wasa fool, a poor gull, who knew nothing, and would go his own way withoutasking anybody's advice or taking a warning from any one. If he had onlyruined himself, there would have been nothing to say: that would havebeen his own affair. But--not to mention the ruin that he had brought onothers, --that he should have reduced his wife and children to poverty anddeserted them and left them to get out of it as best they could . . . It wasMadame Jeannin's own business if she chose to forgive him, if she were asaint, but for his part, he, the senator, not being a saint--(s, a, i, n, t), --but, he flattered himself, just a plain man--(s, a, i, n), --a plain, sensible, reasonable human being, --he could find no reason for forgiveness:a man who, in such circumstances, could kill himself, was a wretch. Theonly extenuating circumstance he could find in Jeannin's case was that hewas not responsible for his actions. With that he begged Madame Jeannin'spardon for having expressed himself a little emphatically about herhusband: he pleaded the sympathy that he felt for her: and he opened hisdrawer and offered her a fifty-franc note, --charity--which she refused. 

She applied for a post in the offices of a great Government department. Sheset about it clumsily and inconsequently, and all her courage oozed out atthe first attempt. She returned home so demoralized that for several daysshe could not stir. And, when she resumed her efforts, it was too late. Shedid not find help either with the church-people, either because they sawthere was nothing to gain by it, or because they took no interest in aruined family, the head of which had been notoriously anti-clerical. Afterdays and days of hunting for work Madame Jeannin could find nothing betterthan a post as music-teacher in a convent--an ungrateful task, ridiculouslyill-paid. To eke out her earnings she copied music in the evenings for anagency. They were very hard on her. She was severely called to task foromitting words and whole lines, as she did in spite of her application, for she was always thinking of so many other things and her wits werewool-gathering. And so, after she had stayed up through the night tillher eyes and her back ached, her copy was rejected. She would return homeutterly downcast. She would spend days together moaning, unable to stira finger. For a long time she had been suffering from heart trouble, which had been aggravated by her hard struggles, and filled her with darkforebodings. Sometimes she would have pains, and difficulty in breathingas though she were on the point of death. She never went out without hername and address written on a piece of paper in her pocket in case sheshould collapse in the street. What would happen if she were to disappear?Antoinette comforted her as best she could by affecting a confidence whichshe did not possess: she begged her to be careful and to let her go andwork in her stead. But the little that was left of Madame Jeannin's pridestirred in her, and she vowed that at least her daughter should not knowthe humiliation she had to undergo. 

In vain did she wear herself out and cut down their expenses: what sheearned was not enough to keep them alive. They had to sell the few jewelswhich they had kept. And the worst blow of all came when the money, ofwhich they were in such sore need, was stolen from Madame Jeannin the veryday it came into her hands. The poor flustered creature took it into herhead while she was out to go into the _Bon Marché_, which was on her way:it was Antoinette's birthday next day, and she wanted to give her a littlepresent. She was carrying her purse in her hand so as not to lose it. Sheput it down mechanically on the counter for a moment while she looked atsomething. When she put out her hand for it the purse was gone. It was thelast blow for her. 

A few days later, on a stifling evening at the end of August, --a hotsteaming mist hung over the town, --Madame Jeannin came in from her copyingagency, whither she had been to deliver a piece of work that was wanted ina hurry. She was late for dinner, and had saved her three sous' bus fareby hurrying home on foot to prevent her children being anxious. When shereached the fourth floor she could neither speak nor breathe. It was notthe first time she had returned home in that condition: the children tookno notice of it. She forced herself to sit down at table with them. Theywere both suffering from the heat and did not eat anything: they had tomake an effort to gulp down a few morsels of food, and a sip or two ofstale water. To give their mother time to recover they did not talk--(theyhad no desire to talk)--and looked out of the window. 

Suddenly Madame Jeannin waved her hands in the air, clutched at the table, looked at her children, moaned, and collapsed. Antoinette and Oliviersprang to their feet just in time to catch her in their arms. They werebeside themselves, and screamed and cried to her:

"Mother! Mother! Dear, dear mother!"

But she made no sound. They were at their wit's end. Antoinette clungwildly to her mother's body, kissed her, called to her. Olivier ran to thedoor of the flat and yelled:

"Help! Help!"

The housekeeper came running upstairs, and when she saw what had happenedshe ran for a doctor. But when the doctor arrived, he could only say thatthe end had come. Death had been instantaneous--happily for MadameJeannin--although it was impossible to know what thoughts might have beenhers during the last moments when she knew that she was dying and leavingher children alone in such misery. 

They were alone to bear the horror of the catastrophe, alone to weep, aloneto perform the dreadful duties that follow upon death. The porter's wife, akindly soul, helped them a little: and people came from the convent whereMadame Jeannin had taught: but they were given no real sympathy. 

The first moments brought inexpressible despair. The only thing that savedthem was the very excess of that despair, which made Olivier really ill. Antoinette's thoughts were distracted from her own suffering, and her oneidea was to save her brother: and her great, deep love filled Olivier andplucked him back from the violent torment of his grief. Locked in her arms, near the bed where their mother was lying in the glimmer of a candle, Olivier said over and over again that they must die, that they must bothdie, at once: and he pointed to the window. In Antoinette, too, there wasthe dark desire: but she fought it down: she wished to live. . . . 

"Why? Why?"

"For her sake, " said Antoinette--(she pointed to her mother). --"She isstill with us. Think . . . After all that she has suffered for our sake, wemust spare her the crowning sorrow, that of seeing us die in misery. . . . Ah!" (she went on emphatically). . . . "And then, we must not give way. I willnot! I refuse to give in. You must, you shall be happy, some day!"

"Never!"

"Yes. You shall be happy. We have had too much unhappiness. A change willcome: it must. You shall live your life. You shall have children, you shallbe happy, you shall, you shall!"

"How are we to live? We cannot do it. . . . "

"We can. What is it, after all? We have to live somehow until you can earnyour living. I will see to that. You will see: I'll do it. Ah! If onlymother had let me do it, as I could have done. . . . "

"What will you do? I will not have you degrading yourself. You could not doit. "

"I can. . . . And there is nothing humiliating in working for one'sliving--provided it be honest work. Don't you worry about it, please. Youwill see, everything will come right. You shall be happy, we shall behappy: dear Olivier, _she_ will be happy through us. . . . "

The two children were the only mourners at their mother's grave. By commonconsent they agreed not to tell the Poyets: the Poyets had ceased to existfor them: they had been too cruel to their mother: they had helped herto her death. And, when the housekeeper asked them if they had no otherrelations, they replied:

"No. Nobody. "

By the bare grave they prayed hand in hand. They set their teeth indesperate resolve and pride and preferred their solitude to the presence oftheir callous and hypocritical relations. --They returned on foot throughthe throng of people who were strangers to their grief, strangers to theirthoughts, strangers to their lives, and shared nothing with them but theircommon language. Antoinette had to support Olivier. 

They took a tiny flat in the same house on the top floor--two littleattics, a narrow hall, which had to serve as a dining-room, and a kitchenthat was more like a cupboard. They could have found better rooms inanother neighborhood: but it seemed to them that they were still with theirmother in that house. The housekeeper took an interest in them for a time:but she was soon absorbed in her own affairs and nobody bothered aboutthem. They did not know a single one of the other tenants: and they did noteven know who lived next door. 

Antoinette obtained her mother's post as music-teacher at the convent. Sheprocured other pupils. She had only one idea: to educate her brother untilhe was ready for the _École Normale_. It was her own idea, and she haddecided upon it after mature reflection: she had studied the syllabus andasked about it, and had also tried to find out what Olivier thought:--buthe had no ideas, and she chose for him. Once at the _École Normale_ hewould be sure of a living for the rest of his life, and his future wouldbe assured. He must get in, somehow; whatever it cost, they would have tokeep alive till then. It meant five or six terrible years: they would winthrough. The idea possessed Antoinette, absorbed her whole life. The poorsolitary existence which she must lead, which she saw clearly mapped outin front of her, was only made bearable through the passionate exaltationwhich filled her, her determination, by all means in her power, to save herbrother and make him happy. The light-hearted, gentle girl of seventeen oreighteen was transfigured by her heroic resolution: there was in her anardent quality of devotion, a pride of battle, which no one had suspected, herself least of all. In that critical period of a woman's life, duringthe first fevered days of spring, when love fills all her being, and likea hidden stream murmuring beneath the earth, laves her soul, envelopsit, floods it with tenderness, and fills it with sweet obsessions, loveappears in divers shapes: demanding that she should give herself, andyield herself up to be its prey: for love the least excuse is enough, andfor its profound yet innocent sensuality any sacrifice is easy. Love madeAntoinette the prey of sisterly devotion. 

Her brother was less passionate and had no such stay. Besides, thesacrifice was made for him, it was not he who was sacrificed--which is somuch easier and sweeter when one loves. He was weighed down with remorse atseeing his sister wearing herself out for him. He would tell her so, andshe would reply:

"Ah! My dear!. . . But don't you see that that is what keeps me going?Without you to trouble me, what should I have to live for?"

He understood. He, too, in Antoinette's position, would have been jealousof the trouble he caused her: but to be the cause of it!. . . That hurt hispride and his affection. And what a burden it was for so weak a creature tobear such a responsibility, to be bound to succeed, since on his successhis sister had staked her whole life! The thought of it was intolerable tohim, and, instead of spurring him on, there were times when it robbed himof all energy. And yet she forced him to struggle on, to work, to live, ashe never would have done without her aid and insistence. He had a naturalpredisposition towards depression, --perhaps even towards suicide:--perhapshe would have succumbed to it had not his sister wished him to be ambitiousand happy. He suffered from the contradiction of his nature: and yet itworked his salvation. He, too, was passing through a critical age, thatfearful period when thousands of young men succumb, and give themselves upto the aberrations of their minds and senses, and for two or three years'folly spoil their lives beyond repair. If he had had time to yield to histhoughts he would have fallen into discouragement or perhaps taken todissipation: always when he turned in upon himself he became a prey to hismorbid dreams, and disgust with life, and Paris, and the impurefermentation of all those millions of human beings mingling and rottingtogether. But the sight of his sister's face was enough to dispel thenightmare: and since she was living only that he might live, he would live, yes, he would be happy, in spite of himself. 

So their lives were built on an ardent faith fashioned of stoicism, religion, and noble ambition. All their endeavor was directed towards theone end: Olivier's success. Antoinette accepted every kind of work, everyhumiliation that was offered her: she went as a governess to houses whereshe was treated almost as a servant: she had to take her pupils out forwalks, like a nurse, wandering about the streets with them for hourstogether under pretext of teaching them German. In her love for her brotherand her pride she found pleasure even in such moral suffering andweariness. 

She would return home worn out to look after Olivier, who was a day-boarderat his school and only came home in the evening. She would cook theirdinner--a wretched dinner--on the gas-stove or over a spirit-lamp. Olivierhad never any appetite and everything disgusted him, and his gorge wouldrise at the food: and she would have to force him to eat, or cudgel herbrains to invent some dish that would catch his fancy, and poor Antoinettewas by no means a good cook. And when she had taken a great deal oftrouble she would have the mortification of hearing him declare thather cooking was uneatable. It was only after moments of despair at hercooking-stove, --those moments of silent despair which come to inexperiencedyoung housekeepers and poison their lives and sometimes their sleep, unknown to everybody--that she began to understand it a little. 

After dinner, when she had washed up the dishes--(he would offer to helpher, but she would never let him), --she would take a motherly interest inher brother's work. She would hear him his lessons, read his exercises, andeven look up certain words in the dictionary for him, always taking carenot to ruffle up his sensitive little soul. They would spend the evening attheir one table at which they had both to eat and write. He would do hishomework, she would sew or do some copying. When he had gone to bed shewould sit mending his clothes or doing some work of her own. 

Although they had difficulty in making both ends meet, they were bothagreed that every penny they could put by should be used in the first placeto settle the debt which their mother owed to the Poyets. It was not thatthe Poyets were importunate creditors: they had given no sign of life: theynever gave a thought to the money, which they counted as lost: they thoughtthemselves very lucky to have got rid of their undesirable relatives socheaply. But it hurt the pride and filial piety of the young Jeannins tothink that their mother should have owed anything to these people whom theydespised. They pinched and scraped: they economized on their amusements, ontheir clothes, on their food, in order to amass the two hundred francs--anenormous sum for them. Antoinette would have liked to have done the savingby herself. But when her brother found out what she was up to, nothingcould keep him from doing likewise. They wore themselves out in the effort, and were delighted when they could set aside a few sous a day. 

In three years, by screwing and scraping, sou by sou, they had succeeded ingetting the sum together. It was a great joy to them. Antoinette went tothe Poyets one evening. She was coldly received, for they thought she hadcome to ask for help. They thought it advisable to take the initiative: andreproached her for not letting them have any news of them: and not havingeven told them of the death of her mother, and not coming to them whenshe wanted help. She cut them short calmly by telling them that she hadno intention of incommoding them: she had come merely to return the moneywhich had been borrowed from them: and she laid two banknotes on the tableand asked for a receipt. They changed their tone at once, and pretended tobe unwilling to accept it: they were feeling for her that sudden affectionwhich comes to the creditor for the debtor, who, after many years, returnsthe loan which he had ceased to reckon upon. They inquired where she wasliving with her brother, and how they lived. She did not reply, asked oncemore for the receipt, said that she was in a hurry, bowed coldly, and wentaway. The Poyets were horrified at the girl's ingratitude. 

Then, when she was rid of that obsession, Antoinette went on with the samesparing existence, but now it was entirely for her brother's sake. Only sheconcealed it more to prevent his knowing it: she economized on her clothesand sometimes on her food, to keep her brother well-dressed and amused, and to make his life pleasanter and gayer, and to let him go every now andthen to a concert, or to the opera, which was Olivier's greatest joy. Hewas unwilling to go without her, but she would always make excuses for notgoing so that he should feel no remorse: she would pretend that she was tootired and did not want to go out: she would even go so far as to say thatmusic bored her. Her fond quibbles would not deceive him: but his boyishselfishness would be too strong for him. He would go to the theater: onceinside, he would be filled with remorse, and it would haunt him all throughthe piece, and spoil his pleasure. One Sunday, when she had packed himoff to the _Châtelet_ concert, he returned half an hour later, and toldAntoinette that when he reached the Saint Michel Bridge he had not theheart to go any farther: the concert did not interest him: it hurt him toomuch to have any pleasure without her. Nothing was sweeter to Antoinette, although she was sorry that her brother should be deprived of his Sundayentertainment because of her. But Olivier never regretted it: when he sawthe joy that lit up his sister's face as he came in, a joy that she triedin vain to conceal, he felt happier than the most lovely music in the worldcould ever have made him. They spent the afternoon sitting together by thewindow, he with a book in his hand, she with her work, hardly reading atall, hardly sewing at all, talking idly of things that interested neitherof them. Never had they had so delightful a Sunday. They agreed that theywould never go alone to a concert again: they could never enjoy anythingalone. 

She managed secretly to save enough money to surprise and delight Olivierwith a hired piano, which, on the hire-purchase system became theirproperty at the end of a certain number of months. The payments for it werea heavy burden for her to shoulder! It often haunted her dreams, and sheruined her health in screwing together the necessary money. But, folly asit was, it did assure them both so much happiness. Music was their Paradisein their hard life. It filled an enormous place in their existence. Theysteeped themselves in music so as to forget the rest of the world. Therewas danger in it too. Music is one of the great modern dissolvents. Itslanguorous warmth, like the heat of a stove, or the enervating air ofautumn, excites the senses and destroys the will. But it was a relaxationfor a creature forced into excessive, joyless activity as was Antoinette. The Sunday concert was the only ray of light that shone through the week ofunceasing toil. They lived in the memory of the last concert and the eageranticipation of the next, in those few hours spent outside Paris and out ofthe vile weather. After a long wait outside in the rain, or the snow, orthe wind and the cold, clinging together, and trembling lest all the placesshould be taken, they would pass into the theater, where they were lost inthe throng, and sit on dark uncomfortable benches. They were crushed andstifling, and often on the point of fainting from the heat and discomfortof it all:--but they were happy, happy in their own and in each other'spleasure, happy to feel coursing through their veins the flood of kindness, light, and strength, that surged forth from the great souls of Beethovenand Wagner, happy, each of them, to see the dear, dear face light up--thepoor, pale face worn by suffering and premature anxieties. Antoinette wouldfeel so tired and as though loving arms were about her, holding her to amotherly breast! She would nestle in its softness and warmth: and she wouldweep quietly. Olivier would press her hand. No one noticed them in thedimness of the vast hall, where they were not the only suffering soulstaking refuge under the motherly wing of Music. 

Antoinette had her religion to support her. She was very pious, and everyday never missed saying her prayers fervently and at length, and everySunday she never missed going to Mass. Even in the injustice of herwretched life she could not help believing in the love of the divineFriend, who suffers with you, and, some day, will console you. Even morethan with God, she was in close communion with the beloved dead, and sheused secretly to share all her trials with them. But she was of anindependent spirit and a clear intelligence: she stood apart from otherCatholics, who did not regard her altogether favorably: they thought herpossessed of an evil spirit: they were not far from regarding her as a FreeThinker, or on the way to it, because, like the honest little Frenchwomanshe was, she had no intention of renouncing her own independent judgment:she believed not from obedience, like the base rabble, but from love. 

Olivier no longer believed. The slow disintegration of his faith, whichhad set in during his first months in Paris, had ended in its completedestruction. He had suffered cruelly: for he was not of those who arestrong enough or commonplace enough to dispense with faith: and so he hadpassed through crises of mental agony. But he was at heart a mystic: and, though he had lost his belief, yet no ideas could be closer to his own thanthose of his sister. They both lived in a religious atmosphere. When theycame home in the evening after the day's parting their little flat was tothem a haven, an inviolable refuge, poor, bitterly cold, but pure. How farremoved they felt there from the noise and the corrupt thoughts ofParis!. . . 

They never talked much of their doings: for when one comes home tired onehas hardly the heart to revive the memory of a painful day by the tale ofits happenings. Instinctively they set themselves to forget it. Especiallyduring the first hour when they met again for dinner they avoided questionsof all kinds. They would greet each other with their eyes: and sometimesthey would not speak a word all through the meal. Antoinette would look ather brother as he sat dreaming, just as he used to do when he was a littleboy. She would gently touch his hand:

"Come!" she would say, with a smile. "Courage!"

He would smile too and go on eating. So dinner would pass without theirtrying to talk. They were hungry for silence. Only when they had done wouldtheir tongues be loosed a little, when they felt rested, and when each ofthem in the comfort of the understanding love of the other had wiped outthe impure traces of the day. 

Olivier would sit down at the piano. Antoinette was out of practice fromletting him play always: for it was the only relaxation that he had: and hewould give himself up to it wholeheartedly. He had a fine temperament formusic: his feminine nature, more suited to love than to action, with lovingsympathy could catch the thoughts of the musicians whose works he played, and merge itself in them and with passionate fidelity render the finestshades, --at least, within the limitations of his physical strength, whichgave out before the Titanic effort of _Tristan_, or the later sonatas ofBeethoven. He loved best to take refuge in Mozart or Gluck, and theirs wasthe music that Antoinette preferred. 

Sometimes she would sing too, but only very simple songs, old melodies. Shehad a light mezzo voice, plaintive and delicate. She was so shy that shecould never sing in company, and hardly even before Olivier: her throatused to contract. There was an air of Beethoven set to some Scotch words, of which she was particularly fond: _Faithful Johnnie_: it was calm, socalm . . . And with what a depth of tenderness!. . . It was like herself. Olivier could never hear her sing it without the tears coming to his eyes. 

But she preferred listening to her brother. She would hurry through herhousework and leave the door of the kitchen open the better to hearOlivier: but in spite of all her care he would complain impatiently of thenoise she made with her pots and pans. Then she would close the door; and, when she had finished, she would come and sit in a low chair, not near thepiano--(for he could not bear any one near him when he was playing), --butnear the fireplace: and there she would sit curled up like a cat, with herback to the piano, and her eyes fixed on the golden eyes of the fire, inwhich a lump of coal was smoldering, and muse over her memories of thepast. When nine o'clock rang she would have to pull herself together toremind Olivier that it was time to stop. It would be hard to drag him, andto drag herself, away from dreams: but Olivier would still have some workto do. And he must not go to bed too late. He would not obey her at once:he always needed a certain time in which to shake free of the music beforehe could apply himself seriously to his work. His thoughts would be offwandering. Often it would be half-past nine before he could shake free ofhis misty dreams. Antoinette, bending over her work at the other side ofthe table, would know that he was doing nothing: but she dared not lookin his direction too often for fear of irritating him by seeming to bewatching him. 

He was at the ungrateful age--the happy age--when a boy saunters dreamilythrough his days. He had a clear forehead, girlish eyes, deep and trustful, often with dark circles round them, a wide mouth with rather thick poutinglips, a rather crooked smile, vague, absent, taking: he wore his hair longso that it hung down almost to his eyes, and made a great bunch at the backof his neck, while one rebellious lock stuck up at the back: a neckerchiefloosely tied round his neck--(his sister used to tie it carefully in a bowevery morning):--a waistcoat which was always buttonless, although she wasfor ever sewing them on: no cuffs: large hands with bony wrists. He had aheavy, sleepy, bantering expression, and he was always wool-gathering. Hiseyes would blink and wander round Antoinette's room:--(his work-table wasin her room):--they would light on the little iron bed, above which hung anivory crucifix, with a sprig of box, --on the portraits of his father andmother, --on an old photograph of the little provincial town with its towermirrored in its waters. And when they reached his sister's pallid face, bending in silence over her work, he would be filled with an immense pityfor her and his own indolence: and he would work furiously to make up forlost time. 

He spent his holidays in reading. They would read together each with aseparate book. In spite of their love for each other they could not readaloud. That hurt them as an offense against modesty. A fine book was tothem as a secret which should only be murmured in the silence of the heart. When a passage delighted them, instead of reading it aloud, they would handthe book over, with a finger marking the place: and they would say:

"Read that. "

Then, while the other was reading, the one who had already read would withshining eyes gaze into the dear face to see what emotions were roused andto share the enjoyment of it. 

But often with their books open in front of them they would not read: theywould talk. Especially towards the end of the evening they would feelthe need of opening their hearts, and they would have less difficultyin talking. Olivier had sad thoughts: and in his weakness he had to ridhimself of all that tortured him by pouring out his troubles to some oneelse. He was a prey to doubt. Antoinette had to give him courage, to defendhim against himself: it was an unceasing struggle, which began anew eachday. Olivier would say bitter, gloomy things: and when he had said them hewould be relieved: but he never troubled to think how they might hurt hissister. Only very late in the day did he see how he was exhausting her: hewas sapping her strength and infecting her with his own doubts. Antoinettenever let it appear how she suffered. She was by nature valiant and gay, and she forced herself to maintain a show of gaiety, even when thatgracious quality was long since dead in her. She had moments of utterweariness, and revolt against the life of perpetual sacrifice to which shehad pledged herself. But she condemned such thoughts and would not analyzethem: they came to her in spite of herself, and she would not acceptthem. She found help in prayer, except when her heart could not pray--(assometimes happens)--when it was, as it were, withered and dry. Then shecould only wait in silence, feverish and ashamed, for the return of grace. Olivier never had the least suspicion of the agony she suffered. At suchtimes Antoinette would make some excuse and go away and lock herself in herroom: and she would not appear again until the crisis was over: then shewould be smiling, sorrowful, more tender than ever, and, as it were, remorseful for having suffered. 

Their rooms were adjoining. Their beds were placed on either side of thesame wall: they could talk to each other through it in whispers: and whenthey could not sleep they would tap gently on the wall to say:

"Are you asleep? I can't sleep. "

The partition was so thin that it was almost as though they shared the sameroom. But the door between their rooms was always locked at night, inobedience to an instinctive and profound modesty, --a sacred feeling:--itwas only left open when Olivier was ill, as too often happened. 

He did not gain in health. Rather he seemed to grow weaker. He was alwaysailing: throat, chest, head or heart: if he caught the slightest cold therewas always the danger of its turning to bronchitis: he caught scarlatinaand almost died of it: but even when he was not ill he would betray strangesymptoms of serious illnesses, which fortunately did not come to anything:he would have pains in his lungs or his heart. One day the doctor whoexamined him diagnosed pericarditis, or peripneumonia, and the greatspecialist who was then consulted confirmed his fears. But it came tonothing. It was his nerves that were wrong, and it is common knowledge thatdisorders of the nerves take the most unaccountable shapes: they are gotrid of at the cost of days of anxiety. But such days were terrible forAntoinette, and they gave her sleepless nights. She would lie in a state ofterror in her bed, getting up every now and then to listen to her brother'sbreathing. She would think that perhaps he was dying, she would feel sure, convinced of it: she would get up, trembling, and clasp her hands, and holdthem fast against her lips to keep herself from crying out. 

"Oh! God! Oh! God!" she would moan. "Take him not from me! Not that . . . Notthat. You have no right!. . . Not that, oh! God, I beg!. . . Oh, mother, mother! Come to my aid! Save him: let him live!. . . "

She would lie at full stretch. 

"Ah! To die by the way, when so much has been done, when we were nearlythere, when he was going to be happy . . . No: that could not be: it would betoo cruel!. . . "

 * * * * *

It was not long before Olivier gave her other reasons for anxiety. 

He was profoundly honest, like herself, but he was weak of will and tooopen-minded and too complex not to be uneasy, skeptical, indulgent towardswhat he knew to be evil, and attracted by pleasure. Antoinette was so purethat it was some time before she understood what was going on in herbrother's mind. She discovered it suddenly, one day. 

Olivier thought she was out. She usually had a lesson at that hour: but atthe last moment she had received word from her pupil, telling her that shecould not have her that day. She was secretly pleased, although it meanta few francs less in that week's earnings: but she was very tired and shelay down on her bed: she was very glad to be able to rest for once withoutreproaching herself. Olivier came in from school bringing another boy withhim. They sat down in the next room and began to talk. She could heareverything they said: they thought they were alone and did not restrainthemselves. Antoinette smiled as she heard her brother's merry voice. Butsoon she ceased to smile, and her blood ran cold. They were talking ofdirty things with an abominable crudity of expression: they seemed to revelin it. She heard Olivier, her boy Olivier, laughing: and from his lips, which she had thought so innocent, there came words so obscene that thehorror of it chilled her. Keen anguish stabbed her to the heart. It went onand on: they could not stop talking, and she could not help listening. Atlast they went out, and Antoinette was left alone. Then she wept: somethinghad died in her: the ideal image that she had fashioned of her brother--ofher boy--was plastered with mud: it was a mortal agony to her. She did notsay anything to him when they met again in the evening. He saw that she hadbeen weeping and he could not think why. He could not understand why shehad changed her manner towards him. It was some time before she was able torecover herself. 

But the worst blow of all for her was one evening when he did not comehome. She did not go to bed, but sat up waiting for him. It was not onlyher moral purity that was hurt: her suffering went down to the mostmysterious inner depths of her heart--those same depths where there lurkedthe most awful feelings of the human heart, feelings over which she cast aveil, to hide them from her sight. 

Olivier's first aim had been the declaration of his independence. Hereturned in the morning, casting about for the proper attitude and quiteprepared to fling some insolent remark at his sister if she had saidanything to him. He stole into the flat on tiptoe so as not to waken her. But when he saw her standing there, waiting for him, pale, red-eyed fromweeping, when he saw that, instead of making any effort to reproach him, she only set about silently cooking his breakfast, before he left forschool, and that she had nothing to say to him, but was overwhelmed, sothat she was, in herself, a living reproach, he could hold out no longer:he flung himself down before her, buried his face in her lap, and they bothwept. He was ashamed of himself, sick at the thought of what he had done:he felt degraded. He tried to speak, but she would not let him and laidher hand on his lips: and he kissed her hand. They said no more: theyunderstood each other. Olivier vowed that he would never again do anythingto hurt Antoinette, and that he would be in all things what she wanted himto be. But though she tried bravely she could not so easily forget so sharpa wound: she recovered from it slowly. There was a certain awkwardnessbetween them. Her love for him was just the same: but in her brother's soulshe had seen something that was foreign to herself, and she was fearful ofit. 

 * * * * *

She was the more overwhelmed by the glimpse she had had into Olivier'sinmost heart, in that, about the same time, she had to put up with theunwelcome attentions of certain men. When she came home in the evening atnightfall, and especially when she had to go out after dinner to take orfetch her copying, she suffered agonies from her fear of being accosted, and followed (as sometimes happened) and forced to listen to insultingadvances. She took her brother with her whenever she could under pretext ofmaking him take a walk: but he only consented grudgingly and she dared notinsist: she did not like to interrupt his work. She was so provincial andso pure that she could not get used to such ways. Paris at night was toher like a dark forest in which she felt that she was being tracked bydreadful, savage beasts: and she was afraid to leave the house. But she hadto go out. She would put off going out as long as possible: she was alwaysfearful. And when she thought that her Olivier would be--was perhaps--likeone of those men who pursued her, she could hardly hold out her hand to himwhen she came in. He could not think what he had done to change her so, andshe was angry with herself. 

She was not very pretty, but she had charm, and attracted attention thoughshe did nothing to do so. She was always very simply dressed, almost alwaysin black: she was not very tall, graceful, frail-looking; she rarely spoke:she tripped quietly through the crowded streets, avoiding attention, which, however, she attracted in spite of herself by the sweetness of theexpression of her tired eyes and her pure young lips. Sometimes she sawthat she had attracted notice: and though it put her to confusion she waspleased all the same. Who can say what gentle and chaste pleasure in itselfthere may be in so innocent a creature at feeling herself in sympathywith others? All that she felt was shown in a slight awkwardness in hermovements, a timid, sidelong glance: and it was sweet to see and verytouching. And her uneasiness added to her attraction. She excited interest, and, as she was a poor girl, with none to protect her, men did not hesitateto tell her so. 

Sometimes she used to go to the house of some rich Jews, the Nathans, whotook an interest in her because they had met her at the house of somefriends of theirs where she gave lessons: and, in spite of her shyness, she had not been able to avoid accepting invitations to their parties. M. Alfred Nathan was a well-known professor in Paris, a distinguishedscientist, and at the same time he was very fond of society, with thatstrange mixture of learning and frivolity which is so common among theJews. Madame Nathan was a mixture in equal proportions of real kindlinessand excessive worldliness. They were both generous, with loud-voiced, sincere, but intermittent sympathy for Antoinette. --Generally speakingAntoinette had found more kindness among the Jews than among themembers of her own sect. They have many faults: but they have one greatquality--perhaps the greatest of all: they are alive, and human: nothinghuman is foreign to them and they are interested in every living being. Even when they lack real, warm sympathy they feel a perpetual curiositywhich makes them seek out men and ideas that are of worth, howeverdifferent from themselves they may be. Not that, generally speaking, theydo anything much to help them, for they are interested in too many thingsat once and much more a prey to the vanities of the world than otherpeople, while they pretend to be immune from them. But at least theydo something: and that is saying a great deal in the present apatheticcondition of society. They are an active balm in society, the very leavenof life. --Antoinette who, among the Catholics, had been brought sharp upagainst a wall of icy indifference, was keenly alive to the worth of theinterest, however superficial it might be, which the Nathans took in her. Madame Nathan had marked Antoinette's life of devoted sacrifice: she wassensible of her physical and moral charm: and she made a show of taking herunder her protection. She had no children: but she loved young people andoften had gatherings of them in her house: and she insisted on Antoinette'scoming also, and breaking away from her solitude, and having some amusementin her life. And as she had no difficulty in guessing that Antoinette'sshyness was in part the result of her poverty, she even went so far as tooffer to give her a pretty frock or two, which Antoinette refused proudly:but her kindly patroness found a way of forcing her to accept a few ofthose little presents which are so dear to a woman's innocent vanity. Antoinette was both grateful and embarrassed. She forced herself to go toMadame Nathan's parties from time to time: and being young she managed toenjoy herself in spite of everything. 

But in that rather mixed society of all sorts of young people MadameNathan's protégée, being poor and pretty, became at once the mark of two orthree young gentlemen, who with perfect confidence in themselves picked herout for their attentions. They calculated how far her timidity would go:they even made bets about her. 

One day she received certain anonymous letters--or rather letters signedwith a noble pseudonym--which conveyed a declaration of love: at firstthey were love-letters, flattering, ardent, appointing a rendezvous: thenthey quickly became bolder, threatening, and soon insulting and baselyslanderous: they stripped her, exposed her, besmirched her with theircoarse expressions of desire: they tried to play upon Antoinette'ssimplicity by making her fearful of a public insult if she did not go tothe appointed rendezvous. She wept bitterly at the thought of having calleddown on herself such base proposals: and these insults scorched her pride. She did not know what to do. She did not like to speak to her brother aboutit: she knew that he would feel it too keenly and that he would make theaffair even more serious than it was. She had no friends. The police? Shewould not do that for fear of scandal. But somehow she had to make an endof it. She felt that her silence would not sufficiently defend her, thatthe blackguard who was pursuing her would hold to the chase and that hewould go on until to go farther would be dangerous. 

He had just sent her a sort of ultimatum commanding her to meet him nextday at the Luxembourg. She went. --By racking her brains she had come to theconclusion that her persecutor must have met her at Madame Nathan's. In oneof his letters he had alluded to something which could only have happenedthere. She begged Madame Nathan to do her a great favor and to drive her tothe door of the gallery and to wait for her outside. She went in. In frontof the appointed picture her tormentor accosted her triumphantly and beganto talk to her with affected politeness. She stared straight at him withouta word. When he had finished his remark he asked her jokingly why she wasstaring at him. She replied:

"You are a coward. "

He was not put out by such a trifle as that, and became familiar in hismanner. She said:

"You have tried to threaten me with a scandal. Very well, I have come togive you your scandal. You have asked for it!"

She was trembling all over, and she spoke in a loud voice to show him thatshe was quite equal to attracting attention to themselves. People hadalready begun to watch them. He felt that she would stick at nothing. Helowered his voice. She said once more, for the last time:

"You are a coward, " and turned her back on him. 

Not wishing to seem to have given in he followed her. She left the gallerywith the fellow following hard on her heels. She walked straight to thecarriage waiting there, wrenched the door open, and her pursuer foundhimself face to face with Madame Nathan, who recognized him and greeted himby name. His face fell and he bolted. 

Antoinette had to tell the whole story to her companion. She was unwillingto do so, and only hinted roughly at the facts. It was painful to her toreveal to a stranger the intimate secrets of her life, and the sufferingsof her injured modesty. Madame Nathan scolded her for not having told herbefore. Antoinette begged her not to tell anybody. That was the end of it:and Madame Nathan did not even need to strike the fellow off her visitinglist: for he was careful not to appear again. 

About the same time another sorrow of a very different kind came toAntoinette. 

At the Nathans' she met a man of forty, a very good fellow, who was inthe Consular service in the Far East, and had come home on a few months'leave. He fell in love with her. The meeting had been planned unknown toAntoinette, by Madame Nathan, who had taken it into her head that she mustfind a husband for her little friend. He was a Jew. He was not good-lookingand he was no longer young. He was rather bald, and round-shouldered: buthe had kind eyes, an affectionate way with him, and he could feel for andunderstand suffering, for he had suffered himself. Antoinette was no longerthe romantic girl, the spoiled child, dreaming of life as a lovely day'swalk on her lover's arm: now she saw the hard struggle of life, which beganagain, every day, allowing no time for rest, or, if rest were taken, itmight be to lose in one moment all the ground that had been gained, inchby inch, through years of striving: and she thought it would be very sweetto be able to lean on the arm of a friend, and share his sorrows with him, and be able to close her eyes for a little, while he watched over her. Sheknew that it was a dream: but she had not had the courage to renounce herdream altogether. In her heart she knew quite well that a dowerless girlhad nothing to hope for in the world in which she lived. The old Frenchmiddle-classes are known throughout the world for the spirit of sordidinterest in which they conduct their marriages. The Jews are far lessgrasping with money. Among the Jews it is no uncommon thing for a richyoung man to choose a poor girl, or a young woman of fortune to set herselfpassionately to win a man of intellect. But in the French middle-classes, Catholic and provincial in their outlook, almost always money woos money. And to what end? Poor wretches, they have none but dull commonplacedesires: they can do nothing but eat, yawn, sleep--save. Antoinette knewthem. She had observed their ways from her childhood on. She had seen themwith the eyes of wealth and the eyes of poverty. She had no illusions leftabout them, nor about the treatment she had to expect from them. And so theattentions of this man who had asked her to marry him came as an unhopedfor treasure in her life. At first she did not think of him as a lover, butgradually she was filled with gratitude and tenderness towards him. Shewould have accepted his proposal if it had not meant following him to thecolonies and consequently leaving her brother. She refused: and though herlover understood the magnanimity of her reason for doing so, he could notforgive her: love is so selfish, that the lover will not hear of beingsacrificed even to those virtues which are dearest to him in the beloved. He gave up seeing her: when he went away he never wrote: she had no newsof him at all until, five or six months later, she received a printedintimation, addressed in his hand, that he had married another woman. 

Antoinette felt it deeply. She was broken-hearted, and she offered up hersuffering to God: she tried to persuade herself that she was justlypunished for having for one moment lost sight of her one duty, to devoteherself to her brother: and she grew more and more wrapped up in it. 

She withdrew from the world altogether. She even dropped going to theNathans', for they were a little cold towards her after she refusedthe marriage which they had arranged for her: they too refused to seeany justification for her. Madame Nathan had decided that the marriageshould take place, and her vanity was hurt at its missing fire throughAntoinette's fault. She thought her scruples certainly quite praiseworthy, but exaggerated and sentimental: and thereafter she lost interest in thesilly little goose. It was necessary for her always to be helping people, with or without their consent, and she quickly found another protégée toabsorb, for the time being, all the interest and devotion which she had toexpend. 

Olivier knew nothing of his sister's sad little romance. He was asentimental, irresponsible boy, living in his dreams and fancies. It wasimpossible to depend on him in spite of his intelligence and charm andhis very real tenderheartedness. Often he would fling away the results ofmonths of work by his irresponsibility, or in a fit of discouragement, orby some boyish freak, or some fancied love affair, in which he would wasteall his time and energy. He would fall in love with a pretty face, thathe had seen once, with coquettish little girls, whom perhaps he once metout somewhere, though they never paid any attention to him. He would beinfatuated with something he had read, a poet, or a musician: he wouldsteep himself in their works for months together, to the exclusion ofeverything else and the detriment of his studies. He had to be watchedalways, though great care had to be taken that he did not know it, for hewas easily wounded. There was always a danger of a seizure. He had thefeverish excitement, the want of balance, the uneasy trepidation, that areoften found in those who have a consumptive tendency. The doctor had notconcealed the danger from Antoinette. The sickly plant, transplanted fromthe provinces to Paris, needed fresh air and light. Antoinette could notprovide them. They had not enough money to be able to go away from Parisduring the holidays. All the rest of their year every day in the week wasfull, and on Sundays they were so tired that they never wanted to go out, except to a concert. 

There were Sundays in the summer when Antoinette would make an effort anddrag Olivier off to the woods outside Paris, near Chaville or Saint-Cloud. But the woods were full of noisy couples, singing music-hall songs, andlittering the place with greasy bits of paper: they did not find the divinesolitude which purifies and gives rest. And in the evening when they turnedhomewards they had to suffer the roar and clatter of the trains, the dirty, crowded, low, narrow, dark carriages of the suburban lines, the coarsenessof certain things they saw, the noisy, singing, shouting, smellypeople, and the reek of tobacco smoke. Neither Antoinette nor Oliviercould understand the people, and they would return home disgusted anddemoralized. Olivier would beg Antoinette not to go for Sunday walks again;and for some time Antoinette would not have the heart to go again. Andthen she would insist, though it was even more disagreeable to her than toOlivier: but she thought it necessary for her brother's health. She wouldforce him to go out once more. But their new experience would be no betterthan the last, and Olivier would protest bitterly. So they stayed shut upin the stifling town, and, in their prison-yard, they sighed for the openfields. 

 * * * * *

Olivier had reached the end of his schooldays. The examinations for the_École Normale_ were over. It was quite time. Antoinette was very tired. She was counting on his success: her brother had everything in his favor. At school he was regarded as one of the best pupils: and all his masterswere agreed in praising his industry and intelligence, except for a certainwant of mental discipline which made it difficult for him to bend to anysort of plan. But the responsibility of it weighed on Olivier so heavilythat he lost his head as the examination came near. He was worn out, andparalyzed by the fear of failure, and a morbid shyness that crept over him. He trembled at the thought of appearing before the examiners in public. Hehad always suffered from shyness: in class he would blush and choke when hehad to speak: at first he could hardly do more than answer his name. And itwas much more easy for him to reply impromptu than when he knew that he wasgoing to be questioned: the thought of it made him ill: his mind rushedahead picturing every detail of the ordeal as it would happen: and thelonger he had to wait, the more he was obsessed by it. It might be saidthat he passed every examination at least twice: for he passed it in hisdreams on the night before and expended all his energy, so that he had noneleft for the real examination. 

But he did not even reach the _viva voce_, the very thought of which hadsent him into a cold sweat the night before. In the written examination ona philosophical subject, which at any ordinary time would have sent himflying off, he could not even manage to squeeze out a couple of pages insix hours. For the first few hours his brain was empty; he could think ofnothing, nothing. It was like a blank wall against which he hurled himselfin vain. Then, an hour before the end, the wall was rent and a few rays oflight shone through the crevices. He wrote an excellent short essay, but itwas not enough to place him. When Antoinette saw the despair on his face ashe came out, she foresaw the inevitable blow, and she was as despairing ashe: but she did not show it. Even in the most desperate situations she hadalways an inexhaustible capacity for hope. 

Olivier was rejected. 

He was crushed by it. Antoinette pretended to smile as though it werenothing of any importance: but her lips trembled. She consoled her brother, and told him that it was an easily remedied misfortune, and that he wouldbe certain to pass next year, and win a better place. She did not tellhim how vital it was to her that he should have passed, that year, or howutterly worn out she felt in soul and body, or how uneasy she felt aboutfighting through another year like that. But she had to go on. If she wereto go away before Olivier had passed he would never have the courage to goon fighting alone: he would succumb. 

She concealed her weariness from him, and even redoubled her efforts. She wore herself to skin and bone to let him have amusement and changeduring the holidays so that he might resume work with greater energy andconfidence. But at the very outset her small savings had to be broken into, and, to make matters worse, she lost some of her most profitable pupils. 

Another year!. . . Within sight of the final ordeal they were almost atbreaking-point. Above all, they had to live, and discover some other meansof scraping along. Antoinette accepted a situation as a governess inGermany which had been offered her through the Nathans. It was the verylast thing she would have thought of, but nothing else offered at the time, and she could not wait. She had never left her brother for a single dayduring the last six years: and she could not imagine what life would belike without seeing and hearing him from day to day. Olivier was terrifiedwhen he thought of it: but he dared not say anything: it was he who hadbrought it about: if he had passed Antoinette would not have been reducedto such an extremity: he had no right to say anything, or to take intoaccount his own grief at the parting: it was for her to decide. 

They spent the last days together in dumb anguish, as though one of themwere about to die: they hid away from each other when their sorrow was toomuch for them. Antoinette gazed into Olivier's eyes for counsel. If he hadsaid to her: "Don't go!" she would have stayed, although she had to go. Upto the very last moment, in the cab in which they drove to the station, she was prepared to break her resolution: she felt that she could never gothrough with it. At a word from him one word!. . . But he said nothing. Likeher, he set his teeth and would not budge. --She made him promise to writeto her every day, and to conceal nothing from her, and to send for her ifhe were ever in the least danger. 

 * * * * *

They parted. While Olivier returned with a heavy heart to his school, whereit had been agreed that he should board, the train carried Antoinette, crushed and sorrowful, towards Germany. Lying awake and staring through thenight they felt the minutes dragging them farther and farther apart, andthey called to each other in whispering voices. 

Antoinette was fearful of the new world to which she was going. She hadchanged much in six years. She who had once been so bold and afraid ofnothing had grown so used to silence and isolation that it hurt her togo out into the world again. The laughing, gay, chattering Antoinette ofthe old happy times had passed away with them. Unhappiness had made hersensitive and shy. No doubt living with Olivier had infected her with histimidity. She had had hardly anybody to talk to except her brother. She wasscared by the least little thing, and was really in a panic when she had topay a call. And so it was a nervous torture to her to think that she wasnow going to live among strangers, to have to talk to them, to be alwayswith them. The poor girl had no more real vocation for teaching than herbrother: she did her work conscientiously, but her heart was not in it, andshe had not the support of feeling that there was any use in it. She wasmade to love and not to teach. And no one cared for her love. 

 * * * * *

Nowhere was her capacity for love less in demand than in her new situationin Germany. The Grünebaums, whose children she was engaged to teach French, took not the slightest interest in her. They were haughty and familiar, indifferent and indiscreet: they paid fairly well: and, as a result, theyregarded everybody in their payment as being under an obligation to them, and thought they could do just as they liked. They treated Antoinette as asuperior sort of servant and allowed her hardly any liberty. She did noteven have a room to herself: she slept in a room adjoining that of thechildren and had to leave the door open all night. She was never alone. They had no respect for her need of taking refuge every now and thenwithin herself--the sacred right of every human being to preserve an innersanctuary of solitude. The only happiness she had lay in correspondence andcommunion with her brother: she made use of every moment of liberty shecould snatch. But even that was encroached upon. As soon as she began towrite they would prowl about in her room and ask her what she was writing. When she was reading a letter they would ask her what was in it: by theirpersistent impertinent curiosity they found out about her "little brother. "She had to hide from them. Too shameful sometimes were the expedients towhich she had to resort, and the holes and crannies in which she had tohide, in order to be able to read Olivier's letters unobserved. If she lefta letter lying in her room she was sure it would be read: and as she hadnothing she could lock except her box, she had to carry any papers she didnot want to have read about with her: they were always prying into herbusiness and her intimate affairs, and they were always fishing for hersecret thoughts. It was not that the Grünebaums were really interested inher, only they thought that, as they paid her, she was their property. Theywere not malicious about it: indiscretion was with them an incurable habit:they were never offended with each other. 

Nothing could have been more intolerable to Antoinette than such espionage, such a lack of moral modesty, which made it impossible for her to escapeeven for an hour a day from their curiosity. The Grünebaums were hurt bythe haughty reserve with which she treated them. Naturally they foundhighly moral reasons to justify their vulgar curiosity, and to condemnAntoinette's desire to be immune from it. 

"It was their duty, " they thought, "to know the private life of a girlliving under their roof, as a member of their household, to whom theyhad intrusted the education of their children: they were responsible forher. "--(That is the sort of thing that so many mistresses say of theirservants, mistresses whose "responsibility" does not go so far as tospare the unhappy girls any fatigue or work that must revolt them, butis entirely limited to denying them every sort of pleasure. )--"And thatAntoinette should refuse to acknowledge that duty, imposed on them byconscience, could only show, " they concluded, "that she was consciousof being not altogether beyond reproach: an honest girl has nothing toconceal. "

So Antoinette lived under a perpetual persecution, against which she wasalways on her guard, so that it made her seem even more cold and reservedthan she was. 

Every day her brother wrote her a twelve-page letter: and she contrived towrite to him every day even if it were only a few lines. Olivier tried hardto be brave and not to show his grief too clearly. But he was bored anddull. His life had always been so bound up with his sister's that, now thatshe was torn from him, he seemed to have lost part of himself: he couldnot use his arms, or his legs, or his brains, he could not walk, or playthe piano, or work, or do anything, not even dream--except through her. Heslaved away at his books from morning to night: but it was no good: histhoughts were elsewhere: he would be suffering, or thinking of her, or ofthe morrow's letter: he would sit staring at the clock, waiting for theday's letter: and when it arrived his fingers would tremble with joy--withfear, too--as he tore open the envelope. Never did lover tremble with moretenderness and anxiety at a letter from his mistress. He would hide away, like Antoinette, to read his letters: he would carry them about with him:and at night he always had the last letter under his pillow, and he wouldtouch it from time to time to make sure that it was still there, duringthe long, sleepless nights when he lay awake dreaming of his dear sister. How far removed from her he felt! He felt that most dreadfully whenAntoinette's letters were delayed by the post and came a day late. Twodays, two nights, between them!. . . He exaggerated the time and the distancebecause he had never traveled. His imagination would take fire:

"Heavens! If she were to fall ill! There would be time for her to diebefore he could see her . . . Why had she not written to him, just a line ortwo, the day before?. . . Was she ill?. . . Yes. She was surely ill . . . " Hewould choke. --More often still he would be terrified of dying away fromher, dying alone, among people who did not care, in the horrible school, in grim, gray Paris. He would make himself ill with the thought of it. . . . "Should he write and tell her to come back?"--But then he would be ashamedof his cowardice. Besides, as soon as he began to write to her it gave himsuch joy to be in communion with her that for a moment he would forgethis suffering. It seemed to him that he could see her, hear her voice: hewould tell her everything: never had he spoken to her so intimately, sopassionately, when they had been together: he would call her "my true, brave, dear, kind, beloved, little sister, " and say, "I love you so. "Indeed they were real love-letters. 

Their tenderness was sweet and comforting to Antoinette: they were all theair she had to breathe. If they did not come in the morning at the usualtime she would be miserable. Once or twice it happened that the Grünebaums, from carelessness, or--who knows?--from a wicked desire to tease, forgot togive them to her until the evening, and once even until the next morning:and she worked herself into a fever. --On New Year's Day they had the sameidea, without telling each other: they planned a surprise, and each sent along telegram--(at vast expense)--and their messages arrived at the sametime. --Olivier always consulted Antoinette about his work and his troubles:Antoinette gave him advice, and encouragement, and fortified him with herstrength, though indeed she had not really enough for herself. 

She was stifled in the foreign country, where she knew nobody, and nobodywas interested in her, except the wife of a professor, lately come tothe town, who also felt out of her element. The good creature was kindand motherly, and sympathetic with the brother and sister who loved eachother so and had to live apart--(for she had dragged part of her storyout of Antoinette):--but she was so noisy, so commonplace, she was solacking--though quite innocently--in tact and discretion that aristocraticlittle Antoinette was irritated and drew back. She had no one in whom shecould confide and so all her troubles were pent up, and weighed heavilyupon her: sometimes she thought she must give way under them: but she sether teeth and struggled on. Her health suffered: she grew very thin. Herbrother's letters became more and more downhearted. In a fit of depressionhe wrote:

"Come back, come back, come back!. . . "

But he had hardly sent the letter off than he was ashamed of it and wroteanother begging Antoinette to tear up the first and give no further thoughtto it. He even pretended to be in good spirits and not to be wanting hissister. It hurt his umbrageous vanity to think that he might seem incapableof doing without her. 

Antoinette was not deceived: she read his every thought: but she did notknow what to do. One day she almost went to him: she went to the station tofind out what time the train left for Paris. And then she said to herselfthat it was madness: the money she was earning was enough to pay forOlivier's board: they must hold on as long as they could. She was notstrong enough to make up her mind: in the morning her courage would springforth again: but as the day dragged towards evening her strength would failher and she would think of flying to him. She was homesick, --longing forthe country that had treated her so hardly, the country that enshrined allthe relics of her past life, --and she was aching to hear the language thather brother spoke, the language in which she told her love for him. 

Then it was that a company of French actors passed through the littleGerman town. Antoinette, who rarely visited the theater--(she had neithertime nor taste for it)--was seized with an irresistible longing to hear herown language spoken, to take refuge in France. 

The rest is known. [Footnote: See _Jean-Christophe_--I, "Revolt. "]

There were no seats left in the theater: she met the young musician, Jean-Christophe, whom she did not know, and he, seeing her disappointment, offered to share with her a box which he had to give away: in her confusionshe accepted. Her presence with Christophe set tongues wagging in thelittle town: and the malicious rumors came at once to the ears of theGrünebaums, who, being already inclined to believe anything ill of theyoung Frenchwoman, and furious with Christophe as a result of certainevents which have been narrated elsewhere, dismissed Antoinette withoutmore ado. 

She, who was so chaste and modest, she, whose whole life had been absorbedby her love for her brother and never yet had been besmirched with onethought of evil, nearly died of shame, when she understood the natureof the charge against her. Not for one moment was she resentful againstChristophe. She knew that he was as innocent as she, and that, if he hadinjured her, he had meant only to be kind: she was grateful to him. Sheknew nothing of him, save that he was a musician, and that he was muchmaligned: but, in her ignorance of life and men, she had a naturalintuition about people, which unhappiness had sharpened, and in her queer, boorish companion she had recognized a quality of candor equal to her own, and a sturdy kindness, the mere memory of which was comforting and goodto think on. The evil she had heard of him did not at all affect theconfidence which Christophe had inspired in her. Being herself a victim shehad no doubt that he was in the same plight, suffering, as she did, thoughfor a longer time, from the malevolence of the townspeople who insultedhim. And as she always forgot herself in the thought of others the idea ofwhat Christophe must have suffered distracted her mind a little from herown torment. Nothing in the world could have induced her to try to see himagain, or to write to him: her modesty and pride forbade it. She toldherself that he did not know the harm he had done, and, in her gentleness, she hoped that he would never know it. 

She left Germany. An hour away from the town it chanced that the train inwhich she was traveling passed the train by which Christophe was returningfrom a neighboring town where he had been spending the day. 

For a few minutes their carriages stopped opposite each other, and in thesilence of the night they saw each other, but did not speak. What couldthey have said save a few trivial words? That would have been a profanationof the indefinable feeling of common pity and mysterious sympathy whichhad sprung up in them, and was based on nothing save the sureness of theirinward vision. During those last moments, when, still strangers, theygazed into each other's eyes, they saw in each other things which neverhad appeared to any other soul among the people with whom they lived. Everything must pass: the memory of words, kisses, passionate embraces: butthe contact of souls, which have once met and hailed each other and thethrong of passing shapes, that never can be blotted out. Antoinette boreit with her in the innermost recesses of her heart--that poor heart, soswathed about with sorrow and sad thoughts, from out the midst of whichthere smiled a misty light, which seemed to steal sweetly from the earth, apale and tender light like that which floods the Elysian Shades of Gluck. 

 * * * * *

She returned to Olivier. It was high time she returned to him. He had justfallen ill: and the poor, nervous, unhappy little creature who trembled, atthe thought of illness before it came--now that he was really ill, refusedto write to his sister for fear of upsetting her. But he called to her, prayed for her coming as for a miracle. 

When the miracle happened he was lying in the school infirmary, feverishand wandering. When he saw her he made no sound. How often had he seen herenter in his fevered fancy!. . . He sat up in bed, gaping, and trembling lestit should be once more only an illusion. And when she sat down on the bedby his side, when she took him in her arms and he had taken her in his, when he felt her soft cheek against his lips, and her hands still cold fromtraveling by night in his, when he was quite, quite sure that it was hisdear sister he began to weep. He could do nothing else: he was still the"little cry-baby" that he had been when he was a child. He clung to her andheld her close for fear she should go away from him again. How changed theywere! How sad they looked!. . . No matter! They were together once more:everything was lit up, the infirmary, the school, the gloomy day: theyclung to each other, they would never let each other go. Before she hadsaid a word he made her swear that she would not go away again. He had noneed to make her swear: no, she would never go away again: they had beentoo unhappy away from each other: their mother was right: anything wasbetter than being parted. Even poverty, even death, so only they weretogether. 

They took rooms. They wanted to take their old little flat, horrible thoughit was: but it was occupied. Their new rooms also looked out on to a yard:but above a wall they could see the top of a little acacia and grew fond ofit at once, as a friend from the country, a prisoner like themselves, inthe paved wilderness of the city. Olivier quickly recovered his health, orrather, what he was pleased to call his health:--(for what was health tohim would have been illness to a stronger boy). --Antoinette's unhappy stayin Germany had helped her to save a little money: and she made some more bythe translation of a German book which a publisher accepted. For a time, then, they were free of financial anxiety: and all would be well if Olivierpassed his examination at the end of the year. --But if he did not pass?

No sooner had they settled down to the happiness of being together againthan they were once more obsessed by the prospect of the examination. Theytried hard not to think about it, but in vain, they were always coming backto it. The fixed idea haunted them, even when they were seeking distractionfrom their thoughts: at concerts it would suddenly leap out at them in themiddle of the performance: at night when they woke up it would lie therelike a yawning gulf before them. In addition to his eagerness to please hissister and repay her for the sacrifice of her youth that she had made forhis sake, Olivier lived in terror of his military service which he couldnot escape if he were rejected:--(at that time admission to the greatschools was still admitted as an exemption from service). --He had aninvincible disgust for the physical and moral promiscuity, the kindof intellectual degradation, which, rightly or wrongly, he saw inbarrack-life. Every pure and aristocratic quality in him revolted from suchcompulsion, and it seemed to him that death would be preferable. In thesedays it is permitted to make light of such feelings, and even to decrythem in the name of a social morality which, for the moment, has becomea religion: but they are blind who deny it: there is no more profoundsuffering than that of the violation of moral solitude by the coarseliberal Communism of the present day. 

The examinations began. Olivier was almost incapable of going in: he wasunwell, and he was so fearful of the torment he would have to undergo, whether he passed or not, that he almost longed to be taken seriously ill. He did quite well in the written examination. But he had a cruel timewaiting to hear the results. Following the immemorial custom of the countryof Revolutions, which is the worst country in the world for red-tape androutine, the examinations were held in July during the hottest days of theyear, as though it were deliberately intended to finish off the lucklesscandidates, who were already staggering under the weight of cramming amonstrous list of subjects, of which even the examiners did not know atenth part. The written examinations were held on the day after the holidayof the 14th July, when the whole city was upside down, and making merry, tothe undoing of the young men who were by no means inclined to be merry, andasked for nothing but silence. In the square outside the house booths wereset up, rifles cracked at the miniature ranges, merry-go-rounds creakedand grunted, and hideous steam organs roared from morning till night. Theidiotic noise went on for a week. Then a President of the Republic, by wayof maintaining his popularity, granted the rowdy merry-makers another threedays' holiday. It cost him nothing: he did not hear the row. But Olivierand Antoinette were distracted and appalled by the noise, and had to keeptheir windows shut, so that their rooms were stifling, and stop their ears, trying vainly to escape the shrill, insistent, idiotic tunes which wereground out from morning till night and stabbed through their brains likedaggers, so that they were reduced to a pitiful condition. 

The _viva voce_ examination began immediately after the publication ofthe first results. Olivier begged Antoinette not to go. She waited at thedoor, --much more anxious than he. Of course he never told her what hethought of his performance. He tormented her by telling her what he hadsaid and what he had not said. 

At last the final results were published. The names of the candidates wereposted in the courtyard of the Sorbonne. Antoinette would not let Oliviergo alone. As they left the house, they thought, though they did not say it, that when they came back they would _know_, and perhaps they would regrettheir present fears, when at least there was still hope. When they camein sight of the Sorbonne they felt their legs give way under them. Bravelittle Antoinette said to her brother:

"Please not so fast. . . . "

Olivier looked at his sister, and she forced a smile. He said:

"Shall we sit down for a moment on the seat here?"

He would gladly have gone no further. But, after a moment, she pressed hishand and said:

"It's nothing, dear. Let us go on. "

They could not find the list at first. They read several others in whichthe name of Jeannin did not appear. When at last they saw it, they did nottake it in at first: they read it several times and could not believe it. Then when they were quite sure that it was true that Jeannin was Olivier, that Jeannin had passed, they could say nothing: they hurried home: shetook his arm, and held his wrist, and leaned her weight on him: they almostran, and saw nothing of what was going on about them: as they crossed theboulevard they were almost run over. They said over and over again:

"Dear . . . Darling . . . Dear . . . Dear. . . . "

They tore upstairs to their rooms and then they flung their arms round eachother. Antoinette took her brother's hand and led him to the photographs oftheir father and mother, which hung on the wall near her bed, in a cornerof her room, which was a sort of sanctuary to her: they knelt down beforethem: and with tears in their eyes they prayed. 

Antoinette ordered a jolly little dinner: but they could not eat a morsel:they were not hungry. They spent the evening, Olivier kneeling by hissister's side while she petted him like a child. They hardly spoke at all. They could not even be happy, for they were too worn out. They went to bedbefore nine o'clock and slept the sleep of the just. 

Next day Antoinette had a frightful headache, but there was such a loadtaken from her heart! Olivier felt, for the first time in his life, thathe could breathe freely. He was saved, she was saved, she had accomplishedher task: and he had shown himself to be not unworthy of his sister'sexpectations!. . . For the first time for years and years they allowedthemselves a little laziness. They stayed in bed till twelve talkingthrough the wall, with the door between their rooms open: when they lookedin the mirror they saw their faces happy and tired-looking: they smiled, and threw kisses to each other, and dozed off again, and watched eachother's sleep, and lay weary and worn with hardly the strength to do morethan mutter tender little scraps of words. 

 * * * * *

Antoinette had always put by a little money, sou by sou, so as to have somesmall reserve in case of illness. She did not tell her brother the surpriseshe had in store for him. The day after his success she told him that theywere going to spend a month in Switzerland to make up for all their yearsof trouble and hardship. Now that Olivier was assured of three years at the_École Normale_ at the expense of the State, and then, when he left the_École_, of finding a post, they could be extravagant and spend all theirsavings. Olivier shouted for joy when she told him. Antoinette was evenmore happy than he, --happy in her brother's happiness, --happy to think thatshe was going to see the country once more: she had so longed for it. 

It took them some time to get ready for the journey, but the work ofpreparation was an unending joy. It was well on in August when they setout. They were not used to traveling. Olivier did not sleep the nightbefore. And he did not sleep in the train. The whole day they had beenfearful of missing the train. They were in a feverish hurry, they had beenjostled about at the station, and finally huddled into a second-classcarriage, where they could not even lean back to go to sleep:--(that isone of the privileges of which the eminently democratic French companiesdeprive poor travelers, so that rich travelers may have the pleasure ofthinking that they have a monopoly of it). --Olivier did not sleep a wink:he was not sure that they were in the right train, and he looked out forthe name of every station. Antoinette slept lightly and woke up veryfrequently: the jolting of the train made her head bob. Olivier watched herby the light of the funereal lamp, which shone at the top of the movingsarcophagus: and he was suddenly struck by the change in her face. Her eyeswere hollow: her childish lips were half-open from sheer weariness: herskin was sallow, and there were little wrinkles on her cheeks, the marksof the sad years of sorrow and disillusion. She looked old and ill. --And, indeed, she was so tired! If she had dared she would have postponed theirjourney. But she did not like to spoil her brother's pleasure: she tried topersuade herself that she was only tired, and that the country would makeher well again. She was fearful lest she should fall ill on the way. --Shefelt that he was looking at her: and she suddenly flung off the drowsinessthat was creeping over her, and opened her eyes, --eyes still young, still clear and limpid, across which, from time to time, there passed aninvoluntary look of pain, like shadows on a little lake. He asked her ina whisper, anxiously and tenderly, how she was: she pressed his hand andassured him that she was well. A word of love revived her. 

Then, when the rosy dawn tinged the pale country between Dôle andPontarlier, the sight of the waking fields, and the gay sun rising from theearth, --the sun, who, like themselves, had escaped from the prison of thestreets, and the grimy houses, and the thick smoke of Paris:--the wavingfields wrapped in the light mist of their milk-white breath: the littlethings they passed: a little village belfry, a glimpse of a winding stream, a blue line of hills hovering on the far horizon: the tinkling, movingsound of the angelus borne from afar on the wind, when the train stoppedin the midst of the sleeping country: the solemn shapes of a herd of cowsbrowsing on a slope above the railway, --all absorbed Antoinette and herbrother, to whom it all seemed new. They were like parched trees, drinkingin ecstasy the rain from heaven. 

Then, in the early morning, they reached the Swiss Customs, where they hadto get out. A little station in a bare country-side. They were almost wornout by their sleepless night, and the cold, dewy freshness of the dawn madethem shiver: but it was calm, and the sky was clear, and the fragrant airof the fields was about them, upon their lips, on their tongues, down theirthroats, flowing down into their lungs like a cooling stream: and theystood by a table, out in the open air, and drank comforting hot coffee withcreamy milk, heavenly sweet, and tasting of the grass and the flowers ofthe fields. 

They climbed up into the Swiss carriage, the novel arrangement of whichgave them a childish pleasure. But Antoinette was so tired! She could notunderstand why she should feel so ill. Why was everything about her sobeautiful, so absorbing, when she could take so little pleasure in it?Was it not all just what she had been dreaming for years: a journey withher brother, with all anxiety for the future left behind, dear motherNature?. . . What was the matter with her? She was annoyed with herself, andforced herself to admire and share her brother's naïve delight. 

They stopped at Thun. They were to go up into the mountains next day. Butthat night in the hotel, Antoinette was stricken with a fever, and violentillness, and pains in her head. Olivier was at his wits' ends, and spent anight of frightful anxiety. He had to send for a doctor in the morning--(anunforeseen expense which was no light tax on their slender purse). --Thedoctor could find nothing immediately serious, but said that she was rundown, and that her constitution was undermined. There could be no questionof their going on. The doctor forbade Antoinette to get up all day; andhe thought they would perhaps have to stay at Thun for some time. Theywere very downcast--though very glad to have got off so cheaply after alltheir fears. But it was hard to have come so far to be shut up in a nastyhotel-room into which the sunlight poured so that it was like a hothouse. Antoinette insisted on her brother going out. He went a few yards from thehotel, saw the beautiful green Aar, and, hovering in the distance againstthe sky, a white peak: he bubbled over with joy: but he could not keep itto himself. He rushed back to his sister's room, and told her excitedlywhat he had just seen: and when she expressed her surprise at his comingback so soon and made him promise to go out again, he said, as once beforehe had said when he came back from the _Châtelet_ concert:

"No, no. It is too beautiful: it hurts me to see it without you. "

That feeling was not new to them: they knew that they had to be together toenjoy anything wholly. But they always loved to hear it said. His tenderwords did Antoinette more good than any medicine. She smiled now, languidly, happily. --And after a good night, although it was not very wiseto go on so soon, she decided that they would get away very early, withouttelling the doctor, who would only want to keep them back. The pure air andthe joy of seeing so much beauty made her stronger, so that she did nothave to pay for her rashness, and without any further misadventure theyreached the end of their journey--a mountain village, high above the lake, some distance away from Spiez. 

There they spent three or four weeks in a little hotel. Antoinette did nothave any further attack of fever, but she never got really well. She stillfelt a heaviness, an intolerable weight, in her head, and she was alwaysunwell. Olivier often asked her about her health: he longed to see hergrow less pale: but he was intoxicated by the beauty of the country, andinstinctively avoided all melancholy thoughts: when she assured him thatshe was really quite well, he tried to believe that it was true, --althoughhe knew perfectly well that it was not so. And she enjoyed to the full herbrother's exuberance and the fine air, and the all-pervading peace. Howgood it was to rest at last after those terrible years!

Olivier tried to induce her to go for walks with him: she would have beenhappy to join him: but on several occasions when she had bravely set out, she had been forced to stop after twenty minutes, to regain her breath, andrest her heart. So he went out alone, --climbing the safe peaks, though theyfilled her with terror until he came home again. Or they would go forlittle walks together: she would lean on his arm, and walk slowly, and theywould talk, and he would suddenly begin to chatter, and laugh, and discusshis plans, and make quips and jests. From the road on the hillside abovethe valley they would watch the white clouds reflected in the still lake, and the boats moving like insects on the surface of a pond: they woulddrink in the warm air and the music of the goat-bells, borne on the gustywind, and the smell of the new-mown hay and the warm resin. And they woulddream together of the past and the future, and the present which seemed tothem to be the most unreal and intoxicating of dreams. Sometimes Antoinettewould be infected with her brother's jolly childlike humor: they wouldchase each other and roll about on the grass. And one day he saw herlaughing as she used to do when they were children, madly, carelessly, laughter clear and bubbling as a spring, such as he had not heard for manyyears. 

But, most often, Olivier could not resist the pleasure of going for longwalks. He would be sorry for it at once, and later he had bitterly toregret that he had not made enough of those dear days with his sister. Evenin the hotel he would often leave her alone. There was a party of youngmen and girls in the hotel, from whom they had at first kept apart. ThenOlivier was attracted by them, and shyly joined their circle. He had beenstarved of friendship: outside his sister he had hardly known any one buthis rough schoolfellows and their girls, who repelled him. It was verysweet to him to be among well-mannered, charming, merry boys and girls ofhis own age. Although he was very shy, he was naïvely curious, sentimental, and affectionate, and easily bewitched by the little burning, flickeringfires that shine in a woman's eyes. And in spite of his shyness, womenliked him. His frank longing to love and be loved gave him, unknown tohimself, a youthful charm, and made him find words and gestures andaffectionate little attentions, the very awkwardness of which made them allthe more attractive. He had the gift of sympathy. Although in his isolationhis intelligence had taken on an ironical tinge which made him see thevulgarity of people and their defects which he often loathed, --yet intheir presence he saw nothing but their eyes, in which he would see theexpression of a living being, who one day would die, a being who had onlyone life, even as he, and, even as he, would lose it all too soon, then ofthat creature he would involuntarily be fond: in that moment nothing in theworld could make him do anything to hurt: whether he liked it or not, hehad to be kind and amiable. He was weak: and, in being so, he was sure toplease the "world" which pardons every vice, and even every virtue, --exceptone: force, on which all the rest depend. 

Antoinette did not join them. Her health, her tiredness, her apparentlycauseless moral collapse, paralyzed her. Through the long years of anxietyand ceaseless toil, exhausting body and soul, the positions of the brotherand sister had been inverted: now it was she who felt far removed from theworld, far from everything and everybody, so far!. . . She could not breakdown the wall between them: all their chatter, their noise, their laughter, their little interests, bored her, wearied her, almost hurt her. It hurther to be so: she would have loved to go with the other girls, to sharetheir interests and laugh with them . . . But she could not!. . . Her heartached; she seemed to be as one dead. In the evening she would shut herselfup in her room; and often she would not even turn on the light: she wouldsit there in the dark, while downstairs Olivier would be amusing himself, surrendering to the current of one of those romantic little love affairs towhich he so easily succumbed. She would only shake off her torpor when sheheard him coming upstairs, laughing and talking to the girls, hanging aboutsaying good-night outside their rooms, being unable to tear himself away. Then in the darkness Antoinette would smile, and get up to turn on thelight. The sound of her brother's laughter revived her. 

Autumn was setting in. The sun was dying down. Nature was a-weary. Underthe thick mists and clouds of October the colors were fading fast; snowfell on the mountains: mists descended upon the plains. The visitors wentaway one by one, and then several at a time. And it was sad to see even thefriends of a little while going away, but sadder still to see the passingof the summer, the time of peace and happiness which had been an oasis intheir lives. They went for a last walk together, on a cloudy autumn day, through the forest on the mountain-side. They did not speak: they musedsadly, as they walked along with the collars of their cloaks turned up, clinging close together: their hands were locked. There was silence in thewet woods, and in silence the trees wept. From the depths there came thesweet plaintive cry of a solitary bird who felt the coming of winter. Through the mist came the clear tinkling of the goat-bells, far away, sofaint they could hardly hear it, so faint it was as though it came up fromtheir inmost hearts. . . . 

They returned to Paris. They were both sad. Antoinette was no better. 

 * * * * *

They had to set to work to prepare Olivier's wardrobe for the _École_. Antoinette spent the last of her little store of money, and even sold someof her jewels. What did it matter? He would repay her later on. And then, she would need so little when he was gone from her!. . . She tried not tothink of what it would be like when he was gone: she worked away at hisclothes, and put into the work all the tenderness she had for her brother, and she had a presentiment that it would be the last thing she would do forhim. 

During the last days together they were never apart: they were fearful ofwasting the tiniest moment. On their last evening they sat up very late bythe fireside, Antoinette occupying the only armchair, and Olivier a stoolat her feet, and she made a fuss of him like the spoiled child he was. Hewas dreading--though he was curious about it, too--the new life upon whichhe was to enter. Antoinette thought only that it was the end of their dearlife together, and wondered fearfully what would become of her. As thoughhe were trying to make the thought even more bitter for her, he was moretender than ever he had been, with the innocent instinctive coquetry ofthose who always wait until they are just going to show themselves at theirbest and most charming. He went to the piano and played her their favoritepassages from Mozart and Gluck--those visions of tender happiness andserene sorrow with which so much of their past life was bound up. 

When the time came for them to part, Antoinette accompanied Olivier as faras the gates of the _École_. Then she returned. Once more she was alone. But now it was not, as when she had gone away to Germany, a separationwhich she could bring to an end at will when she could bear it no longerHow it was she who remained behind, he who went away: it was he who hadgone away, for a long, long time--perhaps for life. And yet her love forhim was so maternal that at first she thought less of herself than of him:she thought only of how different the first few days would be for him, ofthe strict rules of the _École_, and was preoccupied with those harmlesslittle worries which so easily assume alarming proportions in the minds ofpeople who live alone and are always tormenting themselves about those whomthey love. Her anxiety did at least have this advantage, that it distractedher thoughts from her own loneliness. She had already begun to think of thehalf-hour when she would be able to see him next day in the visitors' room. She arrived a quarter of an hour too soon. He was very nice to her, but hewas altogether taken up with all the new things he had seen. And during thefollowing days, when she went to see him, full of the most tender anxiety, the contrast between what those meetings meant for her and what they meantfor him was more and more marked. For her they were her whole life. ForOlivier--no doubt he loved Antoinette dearly: but it was too much to expecthim to think only of her, as she thought of him. Once or twice he came downlate to the visitors' room. One day, when she asked him if he were at allunhappy, he said that he was nothing of the kind. Such little things asthat stabbed Antoinette to the heart. --She was angry with herself for beingso sensitive, and accused herself of selfishness: she knew quite well thatit would be absurd, even wrong and unnatural, for him to be unable to dowithout her, and for her to be unable to do without him, and to have noother object in life. Yes: she knew all that. But what was the good of herknowing it? She could not help it if for the past ten years her whole lifehad been bound up in that one idea: her brother. Now that the one interestof her life had been torn from her, she had nothing left. 

She tried bravely to keep herself occupied and to take up her music andread her beloved books . . . But alas! how empty were Shakespeare andBeethoven without Olivier!

. . . --Yes: no doubt they were beautiful. . . . But Olivier was not there. Whatis the good of beautiful things if the eyes of the beloved are not there tosee them? What is the use of beauty, what is the use even of joy, if theycannot be won through the heart of the beloved?

If she had been stronger she would have tried to build up her life anew, and give it another object. But she was at the end of her tether. Now thatthere was nothing to force her to hold on, at all costs, the effort of willto which she had subjected herself snapped: she collapsed. The illness, which had been gaining grip on her for over a year, during which she hadfought it down by force of will, was now left to take its course. 

She spent her evenings alone in her room, by the spent fire, a prey to herthoughts: she had neither the courage to light the fire again, nor thestrength to go to bed: she would sit there far into the night, dozing, dreaming, shivering. She would live through her life again, and summon upthe beloved dead and her lost illusions: and she would be terribly sad atthe thought of her lost youth, without love or hope of love. A dumb, achingsorrow, obscure, unconfessed . . . A child laughed in the street: its littlefeet pattered up to the floor below . . . Its little feet trampled on herheart . . . She would be beset with doubts and evil thoughts; her soul inits weakness would be contaminated by the soul of that city of selfishpleasure. --She would fight down her regrets, and burn with shame at certainlongings which she thought, evil and wicked: she could not understand whatit was that hurt her so, and attributed it to her evil instincts. Poorlittle Ophelia, devoured by a mysterious evil, she felt with horror darkand uneasy desires mounting from the depths of her being, from the very pitof life. She could not work, and she had given up most of her pupils: she, who was so plucky, and had always risen so early, now lay in bed sometimesuntil the afternoon: she had no more reason for getting up than for goingto bed: she ate little or nothing. Only on her brother's holidays--Thursdayafternoons and Sundays--she would make an effort to be her old self withhim. 

He saw nothing. He was too much taken up with his new life to notice hissister much. He was at that period of boyhood when it was difficult forhim to be communicative, and he always seemed to be indifferent to thingsoutside himself which would only be his concern in later days. --People ofriper years sometimes seem to be more open to impressions, and to take asimpler delight in life and Nature, than young people between twenty andthirty. And so it is often said that young people are not so young inheart as they were, and have lost all sense of enjoyment. That is often amistaken idea. It is not because they have no sense of enjoyment that theyseem less sensitive. It is because their whole being is often absorbed bypassion, ambition, desire, some fixed idea. When the body is worn and hasno more to expect from life, then the emotions become disinterested andfall into their place; and then once more the source of childish tears isreopened. --Olivier was preoccupied with a thousand little things, the mostoutstanding of which was an absurd little passion, --(he was always a victimto them), --which so obsessed him as to make him blind and indifferentto everything else. --Antoinette did not know what was happening to herbrother: she only saw that he was drawing away from her. That was notaltogether Olivier's fault. Sometimes when he came he would be glad to seeher and start talking. He would come in. Then all of a sudden he would dryup. Her affectionate anxiety, the eagerness with which she clung to him, and drank in his words, and overwhelmed him with little attentions, --allher excess of tenderness and querulous devotion would deprive him utterlyof any desire to be warm and open with her. He might have seen thatAntoinette was not in a normal condition. Nothing could be farther from herusual tact and discretion. But he never gave a thought to it. He wouldreply to her questions with a curt "Yes" or "No. " He would grow more stiffand surly, the more she tried to win him over: sometimes even he would hurther by some brusque reply. Then she would be crushed and silent. Their daytogether would slip by, wasted. But hardly had he set foot outside thehouse on his way back to the _École_ than he would be heartily ashamed ofhis treatment of her. He would torture himself all night as he lay awakethinking of the pain he had caused her. Sometimes even, as soon as hereached the _École_, he would write an effusive letter to his sister. --Butnext morning, when he read it through, he would tear it up. And Antoinettewould know nothing at all about it. She would go on thinking that he hadceased to love her. 

 * * * * *

She had--if not one last joy--one last flutter of tenderness and youth, when her heart beat strongly once more; one last awakening of love in her, and hope of happiness, hope of life. It was quite ridiculous, so utterlyunlike her tranquil nature! It could never have been but for her abnormalcondition, the state of fear and over-excitement which was the precursor ofillness. 

She went to a concert at the _Châtelet_ with her brother. As he had justbeen appointed musical critic to a little Review, they were in betterplaces than those they occupied in old days, but the people among whom theysat were much more apathetic. They had stalls near the stage. ChristopheKrafft was to play. Neither of them had ever heard of the German musician. When she saw him come on, the blood rushed to her heart. Although her tiredeyes could only see him through a mist, she had no doubt when he appeared:he was the unknown young man of her unhappy days in Germany. She hadnever mentioned him to her brother: and she had hardly even admitted hisexistence to her thoughts: she had been entirely absorbed by the anxietiesof her life since then. Besides, she was a reasonable little Frenchwoman, and refused to admit the existence of an obscure feeling which she couldnot trace to its source, while it seemed to lead nowhere. There was in hera whole region of the soul, of unsuspected depths, wherein there slept manyother feelings which she would have been ashamed to behold: she knew thatthey were there: but she looked away from them in a sort of religiousterror of that Being within herself which lies beyond the mind's control. 

When she had recovered a little, she borrowed her brothers glasses to lookat Christophe: she saw him in profile at the conductor's stand, and sherecognized his expression of forceful concentration. He was wearing ashabby old coat which fitted him very badly. --Antoinette sat in silentagony through the vagaries of that lamentable concert when Christophejoined issue with the unconcealed hostility of his audience, who wereat the time ill-disposed towards German artists, and actively boredby his music. And when he appeared, after a symphony which had seemedunconscionably long, to play some piano music, he was received withcat-calls which left no room for doubt as to their displeasure at having toput up with him again. However, he began to play in the face of the boredresignation of his audience: but the uncomplimentary remarks exchanged in aloud voice by two men in the gallery went on, to the great delight of therest of the audience. Then he broke off: and in a childish fit of temperhe played _Malbrouck s'en va t'en guerre_ with one finger, got up from thepiano, faced the audience, and said:

"That is all you are fit for. "

The audience were for a moment so taken aback that they did not quite takein what the musician meant. Then there was an outburst of angry protests. Followed a terrible uproar. They hissed and shouted:

"Apologize! Make him apologize!"

They were all red in the face with anger, and they blew out theirfury--tried to persuade themselves that they were really enraged: asperhaps they were, but the chief thing was that they were delighted tohave a chance of making a row, and letting themselves go: they were likeschoolboys after a few hours in school. 

Antoinette could not move: she was petrified: she sat still tugging atone of her gloves. Ever since the last bars of the symphony she had had agrowing presentiment of what would happen: she felt the blind hostilityof the audience, felt it growing: she read Christophe's thoughts, and shewas sure he would not go through to the end without an explosion: she satwaiting for the explosion while agony grew in her: she stretched everynerve to try to prevent it; and when at last it came, it was so exactlywhat she had foreseen that she was overwhelmed by it, as by some fatalcatastrophe against which there was nothing to be done. And as she gazedat Christophe, who was staring insolently at the howling audience, theireyes met. Christophe's eyes recognized her, greeted her, for the space ofperhaps a second: but he was in such a state of excitement that his minddid not recognize her (he had not thought of her for long enough). Hedisappeared while the audience yelled and hissed. 

She longed to cry out: to say or do something: but she was bound hand andfoot, and could not stir; it was like a nightmare. It was some comfort toher to hear her brother at her side, and to know that, without having anyidea of what was happening to her, he had shared her agony and indignation. Olivier was a thorough musician, and he had an independence of tastewhich nothing could encroach upon: when he liked a thing, he would havemaintained his liking in the face of the whole world. With the very firstbars of the symphony, he had felt that he was in the presence of somethingbig, something the like of which he had never in his life come across. Hewent on muttering to himself with heartfelt enthusiasm:

"That's fine! That's beautiful! Beautiful!" while his sister instinctivelypressed close to him, gratefully. After the symphony he applauded loudly byway of protest against the ironic indifference of the rest of the audience. When it came to the great fiasco, he was beside himself: he stood up, shouted that Christophe was right, abused the booers, and offered to fightthem: it was impossible to recognize the timid Olivier. His voice wasdrowned in the uproar: he was told to shut up: he was called a "snottylittle kid, " and told to go to bed. Antoinette saw the futility of standingup to them, and took his arm and said:

"Stop! Stop! I implore you! Stop!"

He sat down in despair, and went on muttering:

"It's shameful! Shameful! The swine!. . . "

She said nothing and bore her suffering in silence: he thought she wasinsensible to the music, and said:

"Antoinette, don't _you_ think it beautiful?"

She nodded. She was frozen, and could not recover herself. But when theorchestra began another piece, she suddenly got up, and whispered to herbrother in a tone of savage hatred:

"Come, come! I can't bear the sight of these people!"

They hurried out. They walked along arm-in-arm, and Olivier went on talkingexcitedly. Antoinette said nothing. 

 * * * * *

All that day and the days following she sat alone in her room, and afeeling crept over her which at first she refused to face: but then it wenton and took possession of her thoughts, like the furious throbbing of theblood in her aching temples. 

Some time afterwards Olivier brought her Christophe's collection of songs, which he had just found at a publisher's. She opened it at random. Onthe first page on which her eyes fell she read in front of a song thisdedication in German:

"_To my poor dear little victim_, " together with a date. 

She knew the date well. --She was so upset that she could read no farther. She put the book down and asked her brother to play, and went and shutherself up in her room. Olivier, full of his delight in the new music, began to play without remarking his sister's emotion. Antoinette sat in theadjoining room, striving to repress the beating of her heart. Suddenly shegot up and looked through a cupboard for a little account-book in which waswritten the date of her departure from Germany, and the mysterious date. She knew it already: yes, it was the evening of the performance at thetheater to which she had been with Christophe. She lay down on her bed andclosed her eyes, blushing, with her hands folded on her breast, while shelistened to the dear music. Her heart was overflowing with gratitude . . . Ah! Why did her head hurt her so?

When Olivier saw that his sister had not come back, he went into her roomafter he had done playing, and found her lying there. He asked her if shewere ill. She said she was rather tired, and got up to keep him company. They talked: but she did not answer his questions at once: her thoughtsseemed to be far away: she smiled, and blushed, and said, by way of excuse, that her headache was making her stupid. At last Olivier went away. She hadasked him to leave the book of songs. She sat up late reading them at thepiano, without playing, just lightly touching a note here and there, forfear of annoying her neighbors. But for the most part she did not evenread: she sat dreaming: she was carried away by a feeling of tenderness andgratitude towards the man who had pitied her, and had read her mind andsoul with the mysterious intuition of true kindness. She could not fix herthoughts. She was happy and sad--sad!. . . Ah! How her head ached!

She spent the night in sweet and painful dreams, a crushing melancholy. During the day she tried to go out for a little to shake off herdrowsiness. Although her head was still aching, to give herself somethingto do, she went and made a few purchases at a great shop. She hardly gavea thought to what she was doing. Her thoughts were always with Christophe, though she did not admit it to herself. As she came out, worried andmortally sad, through the crowd of people she saw Christophe go by onthe other side of the street. He saw her, too, at the same moment. Atonce, --(suddenly and without thinking), she held out her hands towardshim. Christophe stopped: this time he recognized her. He sprang forwardto cross the road to Antoinette: and Antoinette tried to go to meet him. But the insensate current of the passing throng carried her along likea windlestraw, while the horse of an omnibus, falling on the slipperyasphalt, made a sort of dyke in front of Christophe, by which the opposingstreams of carriages were dammed, so that for a few moments there was animpassable barrier. Christophe tried to force his way through in spite ofeverything: but he was trapped in the middle of the traffic, and could notmove either way. When at last he did extricate himself and managed to reachthe place where he had seen Antoinette, she was gone: she had struggledvainly against the human torrent that carried her along: then she yieldedto it--gave up the struggle. She felt that she was dogged by some fatalitywhich forbade the possibility of her ever meeting Christophe: against Fatethere was nothing to be done. And when she did succeed in escaping from thecrowd, she made no attempt to go back: she was suddenly ashamed: what couldshe dare to say to him? What had she done? What must he have thought ofher? She fled away home. 

She did not regain assurance until she reached her room. Then she sat bythe table in the dark, and had not even the strength to take off her hat orher gloves. She was miserable at having been unable to speak to him: and atthe same time there glowed a new light in her heart: she was unconscious ofthe darkness, and unconscious of the illness that was upon her. She went onand on turning over and over every detail of the scene in the street: andshe changed it about and imagined what would have happened if certainthings had turned out differently. She saw herself holding out her arms toChristophe, and Christophe's expression of joy as he recognized her, andshe laughed and blushed. She blushed: and then in the darkness of her room, where there was no one to see her, and she could hardly see herself, oncemore she held out her arms to him. Her need was too strong for her: shefelt that she was losing ground, and instinctively she sought to clutch atthe strong vivid life that passed so near her, and gazed so kindly at her. Her heart was full of tenderness and anguish, and through the night shecried:

"Help me! Save me!"

All in a fever she got up and lit the lamp, and took pen and paper. Shewrote to Christophe. Her illness was full upon her, or she would never evenhave thought of writing to him, so proud she was and timid. She did notknow what she wrote. She was no longer mistress of herself. She called tohim, and told him that she loved him . . . In the middle of her letter shestopped, appalled. She tried to write it all over again: but her impulsewas gone: her mind was a blank, and her head was aching: she had a horribledifficulty in finding words: she was utterly worn out. She was ashamed . . . What was the good of it all? She knew perfectly well that she was trying totrick herself, and that she would never send the letter . . . Even if she hadwished to do so, how could she? She did not know Christophe's address . . . Poor Christophe! And what could he do for her? Even if he knew all and werekind to her, what could he do?. . . It was too late! No, no: it was all invain, the last dying struggle of a bird, blindly, desperately beating itswings. She must be resigned to it. . . . 

So for a long time she sat there by the table, lost in thought, unableto move hand or foot. It was past midnight when she struggled to herfeet--bravely. Mechanically she placed the loose sheets of her letter inone of her few books, for she had the strength neither to put them in ordernor to tear them up. Then she went to bed, shivering and shaking withfever. The key to the riddle lay near at hand: she felt that the will ofGod was to be fulfilled. --And a great peace came upon her. 

On Sunday morning when Olivier came he found Antoinette in bed, delirious. A doctor was called in. He said it was acute consumption. 

Antoinette had known how serious her condition was: she had discovered thecause of the moral turmoil in herself which had so alarmed her. She hadbeen dreadfully ashamed, and it was some consolation to her to think thatnot she herself but her illness was the cause of it. She had managed totake a few precautions and to burn her papers and to write a letter toMadame Nathan: she appealed to her kindness to look after her brotherduring the first few weeks after her "death"--(she dared not write theword). . . . 

The doctor could do nothing: the disease was too far gone, and Antoinette'sconstitution had been wrecked by the years of hardship and unceasing toil. 

Antoinette was quite calm. Since she had known that there was no hope heragony and torment had left her. She lay turning over in her mind all thetrials and tribulations through which she had passed: she saw that her workwas done and her dear Olivier saved: and she was filled with unutterablejoy. She said to herself:

"I have achieved that. "

And then she turned in shame from her pride and said:

"I could have done nothing alone. God has given me His aid. "

And she thanked God that He had granted her life until she had accomplishedher task. There was a catch at her heart as she thought that now she had tolay down her life: but she dared not complain: that would have been to feelingratitude towards God, who might have called her away sooner. And whatwould have happened if she had passed away a year sooner?--She sighed, andhumbled herself in gratitude. 

In spite of her weakness and oppression she did not complain, --except whenshe was sleeping heavily, when every now and then she moaned like a littlechild. She watched things and people with a calm smile of resignation. Itwas always a joy to her to see Olivier. She would move her lips to callhim, though she made no sound: she would want to hold his hand in hers: shewould bid him lay his head on the pillow near hers, and then, gazing intohis eyes, she would go on looking at him in silence. At last she wouldraise herself up and hold his face in her hands and say:

"Ah! Olivier!. . . Olivier!. . . "

She took the medal that she wore round her neck, and hung it on herbrother's. She commended her beloved Olivier to the care of her confessor, her doctor, everybody. It seemed as though she was to live henceforth inhim, that, on the point of death, she was taking refuge in his life, asupon some island in uncharted seas. Sometimes she seemed to be uplifted bya mystic exaltation of tenderness and faith, and she forgot her illness, and sadness changed to joy in her, --a joy divine indeed that shone upon herlips and in her eyes. Over and over again she said:

"I am happy. . . . "

Her senses grew dim. In her last moments of consciousness her lips movedand it seemed that she was repeating something to herself. Olivier went toher bedside and bent down over her. She recognized him once more and smiledfeebly up at him: her lips went on moving and her eyes were filled withtears. They could not make out what she was trying to say. . . . But faintlyOlivier heard her breathe the words of the dear old song they used to loveso much, the song she was always singing:

"_I will come again, my sweet and bonny, I will come again. _"

Then she relapsed into unconsciousness. So she passed away. 

 * * * * *

Unconsciously she had aroused a profound sympathy in many people whom shedid not even know: in the house in which she lived she did not even knowthe names of the other tenants. Olivier received expressions of sympathyfrom people who were strangers to him. Antoinette was not taken to hergrave unattended as her mother had been. Her body was followed to thecemetery by friends and schoolfellows of her brother, and members of thefamilies whose children she had taught, and people whom she had met withoutsaying a word of her own life or hearing a word from them, though theyadmired her secretly, knowing her devotion, and many of the poor, and thehousekeeper who had helped her, and even many of the small tradesmen of theneighborhood. Madame Nathan had taken Olivier under her wing on the day ofhis sister's death, and she had carried him off in spite of himself, anddone her best to turn his thoughts away from his grief. 

If it had come later in his life he could never have borne up against sucha catastrophe, --but now it was impossible for him to succumb absolutely tohis despair. He had just begun a new life; he was living in a community, and had to live the common life whatever he might be feeling. The full busylife of the _École_, the intellectual pressure, the examinations, thestruggle for life, all kept him from withdrawing into himself: he could notbe alone. He suffered, but it proved his salvation. A year earlier, or afew years earlier, he must have succumbed. 

And yet he did as far as possible retire into isolation in the memory ofhis sister. It was a great sorrow to him that he could not keep the roomswhere they had lived together: but he had no money. He hoped that thepeople who seemed to be interested in him would understand his distress atnot being able to keep the things that had been hers. But nobody seemedto understand. He borrowed some money and made a little more by privatetuition and took an attic in which he stored all that he could preserveof his sister's furniture: her bed, her table, and her armchair. He madeit the sanctuary of her memory. He took refuge there whenever he wasdepressed. His friends thought he was carrying on an intrigue. He wouldstay there for hours dreaming of her with his face buried in his hands:unhappily he had no portrait of her except a little photograph, taken whenshe was a child, of the two of them together. He would talk to her andweep . . . Where was she? Ah! if she had been at the other end of the world, wherever she might be and however inaccessible the spot, --with what greatjoy and invincible ardor he would have rushed forth in search of her, though a thousand sufferings lay in wait for him, though he had to gobarefoot, though he had to wander for hundreds of years, if only it mightbe that every step would bring him nearer to her!. . . Yes, even though therewere only one chance in a thousand of his ever finding her . . . But therewas nothing . . . Nowhere to go . . . No way of ever finding her again . . . Howutterly lonely he was now! Now that she was no longer there to love andcounsel and console him, inexperienced and childish as he was, he wasflung into the waters of life, to sink or swim!. . . He who has once had thehappiness of perfect intimacy and boundless friendship with another humanbeing has known the divinest of all joys, --a joy that will make himmiserable for the remainder of his life. . . . 

_Nessun maggior dolore che ricordarsi del tempo felice nella miseria_. . . . 

For a weak and tender soul it is the greatest of misfortunes ever to haveknown the greatest happiness. 

But though it is sad indeed to lose the beloved at the beginning of life, it is even more terrible later on when the springs of life are running dry. Olivier was young: and, in spite of his inborn pessimism, in spite of hismisfortune, he had to live his life. As often seems to happen after theloss of those dear to us, it was as though when Antoinette passed away shehad breathed part of her soul into her brother's life. And he believed itwas so. Though he had not such faith as hers, yet he did arrive at a vagueconviction that his sister was not dead, but lived on in him, as she hadpromised. There is a Breton superstition that those who die young are notdead, but stay and hover over the places where they lived until they havefulfilled the normal span of their existence. --So Antoinette lived out herlife in Olivier. 

He read through the papers he had found in her room. Unhappily she hadburned most of them. Besides, she was not the sort of woman to keep notesand tallies of her inner life. She was too modest to uncloak her inmostthoughts in morbid babbling indiscretion. She only kept a little notebookwhich was almost unintelligible to anybody else--a bare record in which shehad written down without remark certain dates, and certain small events inher daily life, which had given her joys and emotions, which she had noneed to write down in detail to keep alive. Almost all these dates wereconnected with some event in Olivier's life. She had kept every letterhe had ever written to her, without exception. --Alas! He had not been socareful: he had lost almost all the letters she had written to him. Whatneed had he of letters? He thought he would have his sister always withhim: that dear fount of tenderness seemed inexhaustible: he thought that hewould always be able to quench his thirst of lips and heart at it: he hadmost prodigally squandered the love he had received, and now he was eagerto gather up the smallest drops. . . . What was his emotion when, as heskimmed through one of Antoinette's books, he found these words written inpencil on a scrap of paper:

"Olivier, my dear Olivier!. . . "

He almost swooned. He sobbed and kissed the invisible lips that so spoketo him from the grave. --Thereafter he took down all her books and huntedthrough them page by page to see if she had not left some other words ofhim. He found the fragment of the letter to Christophe, and discovered theunspoken romance which had sprung to life in her: so for the first time hehapped upon her emotional life, that he had never known in her and nevertried to know: he lived through the last passionate days, when, desertedby himself, she had held out her arms to the unknown friend. She hadnever told him that she had seen Christophe before. Certain words in herletter revealed the fact that they had met in Germany. He understood thatChristophe had been kind to Antoinette, in circumstances the details ofwhich were unknown to him, and that Antoinette's feeling for the musiciandated from that day, though she had kept her secret to the end. 

Christophe, whom he loved already for the beauty of his art, now becameunutterably dear to him. She had loved him: it seemed to Olivier that itwas she whom he loved in Christophe. He moved heaven and earth to meet him. It was not an easy matter to trace him. After his rebuff Christophe hadbeen lost in the wilderness of Paris: he had shunned all society and noone gave a thought to him. --After many months it chanced that Olivier metChristophe in the street: he was pale and sunken from the illness fromwhich he had only just recovered. But Olivier had not the courage to stophim. He followed him home at a distance. He wanted to write to him, butcould not screw himself up to it. What was there to say? Olivier was notalone: Antoinette was with him: her love, her modesty had become a part ofhim: the thought that his sister had loved Christophe made him as bashfulin Christophe's presence as though he had been Antoinette. And yet how helonged to talk to him of her!--But he could not. Her secret was a seal uponhis lips. 

He tried to meet Christophe again. He went everywhere where he thoughtChristophe might be. He was longing to shake hands with him. And when hesaw him he tried to hide so that Christophe should not see him. 

 * * * * *

At last Christophe saw him at the house of some mutual friends where theyboth happened to be one evening. Olivier stood far away from him and saidnothing: but he watched him. And no doubt the spirit of Antoinette washovering near Olivier that night: for Christophe saw her in Olivier's eyes:and it was her image, so suddenly evoked, that made him cross the room andgo towards the unknown messenger, who, like a young Hermes, brought him themelancholy greeting of the blessed dead. 

THE HOUSE

I

I have a friend!. . . Oh! The delight of having found a kindred soul to whichto cling in the midst of torment, a tender and sure refuge in which tobreathe again while the fluttering heart beats slower! No longer to bealone, no longer never to unarm, no longer to stay on guard with straining, burning eyes, until from sheer fatigue he should fall into the hands of hisenemies! To have a dear companion into whose hands all his life should bedelivered--the friend whose life was delivered into his! At last to tastethe sweetness of repose, to sleep while the friend watches, watch while thefriend sleeps. To know the joy of protecting a beloved creature who shouldtrust in him like a little child. To know the greater joy of absolutesurrender to that friend, to feel that he is in possession of all secrets, and has power over life and death. Aging, worn out, weary of the burden oflife through so many years, to find new birth and fresh youth in the bodyof the friend, through his eyes to see the world renewed, through hissenses to catch the fleeting loveliness of all things by the way, throughhis heart to enjoy the splendor of living. . . . Even to suffer in hissuffering. . . . Ah! Even suffering is joy if it be shared!

I have a friend!. . . Away from me, near me, in me always. I have my friend, and I am his. My friend loves me. I am my friend's, the friend of myfriend. Of our two souls love has fashioned one. 

 * * * * *

Christophe's first thought, when he awoke the day after the Roussins'party, was for Olivier Jeannin. At once he felt an irresistible longing tosee him again. He got up and went out. It was not yet eight o'clock. It wasa heavy and rather oppressive morning. An April day before its time: stormyclouds were hovering over Paris. 

Olivier lived below the hill of Sainte-Geneviève, in a little streetnear the _Jardin des Plantes_. The house stood in the narrowest part ofthe street. The staircase led out of a dark yard, and was full of diversunpleasant smells. The stairs wound steeply up and sloped down towards thewall, which was disfigured with scribblings in pencil. On the third floor awoman, with gray hair hanging down, and in petticoat-bodice, gaping at theneck, opened the door when she heard footsteps on the stairs, and slammedit to when she saw Christophe. There were several flats on each landing, and through the ill-fitting doors Christophe could hear children rompingand squalling. The place was a swarming heap of dull base creatures, livingas it were on shelves, one above the other, in that low-storied house, built round a narrow, evil-smelling yard. Christophe was disgusted, andwondered what lusts and covetous desires could have drawn so many creaturesto this place, far from the fields, where at least there is air enough forall, and what it could profit them in the end to be in the city of Paris, where all their lives they were condemned to live in such a sepulcher. 

He reached Olivier's landing. A knotted piece of string was his bell-pull. Christophe tugged at it so mightily that at the noise several doors on thestaircase were half opened. Olivier came to the door. Christophe was struckby the careful simplicity of his dress: and the neatness of it, which atany other time would have been little to his liking, was in that place anagreeable surprise: in such an atmosphere of foulness there was somethingcharming and healthy about it. And at once he felt just as he had done thenight before when he gazed into Olivier's clear, honest eyes. He held outhis hand: but Olivier was overcome with shyness, and murmured:

"You. . . . You here!"

Christophe was engrossed in catching at the lovable quality of the man asit was revealed to him in that fleeting moment of embarrassment, and heonly smiled in answer. He moved forward and forced Olivier backward, andentered the one room in which he both slept and worked. An iron bedsteadstood against the wall near the window; Christophe noticed the pillowsheaped up on the bolster. There were three chairs, a black-painted table, asmall piano, bookshelves and books, and that was all. The room was cramped, low, ill-lighted: and yet there was in it a ray of the pure light thatshone in the eyes of its owner. Everything was clean and tidy, as thougha woman's hands had dealt with it: and a few roses in a vase broughtspring-time into the room, the walls of which were decorated withphotographs of old Florentine pictures. 

"So. . . . You. . . . You have come to see me?" said Olivier warmly. 

"Good Lord, I had to!" said Christophe. "You would never have come to me?"

"You think not?" replied Olivier. 

Then, quickly:

"Yes, you are right. But it would not be for want of thinking of it. "

"What would have stopped you?"

"Wanting to too much. "

"That's a fine reason!"

"Yes. Don't laugh. I was afraid you would not want it as much as I. "

"A lot that's worried me! I wanted to see you, and here I am. If it boresyou, I shall know at once. "

"You will have to have good eyes. "

They smiled at each other. 

Olivier went on:

"I was an ass last night. I was afraid I might have offended you. Myshyness is absolutely a disease: I can't get a word out. "

"I shouldn't worry about that. There are plenty of talkers in your country:one is only too glad to meet a man who is silent occasionally, even thoughit be only from shyness and in spite of himself. "

Christophe laughed and chuckled over his own gibe. 

"Then you have come to see me because I can be silent?"

"Yes. For your silence, the sort of silence that is yours. There are allsorts: and I like yours, and that's all there is to say. "

"But how could you sympathize with me? You hardly saw me. "

"That's my affair. It doesn't take me long to make up my mind. When I see aface that I like in the crowd, I know what to do: I go after it; I simplyhave to know the owner of it. "

"And don't you ever make mistakes when you go after them?"

"Often. "

"Perhaps you have made a mistake this time. "

"We shall see. "

"Ah! In that case I'm done! You terrify me. If I think you are watching me, I shall lose what little wits I have. "

With fond and eager curiosity Christophe watched the sensitive, mobileface, which blushed and went pale by turns. Emotion showed fleeting acrossit like the shadows of clouds on a lake. 

"What a nervous youngster it is!" he thought. "He is like a woman. "

He touched his knee. 

"Come, come!" he said. "Do you think I should come to you with weaponsconcealed about me? I have a horror of people who practise their psychologyon their friends. I only ask that we should both be open and sincere, andfrankly and without shame, and without being afraid of committing ourselvesfinally to anything or of any sort of contradiction, be true to what wefeel. I ask only the right to love now, and next minute, if needs must, tobe out of love. There's loyalty and manliness in that, isn't there?"

Olivier gazed at him with serious eyes, and replied:

"No doubt. It is the more manly part, and you are strong enough. But Idon't think I am. "

"I'm sure you are, " said Christophe; "but in a different way. And then, I've come just to help you to be strong, if you want to be so. For what Ihave just said gives me leave to go on and say, with more frankness than Ishould otherwise have had, that--without prejudice for to-morrow--I loveyou. "

Olivier blushed hotly. He was struck dumb with embarrassment, and could notspeak. 

Christophe glanced round the room. 

"It's a poor place you live in. Haven't you another room?"

"Only a lumber-room. "

"Ugh! I can't breathe. How do you manage to live here?"

"One does it somehow. "

"I couldn't--never. "

Christophe unbuttoned his waistcoat and took a long breath. 

Olivier went and opened the window wide. 

"You must be very unhappy in a town, M. Krafft. But there's no danger ofmy suffering from too much vitality. I breathe so little that I can liveanywhere. And yet there are nights in summer when even I am hard put to itto get through. I'm terrified when I see them coming. Then I stay sittingup in bed, and I'm almost stifled. "

Christophe looked at the heap of pillows on the bed, and from them toOlivier's worn face: and he could see him struggling there in the darkness. 

"Leave it, " he said. "Why do you stay?"

Olivier shrugged his shoulders and replied carelessly:

"It doesn't matter where I live. "

Heavy footsteps padded across the floor above them. In the room below ashrill argument was toward. And always, without ceasing, the walls wereshaken by the rumbling of the buses in the street. 

"And the house!" Christophe went on. "The house reeking of filth, the hotdirtiness of it all, the shameful poverty--how can you bring yourself tocome back to it night after night? Don't you lose heart with it all? Icouldn't live in it for a moment. I'd rather sleep under an arch. "

"Yes. I felt all that at first, and suffered. I was just as disgusted asyou are. When I went for walks as a boy, the mere sight of some of thecrowded dirty streets made me ill. They gave me all sorts of fantastichorrors, which I dared not speak of. I used to think: 'If there were anearthquake now, I should be dead, and stay here for ever and ever'; andthat seemed to me the most appalling thing that could happen. I neverthought that one day I should live in one of them of my own free-will, andthat in all probability I shall die there. And then it became easier to putup with: it had to. It still revolts me: but I try not to think of it. WhenI climb the stairs I close my eyes, and stop my ears, and hold my nose, andshut off all my senses and withdraw utterly into myself. And then, over theroof there, I can see the tops of the branches of an acacia. I sit here inthis corner so that I don't see anything else: and in the evening when thewind rustles through them I fancy that I am far away from Paris: and themighty roar of a forest has never seemed so sweet to me as the gentlemurmuring of those few frail leaves at certain moments. "

"Yes, " said Christophe. "I've no doubt that you are always dreaming; butit's all wrong to waste your fancy in such a struggle against the sordidthings of life, when you might be using it in the creation of other lives. "

"Isn't it the common lot? Don't you yourself waste energy in anger andbitter struggles?"

"That's not the same thing. It's natural to me: what I was born for. Lookat my arms and hands! Fighting is the breath of life to me. But you haven'tany too much strength: that's obvious. "

Olivier looked sadly down at his thin wrists, and said:

"Yes. I am weak: I always have been. But what can I do? One must live?"

"How do you make your living?"

"I teach. "

"Teach what?"

"Everything--Latin, Greek, history. I coach for degrees. And I lecture onMoral Philosophy at the Municipal School. "

"Lecture on what?"

"Moral Philosophy. "

"What in thunder is that? Do they teach morality in French schools?"

Olivier smiled:

"Of course. "

"Is there enough in it to keep you talking for ten minutes?"

"I have to lecture for twelve hours a week. "

"Do you teach them to do evil, then?"

"What do you mean?"

"There's no need for so much talk to find out what good is. "

"Or to leave it undiscovered either. "

"Good gracious, yes! Leave it undiscovered. There are worse ways of doinggood than knowing nothing about it. Good isn't a matter of knowledge: it'sa matter of action. It's only your neurasthenics who go haggling aboutmorality: and the first of all moral laws is not to be neurasthenic. Rottenpedants! They are like cripples teaching people how to walk. "

"But they don't do their talking for such as you. You _know_: but there areso many who do not know!"

"Well, let them crawl like children until they learn how to walk bythemselves. But whether they go on two legs or on all fours, the firstthing, the only thing you can ask is that they should walk somehow. "

He was prowling round and round and up and down the room, though less thanfour strides took him across it. He stopped in front of the piano, openedit, turned over the pages of some music, touched the keys, and said:

"Play me something. "

Olivier started. 

"I!" he said. "What an idea!"

"Madame Roussin told me you were a good musician. Come: play me something. "

"With you listening? Oh!" he said, "I should die. "

The sincerity and simplicity with which he spoke made Christophe laugh:Olivier, too, though rather bashfully. 

"Well, " said Christophe, "is that a reason for a Frenchman?"

Olivier still drew back. 

"But why? Why do you want me to?"

"I'll tell you presently. Play!"

"What?"

"Anything you like. "

Olivier sat down at the piano with a sigh, and, obedient to the imperiouswill of the friend who had sought him out, he began to play the beautiful_Adagio in B Minor_ of Mozart. At first his fingers trembled so that hecould hardly make them press down the keys: but he regained courage littleby little: and, while he thought he was but repeating Mozart's utterance, he unwittingly revealed his inmost heart. Music is an indiscreet confidant:it betrays the most secret thoughts of its lovers to those who love it. Through the godlike scheme of the _Adagio_ of Mozart Christophe couldperceive the invisible lines of the character, not of Mozart, but of hisnew friend sitting there by the piano: the serene melancholy, the timid, tender smile of the boy, so nervous, so pure, so full of love, so readyto blush. But he had hardly reached the end of the air, the topmost pointwhere the melody of sorrowful love ascends and snaps, when a suddenirrepressible feeling of shame and modesty overcame Olivier, so that hecould not go on: his fingers would not move, and his voice failed him. Hishands fell by his side, and he said:

"I can't play any more. . . . "

Christophe was standing behind him, and he stooped and reached over him andfinished the broken melody: then he said:

"Now I know the music of your soul. "

He held his hands, and stayed for a long time gazing into his face. At lasthe said:

"How queer it is!. . . I have seen you before. . . . I know you so well, and Ihave known you so long!. . . "

Olivier's lips trembled: he was on the point of speaking. But he saidnothing. 

Christophe went on gazing at him for a moment or two longer. Then he smiledand said no more, and went away. 

 * * * * *

He went down the stairs with his heart filled with joy. He passed two uglychildren going up, one with bread, the other with a bottle of oil. Hepinched their cheeks jovially. He smiled at the scowling porter. When hereached the street he walked along humming to himself until he came to theLuxembourg. He lay down on a seat in the shade, and closed his eyes. Theair was still and heavy: there were only a few passers-by. Very faintly hecould hear the irregular trickling of the fountain, and every now and thenthe scrunching of the gravel as footsteps passed him by. Christophe wasovercome with drowsiness, and he lay basking like a lizard in the sun: hisface had been out of the shadow of the trees for some time: but he couldnot bring himself to stir. His thoughts wound about and about: he madeno attempt to hold and fix them: they were all steeped in the light ofhappiness. The Luxembourg clock struck: he did not listen to it: but, amoment later, he thought it must have been striking twelve. He jumped upto realize that he had been lounging for a couple of hours, had missed anappointment with Hecht, and wasted the whole morning. He laughed, and wenthome whistling. He composed a _Rondo_ in canon on the cry of a peddler. Even sad melodies now took on the charm of the gladness that was in him. Ashe passed the laundry in his street, as usual, he glanced into the shop, and saw the little red-haired girl, with her dull complexion flushed withthe heat, and she was ironing with her thin arms bare to the shoulder andher bodice open at the neck: and, as usual, she ogled him brazenly: for thefirst time he was not irritated by her eyes meeting his. He laughed oncemore. When he reached his room he was free of all the obsessions from whichhe had suffered. He flung his hat, coat, and vest in different directions, and sat down to work with an all-conquering zest. He gathered together allhis scattered scraps of music, which were lying all over the room, but hismind was not in his work: he only read the script with his eyes: and a fewminutes later he fell back into the happy somnolence that had been upon himin the Luxembourg Gardens; his head buzzed, and he could not think. Twiceor thrice he became aware of his condition, and tried to shake it off: butin vain. He swore light-heartedly, got up, and dipped his head in a basinof cold water. That sobered him a little. He sat down at the table again, sat in silence, and smiled dreamily. He was wondering:

"What is the difference between that and love?"

Instinctively he had begun to think in whispers, as though he were ashamed. He shrugged his shoulders. 

"There are not two ways of loving. . . . Or, rather, yes, there are two ways:there is the way of those who love with every fiber of their being, and theway of those who only give to love a part of their superfluous energy. Godkeep me from such cowardice of heart!"

He stopped in his thought, from a sort of shame and dread of following itany farther. He sat for a long time smiling at his inward dreams. His heartsang through the silence:

_Du bist mein, und nun ist das Meine Meiner als jemals. . . _ ("Thou art mine, and now I am mine, more mine than I have ever been. . . . ")

He took a sheet of paper, and with tranquil ease wrote down the song thatwas in his heart. 

 * * * * *

They decided to take rooms together. Christophe wanted to take possessionat once without worrying about the waste of half a quarter. Olivier wasmore prudent, though not less ardent in their friendship, and thought itbetter to wait until their respective tenancies had expired. Christophecould not understand such parsimony. Like many people who have no money, henever worried about losing it. He imagined that Olivier was even worse offthan himself. One day when his friend's poverty had been brought home tohim he left him suddenly and returned a few hours later in triumph with afew francs which he had squeezed in advance out of Hecht. Olivier blushedand refused. Christophe was put out and made to throw them to an Italianwho was playing in the yard. Olivier withheld him. Christophe went away, apparently offended, but really furious with his own clumsiness to which heattributed Olivier's refusal. A letter from his friend brought balm to hiswounds. Olivier could write what he could not express by word of mouth:he could tell of his happiness in knowing him and how touched he was byChristophe's offer of assistance. Christophe replied with a crazy, wildletter, rather like those which he wrote when he was fifteen to his friendOtto: it was full of _Gemüth_ and blundering jokes: he made puns in Frenchand German, and even translated them into music. 

At last they went into their rooms. In the Montparnasse quarter, near the_Place Denfert_, on the fifth floor of an old house they had found a flatof three rooms and a kitchen, all very small, and looking on to a tinygarden inclosed by four high walls. From their windows they looked out overthe opposite wall, which was lower than the rest, on to one of those largeconvent gardens which are still to be found in Paris, hidden and unknown. Not a soul was to be seen in the deserted avenues. The old trees, tallerand more leafy than those in the Luxembourg Gardens, trembled in thesunlight: troops of birds sang: in the early dawn the blackbirds fluted, and then there came the riotously rhythmic chorus of the sparrows: andin summer in the evening the rapturous cries of the swifts cleaving theluminous air and skimming through the heavens. And at night, under themoon, like bubbles of air mounting to the surface of a pond, there cameup the pearly notes of the toads. Almost they might have forgotten thesurrounding presence of Paris but that the old house was perpetuallyshaken by the heavy vehicles rumbling by, as though the earth beneath wereshivering in a fever. 

One of the rooms was larger and finer than the rest, and there was astruggle between the friends as to who should not have it. They had to tossfor it: and Christophe, who had made the suggestion, contrived not to winwith a dexterity of which he found it hard to believe himself capable. 

 * * * * *

Then for the two of them there began a period of absolute happiness. Theirhappiness lay not in any one thing, but in all things at once: their everythought, their every act, were steeped in it, and it never left them for amoment. 

During this honeymoon of their friendship, the first days of deep andsilent rejoicing, known only to him "who in all the universe can callone soul his own" . . . _Ja, wer auch nur eine Seele sein nennt auf demErdenrund_. . . They hardly spoke to each other, they dared hardly breathe aword; it was enough for them to feel each other's nearness, to exchange alook, a word in token that their thoughts, after long periods of silence, still ran in the same channel. Without probing or inquiring, withouteven looking at each other, yet unceasingly they watched each other. Unconsciously the lover takes for model the soul of the beloved: sogreat is his desire to give no hurt, to be in all things as the beloved, that with mysterious and sudden intuition he marks the imp. . . Erceptiblemovements in the depths of his soul. One friend to another iscrystal-clear: they exchange entities. Their features are assimilated. Soulimitates soul, --until that day comes when deep-moving force, the spirit ofthe race, bursts his bonds and rends asunder the web of love in which he isheld captive. 

Christophe spoke in low tones, walked softly, tried hard to make nonoise in his room, which was next to that of the silent Olivier: hewas transfigured by his friendship: he had an expression of happiness, confidence, youth, such as he had never worn before. He adored Olivier. It would have been easy for the boy to abuse his power if he had not beenso timorous in feeling that it was a happiness undeserved: for he thoughthimself much inferior to Christophe, who in his turn was no less humble. This mutual humility, the product of their great love for each other, was an added joy. It was a pure delight--even with the consciousness ofunworthiness--for each to feel that he filled so great a room in the heartof his friend. Each to other they were tender and filled with gratitude. 

Olivier had mixed his books with Christophe's: they made no distinction. When he spoke of them he did not say "_my_ book, " but "_our_ book. " He keptback only a few things from the common stock: those which had belonged tohis sister or were bound up with her memory. With the quick perception oflove Christophe was not slow to notice this: but he did not know the reasonof it. He had never dared to ask Olivier about his family: he only knewthat Olivier had lost his parents: and to the somewhat proud reserve of hisaffection, which forbade his prying into his friend's secrets, there wasadded a fear of calling to life in him the sorrows of the past. Though hemight long to do so, yet he was strangely timid and never dared to lookclosely at the photographs on Olivier's desk, portraits of a lady and agentleman stiffly posed, and a little girl of twelve with a great spanielat her feet. 

A few months after they had taken up their quarters Olivier caught cold andhad to stay in bed. Christophe, who had become quite motherly, nursed himwith fond anxiety: and the doctor, who, on examining Olivier, had founda little inflammation at the top of the lungs, told Christophe to smearthe invalid's chest with tincture of iodine. As Christophe was gravelyacquitting himself of the task he saw a confirmation medal hanging fromOlivier's neck. He was familiar enough with Olivier to know that he waseven more emancipated in matters of religion than himself. He could notrefrain from showing his surprise. Olivier colored and said:

"It is a souvenir. My poor sister Antoinette was wearing it when she died. "

Christophe trembled. The name of Antoinette struck him like a flash oflightning. 

"Antoinette?" he said. 

"My sister, " said Olivier. 

Christophe repeated:

"Antoinette . . . Antoinette Jeannin. . . . She was your sister?. . . But, " hesaid, as he looked at the photograph on the desk, "she was quite a childwhen you lost her?"

Olivier smiled sadly. 

"It is a photograph of her as a child, " he said. "Alas! I have no other. . . . She was twenty-five when she left me. "

"Ah!" said Christophe, who was greatly moved. "And she was in Germany, wasshe not?"

Olivier nodded. 

Christophe took Olivier's hands in his. 

"I knew her, " he said. 

"Yes, I know, " replied Olivier. 

And he flung his arms round Christophe's neck. 

"Poor girl! Poor girl!" said Christophe over and over again. 

They were both in tears. 

Christophe remembered then that Olivier was ill. He tried to calm him, andmade him keep his arms inside the bed, and tucked the clothes up round hisshoulders, and dried his eyes for him, and then sat down by the bedside andlooked long at him. 

"You see, " he said, "that is how I knew you. I recognized you at once, thatfirst evening. "

(It were hard to tell whether he was speaking of the present or the absentfriend. )

"But, " he went on a moment later, "you knew?. . . Why didn't you tell me?"

And through Olivier's eyes Antoinette replied:

"I could not tell you. You had to see it for yourself. "

They said nothing for some time: then, in the silence of the night, Olivier, lying still in bed, in a low voice told Christophe, who heldhis hand, poor Antoinette's story:--but he did not tell him what he hadno right to tell; the secret that she had kept locked, --the secret thatperhaps Christophe knew already without needing to be told. 

From, that time on the soul of Antoinette was ever near them. When theywere together she was with them. They had no need to think of her: everythought they shared was shared with her too. Her love was the meeting-placewherein their two hearts were united. 

Often Olivier would conjure up the image of her: scraps of memory and briefanecdotes. In their fleeting light they gave a glimpse of her shy, graciousgestures, her grave, young smile, the pensive, wistful grace that was sonatural to her. Christophe would listen without a word and let the light ofthe unseen friend pierce to his very soul. In obedience to the law of hisown nature, which everywhere and always drank in life more greedily thanany other, he would sometimes hear in Olivier's words depths of sound whichOlivier himself could not hear: and more than Olivier he would assimilatethe essence of the girl who was dead. 

Instinctively he supplied her place in Olivier's life: and it was atouching sight to see the awkward German hap unwittingly on certain of thedelicate attentions and little mothering ways of Antoinette. Sometimeshe could not tell whether it was Olivier that he loved in Antoinette orAntoinette in Olivier. Sometimes on a tender impulse, without sayinganything, he would go and visit Antoinette's grave and lay flowers on it. It was some time before Olivier had any idea of it. He did not discover ituntil one day when he found fresh flowers on the grave: but he had somedifficulty in proving that it was Christophe who had laid them there. Whenhe tried bashfully to speak about it Christophe cut him short roughly andabruptly. He did not want Olivier to know: and he stuck to it until one daywhen they met in the cemetery at Ivry. 

Olivier, on his part, used to write to Christophe's mother without lettinghim know. He gave Louisa news of her son, and told her how fond he wasof him and how he admired him. Louisa would send Olivier awkward, humbleletters in which she thanked him profusely: she used always to write of herson as though he were a little boy. 

After a period of fond semi-silence--"a delicious time of peace andenjoyment without knowing why, "--their tongues were loosed. They spenthours in voyages of discovery, each in the other's soul. 

They were very different, but they were both pure metal. They loved eachother because they were so different though so much the same. 

Olivier was weak, delicate, incapable of fighting against difficulties. When he came up against an obstacle he drew back, not from fear, butsomething from timidity, and more from disgust with the brutal and coarsemeans he would have to employ to overcome it. He earned his living bygiving classes, and writing art-books, shamefully underpaid, as usual, andoccasionally articles for reviews, in which he never had a free hand andhad to deal with subjects in which he was not greatly interested:--therewas no demand for the things that did interest him: he was never askedfor the sort of thing he could do best: he was a poet and was askedfor criticism: he knew something about music and he had to write aboutpainting: he knew quite well that he could only say mediocre things, whichwas just what people liked, for there he could speak to mediocre minds in alanguage which they could understand. He grew disgusted with it all andrefused to write. He had no pleasure except in writing for certain obscureperiodicals, which never paid anything, and, like so many other young men, he devoted his talents to them because they left him a free hand. Only intheir pages could he publish what was worthy of publicity. 

He was gentle, well-mannered, seemingly patient, though he was excessivelysensitive. A harsh word drew blood: injustice overwhelmed him: he sufferedboth on his own account and for others. Certain crimes, committed ages ago, still had the power to rend him as though he himself had been their victim. He would go pale, and shudder, and be utterly miserable as he thought howwretched he must have been who suffered them, and how many ages cut him offfrom his sympathy. When any unjust deed was done before his eyes he wouldbe wild with indignation and tremble all over, and sometimes become quiteill and lose his sleep. It was because he knew his weakness that he drew onhis mask of calmness: for when he was angry he knew that he went beyond alllimits and was apt to say unpardonable things. People were more resentfulwith him than with Christophe, who was always violent, because it seemedthat in moments of anger Olivier, much more than Christophe, expressedexactly what he thought: and that was true. He judged men and women withoutChristophe's blind exaggeration, but lucidly and without his illusions. Andthat is precisely what people do pardon the least readily. In such caseshe would say nothing and avoid discussion, knowing its futility. He hadsuffered from this restraint. He had suffered more from his timidity, whichsometimes led him to betray his thoughts, or deprived him of the courage todefend his thoughts conclusively, and even to apologize for them, as hadhappened in the argument with Lucien Lévy-Coeur about Christophe. He hadpassed through many crises of despair before he had been able to strikea compromise between himself and the rest of the world. In his youth andbudding manhood, when his nerves were not hopelessly out of order, helived in a perpetual alternation of periods of exaltation and periods ofdepression which came and went with horrible suddenness. Just when he wasfeeling most at his ease and even happy he was very certain that sorrow waslying in wait for him. And suddenly it would lay him low without givingany warning of its coming. And it was not enough for him to be unhappy: hehad to blame himself for his unhappiness, and hold an inquisition into hisevery word and deed, and his honesty, and take the side of other peopleagainst himself. His heart would throb in his bosom, he would strugglemiserably, and he would scarcely be able to breathe. --Since the death ofAntoinette, and perhaps thanks to her, thanks to the peace-giving lightthat issues from the beloved dead, as the light of dawn brings refreshmentto the eyes and soul of those who are sick, Olivier had contrived, ifnot to break away from these difficulties, at least to be resigned tothem and to master them. Very few had any idea of his inward struggles. The humiliating secret was locked up in his breast, all the immoderateexcitement of a weak, tormented body, surveyed serenely by a free and keenintelligence which could not master it, though it was never touched byit, --"_the central peace which endures amid the endless agitation of theheart_. "

Christophe marked it. This it was that he saw in Olivier's eyes. Olivierhad an intuitive perception of the souls of men, and a mind of a wide, subtle curiosity that was open to everything, denied nothing, hatednothing, and contemplated the world and things with generous sympathy: thatfreshness of outlook, which is a priceless gift, granting the power totaste with a heart that is always new the eternal renewal and re-birth. Inthat inward universe, wherein he knew himself to be free, vast, sovereign, he could forget his physical weakness and agony. There was even a certainpleasure in watching from a great height, with ironic pity, that poorsuffering body which seemed always so near the point of death. So there wasno danger of his clinging to _his_ life, and only the more passionately didhe hug life itself. Olivier translated into the region of love and mind allthe forces which in action he had abdicated. He had not enough vital sap tolive by his own substance. He was as ivy: it was needful for him to cling. He was never so rich as when he gave himself. His was a womanish soul withits eternal need of loving and being loved. He was born for Christophe, andChristophe for him. Such are the aristocratic and charming friends who arethe escorts of the great artists and seem to have come to flower in thelives of their mighty souls: Beltraffio, the friend of Leonardo: Cavalliereof Michael Angelo: the gentle Umbrians, the comrades of young Raphael: Aërtvan Gelder, who remained faithful to Rembrandt in his poor old age. Theyhave not the greatness of the masters: but it is as though all the purityand nobility of the masters in their friends were raised to a yet higherspiritual power. They are the ideal companions for men of genius. 

Their friendship was profitable to both of them. Love lends wings to thesoul. The presence of the beloved friend gives all its worth to life: a manlives for his friend and for his sake defends his soul's integrity againstthe wearing force of time. 

Each enriched the other's nature. Olivier had serenity of mind and a sicklybody. Christophe had mighty strength and a stormy soul. They were in somesort like a blind man and a cripple. Now that they were together they feltsound and strong. Living in the shadow of Christophe Olivier recovered hisjoy in the light: Christophe transmitted to him something of his aboundingvitality, his physical and moral robustness, which, even in sorrow, even ininjustice, even in hate, inclined to optimism. He took much more than hegave, in obedience to the law of genius, which gives in vain, but in lovealways takes more than it gives, _quia nominor leo_, because it is genius, and genius half consists in the instinctive absorption of all that is greatin its surroundings and making it greater still. The vulgar saying has itthat riches go to the rich. Strength goes to the strong. Christophe fed onOlivier's ideas: he impregnated himself with his intellectual calmness andmental detachment, his lofty outlook, his silent understanding and masteryof things. But when they were transplanted into him, the richer soil, thevirtues of his friend grew with a new and other energy. 

They both marveled at the things they discovered in each other. There wereso many things to share! Each brought vast treasures of which till then hehad never been conscious: the moral treasure of his nation: Olivier thewide culture and the psychological genius of France: Christophe the innatemusic of Germany and his intuitive knowledge of nature. 

Christophe could not understand how Olivier could be a Frenchman. Hisfriend was so little like all the Frenchmen he had met! Before he foundOlivier he had not been far from taking Lucien Lévy-Coeur as the type ofthe modern French mind, Lévy-Coeur who was no more than the caricature ofit. And now through Olivier he saw that there might be in Paris minds justas free, more free indeed than that of Lucien Lévy-Coeur, men who remainedas pure and stoical as any in Europe. Christophe tried to prove to Olivierthat he and his sister could not be altogether French. 

"My poor dear fellow, " said Olivier, "what do you know of France?"

Christophe avowed the trouble he had taken to gain some knowledge of thecountry: he drew up a list of all the Frenchmen he had met in the circleof the Stevens and the Roussins: Jews, Belgians, Luxemburgers, Americans, Russians, Levantines, and here and there a few authentic Frenchmen. 

"Just what I was saying, " replied Olivier. "You haven't seen a singleFrenchman. A group of debauchees, a few beasts of pleasure, who are noteven French, men-about-town, politicians, useless creatures, all the fussand flummery which passes over and above the life of the nation withouteven touching it. You have only seen the swarms of wasps attracted by afine autumn and the rich meadows. You haven't noticed the busy hives, theindustrious city, the thirst for knowledge. "

"I beg pardon, " said Christophe, "I've come across your intellectual éliteas well. "

"What? A few dozen men of letters? They're a fine lot! Nowadays whenscience and action play so great a part literature has become superficial, no more than the bed where the thought of the people sleeps. And inliterature you have only come across the theater, the theater of luxury, an international kitchen where dishes are turned out for the wealthycustomers of the cosmopolitan hotels. The theaters of Paris? Do you thinka working-man even knows what is being done in them? Pasteur did not goto them ten times in all his life! Like all foreigners you attach anexaggerated importance to our novels, and our boulevard plays, and theintrigues of our politicians. . . . If you like I will show you women whonever read novels, girls in Paris who have never been to the theater, men who have never bothered their heads about politics, --yes, even amongour intellectuals. You have not come across either our men of science orour poets. You have not discovered the solitary artists who languish insilence, nor the burning flame of our revolutionaries. You have not seena single great believer, or a single great skeptic. As for the people, wewon't talk of them. Outside the poor woman who looked after you, what doyou know of them? Where have you had a chance of seeing them? How manyParisians have you met who have lived higher than the second or thirdfloor? If you do not know these people, you do not know France. Youknow nothing of the brave true hearts, the men and women living in poorlodgings, in the garrets of Paris, in the dumb provinces, men' and womenwho, through a dull, drab life, think grave thoughts, and live in dailysacrifice, --the little Church, which has always existed in France--small innumbers, great in spirit, almost unknown, having no outward or apparentforce of action, though it is the very force of France, that might whichendures in silence, while the so-called élite rots away and springs to lifeagain unceasingly. . . . You are amazed when you find a Frenchman who livesnot for the sake of happiness, happiness at all costs, but to accomplish orto serve his faith? There are thousands of men like myself, men more worthythan myself, more pious, more humble, men who to their dying day liveunfailingly to serve an ideal, a God, who vouchsafes them no reply. Youknow nothing of the thrifty, methodical, industrious, tranquil middle-classliving with a quenchless dormant flame in their hearts--the people betrayedand sacrificed who in old days defended 'my country' against the selfisharrogance of the great, the blue-eyed ancient race of Vauban. You do notknow the people, you do not know the élite. Have you read a single one ofthe books which are our faithful friends, the companions who support us inour lives? Do you even know of the existence of our young reviews in whichsuch great faith and devotion are expressed? Have you any idea of the menof moral might and worth who are as the sun to us, the sun whose voicelesslight strikes terror to the army of the hypocrites? They dare not makea frontal attack: they bow before them, the better to betray them. Thehypocrite is a slave, and there is no slave but he has a master. You knowonly the slaves: you know nothing of the masters. . . . You have watched ourstruggles and they have seemed to you brutish and unmeaning because youhave not understood their aim. You see the shadow, the reflected light ofday: you have never seen the inward day, our age-old immemorial spirit. Have you ever tried to perceive it? Have you ever heard of our heroic deedsfrom the Crusades to the Commune? Have you ever seen and felt the tragedyof the French spirit? Have you ever stood at the brink of the abyss ofPascal? How dare you slander a people who for more than a thousand yearshave been living in action and creation, a people that has graven the worldin its own image through Gothic art, and the seventeenth century, and theRevolution, --a people that has twenty times passed through the ordeal offire, and plunged into it again, and twenty times has come to life againand never yet has perished!. . . --You are all the same. All your countrymenwho come among us see only the parasites who suck our blood, literary, political, and financial adventurers, with their minions and theirhangers-on and their harlots: and they judge France by these wretchedcreatures who prey on her. Not one of you has any idea of the real Franceliving under oppression, or of the reserve of vitality in the Frenchprovinces, or of the great mass of the people who go on working heedless ofthe uproar and pother made by their masters of a day. . . . Yes: it is onlynatural that you should know nothing of all this: I do not blame you: howcould you? Why, France is hardly at all known to the French. The best ofus are bound down and held captive to our native soil. . . . No one will everknow all that we have suffered, we who have guarded as a sacred charge thelight in our hearts which we have received from the genius of our race, towhich we cling with all our might, desperately defending it against thehostile winds that strive blusteringly to snuff it out;--we are alone andin our nostrils stinks the pestilential atmosphere of these harpies whohave swarmed about our genius like a thick cloud of flies, whose hideousgrubs gnaw at our minds and defile our hearts:--we are betrayed by thosewhose duty it is to defend us, our leaders, our idiotic and cowardlycritics, who fawn upon the enemy, to win pardon for being of our race:--weare deserted by the people who give no thought to us and do not even knowof our existence. . . . By what means can we make ourselves known to them? Wecannot reach them. . . . Ah! that is the hardest thing of all! We know thatthere are thousands of men in France who all think as we do, we know thatwe speak in their name, and we cannot gain a hearing! Everything is in thehands of the enemy: newspapers, reviews, theaters. . . . The Press scurriesaway from ideas or admits them only as an instrument of pleasure or a partyweapon. The cliques and coteries will only suffer us to break through oncondition that we degrade ourselves. We are crushed by poverty andoverwork. The politicians, pursuing nothing but wealth, are only interestedin that section of the public which they can buy. The middle-class isselfish and indifferent, and unmoved sees us perish. The people knownothing of our existence: even those who are fighting the same fight likeus are cut off by silence and do not know that we exist, and we do not knowthat they exist. . . . Ill-omened Paris! No doubt good also has come of it--bygathering together all the forces of the French mind and genius. But theevil it has done is at least equal to the good: and in a time like thepresent the good quickly turns to evil. A pseudo-élite fastens on Parisand blows the loud trumpet of publicity and the voices of all the rest ofFrance are drowned. More than that: France herself is deceived by it: sheis scared and silent and fearfully locks away her own ideas. . . . There was atime when it hurt me dreadfully. But now, Christophe, I can bear it calmly. I know and understand my own strength and the might of my people. We mustwait until the flood dies down. It cannot touch or change the bed-rock ofFrance. I will make you feel that bed-rock under the mud that is borneonward by the flood. And even now, here and there, there are lofty peaksappearing above the waters. . . . "

Christophe discovered the mighty power of idealism which animated theFrench poets, musicians, and men of science of his time. While thetemporary masters of the country with their coarse sensuality drowned thevoice of the French genius, it showed itself too aristocratic to vie withthe presumptuous shouts of the rabble and sang on with burning ardor inits own praise and the praise of its God. It was as though in its desireto escape the revolting uproar of the outer world it had withdrawn to thefarthest refuge in the innermost depths of its castle-keep. 

The poets--that is, those only who were worthy of that splendid name, sobandied by the Press and the Academies and doled out to divers windbagsgreedy of money and flattery--the poets, despising impudent rhetoricand that slavish realism which nibbles at the surface of things withoutpenetrating to reality, had intrenched themselves in the very center ofthe soul, in a mystic vision into which was drawn the universe of formand idea, like a torrent falling into a lake, there to take on the colorof the inward life. The very intensity of this idealism, which withdrewinto itself to recreate the universe, made it inaccessible to the mob. Christophe himself did not understand it at first. The transition wastoo abrupt after the market-place. It was as though he had passed from afurious rush and scramble in the hot sunlight into silence and the night. His ears buzzed. He could see nothing. At first, with his ardent love oflife, he was shocked by the contrast. Outside was the roaring of therushing streams of passion overturning France and stirring all humanity. And at the first glance there was not a trace of it in this art of theirs. Christophe asked Olivier:

"You have been lifted to the stars and hurled down to the depths of hell byyour Dreyfus affair. Where is the poet in whose soul the height and depthof it were felt? Now, at this very moment, in the souls of your religiousmen and women there is the mightiest struggle there has been for centuriesbetween the authority of the Church and the rights of conscience. Where isthe poet in whose soul this sacred agony is reflected? The working classesare preparing for war, nations are dying, nations are springing to newlife, the Armenians are massacred, Asia, awaking from its sleep of athousand years, hurls down the Muscovite colossus, the keeper of the keysof Europe: Turkey, like Adam, opens its eyes on the light of day: the airis conquered by man: the old earth cracks under our feet and opens: itdevours a whole people. . . . All these prodigies, accomplished in twentyyears, enough to supply material for twenty _Iliads_: but where are they, where shall their fiery traces be found in the books of your poets? Arethey of all men unable to see the poetry of the world?"

"Patience, my friend, patience!" replied Olivier. "Be silent, say nothing, listen. . . . "

Slowly the creaking of the axle-tree of the world died away and therumbling over the stones of the heavy car of action was lost in thedistance. And there arose the divine song of silence. . . . 

 _The hum of bees, and the perfume of the limes. . . . The wind, With his golden lips kissing the earth of the plains. . . The soft sound of the rain and the scent of the roses. _

There rang out the hammer and chisel of the poets carving the sides of avase with

 _The fine majesty of simple things, _

solemn, joyous life, _With its flutes of gold and flutes of ebony, _

religious joy, faith welling up like a fountain of souls

 _For whom the very darkness is clear, . . . _

and great sweet sorrow, giving comfort and smiling, _With her austere face from which there shines A clearness beyond nature, . . . _

and

 _Death serene with her great, soft eyes. _

A symphony of harmonious and pure voices. Not one of them had the fullsonorousness of such national trumpets as were Corneille and Hugo: but howmuch deeper and more subtle in expression was their music! The richestmusic in Europe of to-day. 

Olivier said to Christophe, who was silent:

"Do you understand now?"

Christophe in his turn bade him be silent. In spite of himself, andalthough he preferred more manly music, yet he drank in the murmuring ofthe woods and fountains of the soul which came whispering to his ears. Amidthe passing struggles of the nations they sang the eternal youth of theworld, the

 _Sweet goodness of Beauty. _

While humanity, _Screaming with terror and yelping its complaint Marched round and round a barren gloomy field, _

while millions of men and women wore themselves out in wrangling for thebloody rags of liberty, the fountains and the woods sang on:

 "Free!. . . Free!. . . _Sanctus, Sanctus. . . . _"

And yet they slept not in any dream selfishly serene. In the choir of thepoets there were not wanting tragic voices: voices of pride, voices oflove, voices of agony. 

A blind hurricane, mad, intoxicated

 _With its own rough force or gentleness profound, _

tumultuous forces, the epic of the illusions of those who sing the wildfever of the crowd, the conflicts of human gods, the breathless toilers, _Faces inky black and golden peering through darkness and mist, Muscular backs stretching, or suddenly crouching Round mighty furnaces and gigantic anvils. . . _

forging the City of the Future. 

In the flickering light and shadow falling on the glaciers of the mindthere was the heroic bitterness of those solitary souls which devourthemselves with desperate joy. 

 * * * * *

Many of the characteristics of these idealists seemed to the German moreGerman than French. But all of them had the love for the "fine speech ofFrance" and the sap of the myths of Greece ran through their poetry. Scenesof France and daily life were by some hidden magic transformed in theireyes into visions of Attica. It was as though antique souls had come tolife again in these twentieth-century Frenchmen, and longed to fling offtheir modern garments to appear again in their lovely nakedness. 

Their poetry as a whole gave out the perfume of a rich civilization thathas ripened through the ages, a perfume such as could not be found anywhereelse in Europe. It were impossible to forget it once it had been breathed. It attracted foreign artists from every country in the world. They becameFrench poets, almost bigotedly French: and French classical art had no morefervent disciples than these Anglo-Saxons and Flemings and Greeks. 

Christophe, under Olivier's guidance, was impregnated with the pensivebeauty of the Muse of France, while in his heart he found the aristocraticlady a little too intellectual for his liking, and preferred a pretty girlof the people, simple, healthy, robust, who thinks and argues less, but ismore concerned with love. 

 * * * * *

The same _odor di bellezza_ arose from all French art, as the scent of ripestrawberries and raspberries ascends from autumn woods warmed by the sun. French music was like one of those little strawberry plants, hidden inthe grass, the scent of which sweetens all the air of the woods. At firstChristophe had passed it by without seeing it, for in his own countryhe had been used to whole thickets of music, much fuller and bearingmore brilliant fruits. But now the delicate perfume made him turn: withOlivier's help among the stones and brambles and dead leaves which usurpedthe name of music, he discovered the subtle and ingenuous art of a handfulof musicians. Amid the marshy fields and the factory chimneys of democracy, in the heart of the Plaine-Saint-Denis, in a little magic wood fauns weredancing blithely. Christophe was amazed to hear the ironic and serene notesof their flutes which were like nothing he had ever heard:

 "_A little reed sufficed for me To make the tall grass quiver, And all the meadow, The willows sweet. And the singing stream also: A little reed sufficed, for me To make the forest sing. _"

Beneath the careless grace and the seeming dilettantism of their littlepiano pieces, and songs, and French chamber-music, which German artnever deigned to notice, while Christophe himself had hitherto failed tosee the poetic accomplishment of it all, he now began to see the feverof renovation, and the uneasiness, --unknown on the other side of theRhine, --with which French musicians were seeking in the unfilled fieldsof their art the germs from which the future might grow. While Germanmusicians sat stolidly in the encampments of their forebears, andarrogantly claimed to stay the evolution of the world at the barrier oftheir past victories, the world was moving onwards: and in the van theFrench plunged onward to discovery: they explored the distant realms ofart, dead suns and suns lit up once more, and vanished Greece, and the FarEast, after its age-long slumber, once more opening its slanting eyes, fullof vasty dreams, upon the light of day. In the music of the West, run offinto channels by the genius of order and classic reason, they opened up thesluices of the ancient fashions: into their Versailles pools they turnedall the waters of the universe: popular melodies and rhythms, exotic andantique scales, new or old beats and intervals. Just as, before them, theimpressionist painters had opened up a new world to the eyes, --ChristopherColumbuses of light, --so the musicians were rushing on to the conquest ofthe world of Sound; they pressed on into mysterious recesses of the worldof Hearing: they discovered new lands in that inward ocean. It was morethan probable that they would do nothing with their conquests. As usual theFrench were the harbingers of the world. 

Christophe admired the initiative of their music born of yesterday andalready marching in the van of art. What valiance there was in the eleganttiny little creature! He found indulgence for the follies that he hadlately seen in her. Only those who attempt nothing never make mistakes. But error struggling on towards the living truth is more fruitful and moreblessed than dead truth. 

Whatever the results, the effort was amazing. Olivier showed Christophe thework done in the last thirty-five years, and the amount of energy expendedin raising French music from the void in which it had slumbered before1870: no symphonic school, no profound culture, no traditions, no masters, no public: the whole reduced to poor Berlioz, who died of suffocation andweariness. And now Christophe felt a great respect for those who had beenthe laborers in the national revival: he had no desire now to jeer at theiresthetic narrowness or their lack of genius. They had created somethingmuch greater than music: a musical people. Among all the great toilers whohad forged the new French music one man was especially dear to him: CésarFranck, who died without seeing the victory for which he had paved the way, and yet, like old Schütz, through the darkest years of French art, hadpreserved intact the treasure of his faith and the genius of his race. Itwas a moving thing to see: amid pleasure-seeking Paris, the angelic master, the saint of music, in a life of poverty and work despised, preserving theunimpeachable serenity of his patient soul, whose smile of resignation litup his music in which is such great goodness. 

 * * * * *

To Christophe, knowing nothing of the depths of the life of France, thisgreat artist, adhering to his faith in the midst of a country of atheists, was a phenomenon, almost a miracle. 

But Olivier would gently shrug his shoulders and ask if any other countryin Europe could show a painter so wholly steeped in the spirit of the Bibleas François Millet;--a man of science more filled with burning faith andhumility than the clear-sighted Pasteur, bowing down before the idea of theinfinite, and, when that idea possessed his mind, "in bitter agony"--as hehimself has said--"praying that his reason might be spared, so near it wasto toppling over into the sublime madness of Pascal. " Their deep-rootedCatholicism was no more a bar in the way of the heroic realism of the firstof these two men, than of the passionate reason of the other, who, sure offoot and not deviating by one step, went his way through "the circles ofelementary nature, the great night of the infinitely little, the ultimateabysses of creation, in which life is born. " It was among the people of theprovinces, from which they sprang, that they had found this faith, which isfor ever brooding on the soil of France, while in vain do windy demagoguesstruggle to deny it. Olivier knew well that faith: it had lived in his ownheart and mind. 

He revealed to Christophe the magnificent movement towards a Catholicrevival, which had been going on for the last twenty-five years, the mightyeffort of the Christian idea in France to wed reason, liberty, and life:the splendid priests who had the courage, as one of their number said, "tohave themselves baptized as men, " and were claiming for Catholicism theright to understand everything and to join in every honest idea: for "everyhonest idea, even when it is mistaken, is sacred and divine": the thousandsof young Catholics banded by the generous vow to build a ChristianRepublic, free, pure, in brotherhood, open to all men of good-will: and, inspite of the odious attacks, the accusations of heresy, the treachery onall sides, right and left, --(especially on the right), --which these greatChristians had to suffer, the intrepid little legion advancing towards therugged defile which leads to the future, serene of front, resigned to alltrials and tribulations, knowing that no enduring edifice can be built, except it be welded together with tears and blood. 

The same breath of living idealism and passionate liberalism brought newlife to the other religions in France. The vast slumbering bodies ofProtestantism and Judaism were thrilling with new life. All in generousemulation had set themselves to create the religion of a free humanitywhich should sacrifice neither its power for reason, nor its power forenthusiasm. 

This religious exaltation was not the privilege of the religious: itwas the very soul of the revolutionary movement. There it assumed atragic character. Till now Christophe had only seen the lowest form ofsocialism, --that of the politicians who dangled in front of the eyes oftheir famished constituents the coarse and childish dreams of Happiness, or, to be frank, of universal Pleasure, which Science in the hands ofPower could, according to them, procure. Against such revolting optimismChristophe saw the furious mystic reaction of the élite arise to lead theSyndicates of the working-classes on to battle. It was a summons to "war, which engenders the sublime, " to heroic war "which alone can give the dyingworlds a goal, an aim, an ideal. " These great Revolutionaries, spittingout such "bourgeois, peddling, peace-mongering, English" socialism, set upagainst it a tragic conception of the universe, "whose law is antagonism, "since it lives by sacrifice, perpetual sacrifice, eternally renewed. --Ifthere was reason to doubt that the army, which these leaders urged on tothe assault upon the old world, could understand such warlike mysticism, which applied both Kant and Nietzsche to violent action, nevertheless itwas a stirring sight to see the revolutionary aristocracy, whose blindpessimism, and furious desire for heroic life, and exalted faith in war andsacrifice, were like the militant religious ideal of some Teutonic Order orthe Japanese Samurai. 

And yet they were all Frenchmen: they were of a French stock whosecharacteristics have endured unchanged for centuries. Seeing withOlivier's eyes Christophe marked them in the tribunes and proconsuls ofthe Convention, in certain of the thinkers and men of action and Frenchreformers of the _Ancien Régime_. Calvinists, Jansenists, Jacobins, Syndicalists, in all there was the same spirit of pessimistic idealism, struggling against nature, without illusions and without loss ofcourage:--the iron bands which uphold the nation. 

Christophe drank in the breath of these mystic struggles, and he began tounderstand the greatness of that fanaticism, into which France broughtuncompromising faith and honesty, such as were absolutely unknown toother nations more familiar with _combinazioni_. Like all foreignersit had pleased him at first to be flippant about the only too obviouscontradiction between the despotic temper of the French and the magicformula which their Republic wrote up on the walls of their buildings. Nowfor the first time he began to grasp the meaning of the bellicose Libertywhich they adored as the terrible sword of Reason. No: it was not forthem, as he had thought, mere sounding rhetoric and vague ideology. Amonga people for whom the demands of reason transcend all others the fight forreason dominated every other. What did it matter whether the fight appearedabsurd to nations who called themselves practical? To eyes that see deeplyit is no less vain to fight for empire, or money, or the conquest of theworld: in a million years there will be nothing left of any of thesethings. But if it is the fierceness of the fight that gives its worth tolife, and uplifts all the living forces to the point of sacrifice to asuperior Being, then there are few struggles that do more honor life thanthe eternal battle waged in France for or against reason. And for those whohave tasted the bitter savor of it the much-vaunted apathetic toleranceof the Anglo-Saxons is dull and unmanly. The Anglo-Saxons paid for it byfinding elsewhere an outlet for their energy. Their energy is not in theirtolerance, which is only great when, between factions, it becomes heroism. In Europe of to-day it is most often indifference, want of faith, want ofvitality. The English, adapting a saying of Voltaire, are fain to boastthat "diversity of belief has produced more tolerance in England" than theRevolution has done in France. --The reason is that there is more faith inthe France of the Revolution than in all the creeds of England. 

 * * * * *

From the circle of brass of militant idealism and the battles ofReason, --like Virgil leading Dante, Olivier led Christophe by the hand tothe summit of the mountain where, silent and serene, dwelt the small bandof the elect of France who were really free. 

Nowhere in the world are there men more free. They have the serenity of abird soaring in the still air. On such a height the air was so pure andrarefied that Christophe could hardly breathe. There he met artists whoclaimed the absolute and limitless liberty of dreams, --men of unbridledsubjectivity, like Flaubert, despising "the poor beasts who believe inthe reality of things":--thinkers, who, with supple and many-sided minds, emulating the endless flow of moving things, went on "ceaselessly tricklingand flowing, " staying nowhere, nowhere coming in contact with stubbornearth or rock, and "depicted not the essence of life, but the _passage_, "as Montaigne said, "the eternal passage, from day to day, from minute tominute";--men of science who knew the emptiness and void of the universe, wherein man has builded his idea, his God, his art, his science, and wenton creating the world and its laws, that vivid day's dream. They did notdemand of science either rest, or happiness, or even truth:--for theydoubted whether it were attainable: they loved it for itself, because itwas beautiful, because it alone was beautiful, and it alone was real. On the topmost pinnacles of thought these men of science, passionatelyPyrrhonistic, indifferent to all suffering, all deceit, almost indifferentto reality, listened, with closed eyes, to the silent music of souls, the delicate and grand harmony of numbers and forms. These greatmathematicians, these free philosophers, --the most rigorous and positiveminds in the world, --had reached the uttermost limit of mystic ecstasy:they created a void about themselves, they hung over the abyss, they weredrunk with its dizzy depths: into the boundless night with joy sublime theyflashed the lightnings of thought. 

Christophe leaned forward and tried to look over as they did: and his headswam. He who thought himself free because he had broken away from all lawssave those of his own conscience, now became fearfully conscious of howlittle he was free compared with these Frenchmen who were emancipated fromevery absolute law of mind, from every categorical imperative, from everyreason for living. Why, then, did they live?

"For the joy of being free, " replied Olivier. 

But Christophe, who was unsteadied by such liberty, thought regretfully ofthe mighty spirit of discipline and German authoritarianism: and he said:

"Your joy is a snare, the dream of an opium-smoker. You make yourselvesdrunk with liberty, and forget life. Absolute liberty means madness to themind, anarchy to the State . . . Liberty! What man is free in this world?What man in your Republic is free?--Only the knaves. You, the best of thenation, are stilled. You can do nothing but dream. Soon you will not beable even to dream. "

"No matter!" said Olivier. "My poor dear Christophe, you cannot know thedelight of being free. It is worth while paying for it with so much danger, and suffering, and even death. To be free, to feel that every mind aboutyou--yes, even the knave's--is free, is a delicious pleasure which it isimpossible to express: it is as though your soul were soaring throughthe infinite air. It could not live otherwise. What should I do with thesecurity you offer me, and your order and your impeccable discipline, locked up in the four walls of your Imperial barracks? I should die ofsuffocation. Air! give me air, more and more of it! Liberty, more and moreof that!"

"There must be law in the world, " replied Christophe. "Sooner or later themaster cometh. "

But Olivier laughed and reminded Christophe of the saying of old Pierre del'Estoile:

 _It is as little in the power of all the dominions of the earth to curb the French liberty of speech, as to bury the sun in the earth or to shut it up inside a hole. _

 * * * * *

Gradually Christophe grew accustomed to the air of boundless liberty. Fromthe lofty heights of French thought, where those minds dream that are alllight, he looked down upon the slopes of the mountain at his feet, wherethe heroic elect, fighting for a living faith, whatever faith it be, struggle eternally to reach the summit:--those who wage the holy waragainst ignorance, disease, and poverty: the fever of invention, the mentaldelirium of the modern Prometheus and Icarus conquering the light andmarking out roads in the air: the Titanic struggle between Science andNature, being tamed;--lower down, the little silent band, the men and womenof good faith, those brave and humble hearts, who, after a thousandefforts, have climbed half-way, and can climb no farther, being held boundin a dull and difficult existence, while in secret they burn away inobscure devotion:--lower still, at the foot of the mountain, in a narrowgorge between rocky crags, the endless battle, the fanatics of abstractideas and blind instincts, fiercely wrestling, with never a suspicion thatthere may be something beyond, above the wall of rocks which hems themin:--still lower, swamps and brutish beasts wallowing in the mire. --Andeverywhere, scattered about the sides of the mountain, the fresh flowers ofart, the scented strawberry-plants of music, the song of the streams andthe poet birds. 

And Christophe asked Olivier:

"Where are your people? I see only the elect, all sorts, good and bad. "

Olivier replied:

"The people? They are tending their gardens. They never bother about us. Every group and faction among the elect strives to engage their attention. They pay no heed to any one. There was a time when it amused them to listento the humbug of the political mountebanks. But now they never worry aboutit. There are several millions who do not even make use of their rights aselectors. The parties may break each other's heads as much as they like, and the people don't care one way or another so long as they don't tramplethe crops in their wrangling: if that happens then they lose their tempers, and smash the parties indiscriminately. They do not act: they react in oneway or another against all the exaggerations which disturb their work andtheir rest. Kings, Emperors, republics, priests, Freemasons, Socialists, whatever their leaders may be, all that they ask of them is to be protectedagainst the great common dangers: war, riots, epidemics, --and, for therest, to be allowed to go on tending their gardens. When all is said anddone they think:

"'Why won't these people leave us in peace?'

"But the politicians are so stupid that they worry the people, and won'tleave off until they are pitched out with a fork, --as will happen some dayto our members of Parliament. There was a time when the people wereembarked upon great enterprises. Perhaps that will happen again, althoughthey sowed their wild oats long ago: in any case their embarkations arenever for long: very soon they return to their age-old companion: theearth. It is the soil which binds the French to France, much more than theFrench. There are so many different races who for centuries have beentilling that brave soil side by side, that it is the soil which unitesthem, the soil which is their love. Through good times and bad theycultivate it unceasingly: and it is all good to them, even the smallestscrap of ground. "

Christophe looked down. As far as he could see, along the road, around theswamps, on the slopes of rocky hills, over the battlefields and ruins ofaction, over the mountains and plains of France, all was cultivated andrichly bearing: it was the great garden of European civilization. Itsincomparable charm lay no less in the good fruitful soil than in the blindlabors of an indefatigable people, who for centuries have never ceased totill and sow and make the land ever more beautiful. 

A strange people! They are always called inconstant: but nothing in themchanges. Olivier, looking backward, saw in Gothic statuary all the types ofthe provinces of to-day: and so in the drawings of a Clouet and aDumoustier, the weary ironical faces of worldly men and intellectuals: orin the work of a Lenain the clear eyes of the laborers and peasants ofÎle-de-France or Picardy. And the thoughts of the men of old days lived inthe minds of the present day. The mind of Pascal was alive, not only in theelect of reason and religion, but in the brains of obscure citizens orrevolutionary Syndicalists. The art of Corneille and Racine was living forthe people even more than for the elect, for they were less attainted byforeign influences: a humble clerk in Paris would feel more sympathy with atragedy of the time of Louis XIV than with a novel of Tolstoi or a drama ofIbsen. The chants of the Middle Ages, the old French _Tristan_, would bemore akin to the modern French than the _Tristan_ of Wagner. The flowers ofthought, which since the twelfth century have never ceased to blossom inFrench soil, however different they may be, were yet kin one to another, though utterly different from all the flowers about them. 

Christophe knew too little of France to be able to grasp how thesecharacteristics had endured. What struck him most of all in all the wideexpanse of country was the extremely small divisions of the earth. AsOlivier said, every man had his garden: and each garden, each plot of land, was separated from the rest by walls, and quickset hedges, and inclosuresof all sorts. At most there were only a few woods and fields in common, andsometimes the dwellers on one side of a river were forced to live nearer toeach other than to the dwellers on the other. Every man shut himself up inhis own house: and it seemed that this jealous individualism, instead ofgrowing weaker after centuries of neighborhood, was stronger than ever. Christophe thought:

"How lonely they all are!"

 * * * * *

In that sense nothing could have been more characteristic than the house inwhich Christophe and Olivier lodged. It was a world in miniature, a littleFrance, honest and industrious, without any bond which could unite itsdivers elements. A five-storied house, a shaky house, leaning over to oneside, with creaking floors and crumbling ceilings. The rain came throughinto the rooms under the roof in which Christophe and Olivier lived: theyhad had to have the workmen in to botch up the roof as best they could:Christophe could hear them working and talking overhead. There was one manin particular who amused and exasperated him: he never stopped talking tohimself, and laughing, and singing, and babbling nonsense, and whistlinginane tunes, and holding long conversations with himself all the time hewas working: he was incapable of doing anything without proclaiming exactlywhat it was:

"I'm going to put in another nail. Where's my hammer? I'm putting in anail, two nails. One more blow with the hammer! There, old lady, that'sit. . . . "

When Christophe was playing he would stop for a moment and listen, and thengo on whistling louder than ever: during a stirring passage he would beattime with his hammer on the roof. At last Christophe was so exasperatedthat he climbed on a chair, and poked his head through the skylight of theattic to rate the man. But when he saw him sitting astride the roof, withhis jolly face and his cheek stuffed out with nails, he burst out laughing, and the man joined in. And not until they had done laughing did he rememberwhy he had come to the window:

"By the way, " he said, "I wanted to ask you: my playing doesn't interferewith your work?"

The man said it did not: but he asked Christophe to play something faster, because, as he worked in time to the music, slow tunes kept him back. Theyparted very good friends. In a quarter of an hour they had exchanged morewords than in six months Christophe had spoken to the other inhabitants ofthe house. 

There were two flats on each floor, one of three rooms, the other of onlytwo. There were no servants' rooms: each household did its own housework, except for the tenants of the ground floor and the first floor, whooccupied the two flats thrown into one. 

On the fifth floor Christophe and Olivier's next-door neighbor was the AbbéCorneille, a priest of some forty years old, a learned man, an independentthinker, broad-minded, formerly a professor of exegesis in a greatseminary, who had recently been censured by Rome for his modernisttendency. He had accepted the censure without submitting to it, in silence:he made no attempt to dispute it and refused every opportunity offered tohim of publishing his doctrine: he shrank from a noisy publicity and wouldrather put up with the ruin of his ideas than figure in a scandal. Christophe could not understand that sort of revolt in resignation. He hadtried to talk to the priest, who, however, was coldly polite and would notspeak of the things which most interested him, and seemed to prefer as amatter of dignity to remain buried alive. 

 * * * * *

On the floor below in the flat corresponding to that of the two friendsthere lived a family of the name of Elie Elsberger: an engineer, his wife, and their two little girls, seven and ten years old: superior andsympathetic people who kept themselves very much to themselves, chieflyfrom a sort of false shame of their straitened means. The young woman whokept her house most pluckily was humiliated by it: she would have put upwith twice the amount of worry and exhaustion if she could have preventedanybody knowing their condition: and that too was a feeling whichChristophe could not understand. They belonged to a Protestant family andcame from the East of France. Both man and wife, a few years before, hadbeen bowled over by the storm of the Dreyfus affair: both of them had takenthe affair passionately to heart, and, like thousands of French people, they had suffered from the frenzy brought on by the turbulent wind of thatexalted fit of hysteria which lasted for seven years. They had sacrificedeverything to it, rest, position, relations: they had broken off many dearfriendships through it: they had almost ruined their health. For months ata time they did not sleep nor act, but went on bringing forward the samearguments over and over again with the monotonous insistence of the insane:they screwed each other up to a pitch of excitement: in spite of theirtimidity and their dread of ridicule, they had taken part in demonstrationsand spoken at meetings, from which they returned with minds bewildered andaching hearts, and they would weep together through the night. In thestruggle they had expended so much enthusiasm and passion that when at lastvictory was theirs they had not enough of either to rejoice: it left themdry of energy and broken for life. Their hopes had been so high, theireagerness for sacrifice had been so pure, that triumph when it came hadseemed a mockery compared with what they had dreamed. To such single-mindedcreatures for whom there could exist but one truth, the bargaining ofpolitics, the compromises of their heroes had been a bitter disappointment. They had seen their comrades in arms, men whom they had thought inspiredwith the same single passion for justice, --once the enemy was overcome, swarming about the loot, catching at power, carrying off honors andpositions, and, in their turn, trampling justice underfoot. Only a merehandful of men held steadfast to their faith, and, in poverty andisolation, rejected by every party, rejecting every party, they remained inobscurity, cut off one from the other, a prey to sorrow and neurasthenia, left hopeless and disgusted with men and utterly weary of life. Theengineer and his wife were among these wretched victims. 

They made no noise in the house: they were morbidly afraid of disturbingtheir neighbors, the more so as they suffered from their neighbors' noises, and they were too proud to complain. Christophe was sorry for the twolittle girls, whose outbursts of merriment, and natural need of shouting, jumping about and laughing, were continually being suppressed. He adoredchildren, and he made friendly advances to his little neighbors when he metthem on the stairs. The little girls were shy at first, but were soon ongood terms with Christophe, who always had some funny story to tell them orsweetmeats in his pockets: they told their parents about him: and, thoughat first they had been inclined to look askance at his advances, they werewon over by the frank open manners of their noisy neighbor, whosepiano-playing and terrific disturbance overhead had often made themcurse:--(for Christophe used to feel stifled in his room and take to pacingup and down like a caged bear). --They did not find it easy to talk to him. Christophe's rather boorish and abrupt manners sometimes made ElieElsberger shudder. But it was all in vain for the engineer to try to keepup the wall of reserve, behind which he had taken shelter, between himselfand the German: it was impossible to resist the impetuous good humor of theman whose eyes were so honest and affectionate and so free from anyulterior motive. Every now and then Christophe managed to squeeze a littleconfidence out of his neighbor. Elsberger was a queer man, full of courage, yet apathetic, sorrowful, and yet resigned. He had energy enough to bear alife of difficulty with dignity, but not enough to change it. It was asthough he took a delight in justifying his own pessimism. Just at that timehe had been offered a post in Brazil as manager of an undertaking: but hehad refused as he was afraid of the climate and fearful of the health ofhis wife and children. 

"Well, leave them, " said Christophe. "Go alone and make their fortune. "

"Leave them!" cried the engineer. "It's easy to see that you have nochildren. "

"I assure you that, if I had, I should be of the same opinion. "

"Never! Never!. . . Leave the country!. . . No. I would rather suffer here. "

To Christophe it seemed an odd way of loving one's country and one's wifeand children to sit down and vegetate with them. Olivier understood. 

"Just think, " he said, "of the risk of dying out there, in a strangeunknown country, far away from those you love! Anything is better than thehorror of that. Besides, it isn't worth while taking so much trouble forthe few remaining years of life!. . . "

"As though one had always to be thinking of death!" said Christophe with ashrug. "And even if that does happen, isn't it better to die fighting forthe happiness of those one loves than to flicker out in apathy?"

 * * * * *

On the same landing in the smaller flat on the fourth floor lived ajourneyman electrician named Aubert. --If he lived entirely apart from theother inhabitants of the house it was not altogether his fault. He hadrisen from the lower class and had a passionate desire not to sink backinto it. He was small and weakly-looking; he had a harsh face, and hisforehead bulged over his eyes, which were keen and sharp and bored into youlike a gimlet: he had a fair mustache, a satirical mouth, a sibilant way ofspeaking, a husky voice, a scarf round his neck, and he had alwayssomething the matter with his throat, in which irritation was set up by hisperpetual habit of smoking: he was always feverishly active and had theconsumptive temperament. He was a mixture of conceit, irony, andbitterness, cloaking a mind that was enthusiastic, bombastic, and naïve, while it was always being taken in by life. He was the bastard of someburgess whom he had never known, and was brought up by a mother whom it wasimpossible to respect, so that in his childhood he had seen much that wassad and degrading. He had plied all sorts of trades and had traveled muchin France. He had an admirable desire for education, and had taught himselfwith frightful toil and labor: he read everything: history, philosophy, decadent poets: he was up-to-date in everything: theaters, exhibitions, concerts: he had a touching veneration for art, literature, andmiddle-class ideas: they fascinated him. He had imbibed the vague andardent ideology which intoxicated the middle-classes in the first days ofthe Revolution. He had a definite belief in the infallibility of reason, inboundless progress, --_quo non ascendam?_--in the near advent of happinesson earth, in the omnipotence of science, in Divine Humanity, and in France, the eldest daughter of Humanity. He had an enthusiastic and credulous sortof anti-clericalism which made him lump together religion--especiallyCatholicism--and obscurantism, and see in priests the natural foe of light. Socialism, individualism, Chauvinism jostled each other in his brain. Hewas a humanitarian in mind, despotic in temperament, and an anarchist infact. He was proud and knew the gaps in his education, and, inconversation, he was very cautious: he turned to account everything thatwas said in his presence, but he would never ask advice: that humiliatedhim; now, though he had intelligence and cleverness, these things could notaltogether supply the defects of his education. He had taken it into hishead to write. Like so many men in France who have not been taught, he hadthe gift of style, and a clear vision: but he was a confused thinker. Hehad shown a few pages of his productions to a successful journalist in whomhe believed, and the man made fun of him. He was profoundly humiliated, andfrom that time on never told a soul what he was doing. But he went onwriting: it fed his need of expansion and gave him pride and delight. Inhis heart he was immensely pleased with his eloquent passages andphilosophic ideas, which were not worth a brass farthing. And he set nostore by his observation of real life, which was excellent. It was hiscrank to fancy himself as a philosopher, and he wished to writesociological plays and novels of ideas. He had no difficulty in solving allsorts of insoluble questions, and at every turn he discovered America. Whenin due course he found that America was already discovered, he wasdisappointed, humiliated, and rather bitter: he was never far from scentinginjustice and intrigue. He was consumed by a thirst for fame and a burningcapacity for devotion which suffered from finding no means or direction ofemployment: he would have loved to be a great man of letters, a member ofthat literary élite, who in his eyes were adorned with a supernaturalprestige. In spite of his longing to deceive himself he had too much goodsense and was too ironical not to know that there was no chance of itscoming to pass. But he would at least have hiked to live in that atmosphereof art and middle-class ideas which at a distance seemed to him sobrilliant and pure and chastened of mediocrity. This innocent longing hadthe unfortunate result of making the society of the people with whom hiscondition in life forced him to live intolerable to him. And as themiddle-class society which he wished to enter closed its doors to him, theresult was that he never saw anybody. And so Christophe had no difficultyin making his acquaintance. On the contrary he had very soon to bolt andbar against him: otherwise Aubert would more often have been inChristophe's rooms, than Christophe in his. He was only too happy to findan artist to whom he could talk about music, plays, etc. But, as one wouldimagine, Christophe did not find them so interesting: he would rather havediscussed the people with a man who was of the people. But that was justwhat Aubert would not and could not discuss. 

In proportion as he went lower in the house relations between Christopheand the other tenants became naturally more distant. Besides, some secretmagic, some _Open Sesame_, would have been necessary for him to reach theinhabitants of the third floor. --In the one flat there lived two ladies whowere under the self-hypnotism of grief for a loss that was already someyears old: Madame Germain, a woman of thirty-five who had lost her husbandand daughter, and lived in seclusion with her aged and devoutmother-in-law. --On the other side of the landing there dwelt a mysteriouscharacter of uncertain age, anything between fifty and sixty, with a littlegirl of ten. He was bald, with a handsome, well-trimmed beard, a soft wayof speaking, distinguished manners, and aristocratic hands. He was calledM. Watelet. He was said to be an anarchist, a revolutionary, a foreigner, from what country was not known, Russia or Belgium. As a matter of fact hewas a Northern Frenchman and was hardly at all revolutionary: but he wasliving on his past reputation. He had been mixed up with the Commune of '71and condemned to death: he had escaped, how he did not know: and for tenyears he had lived for a short time in every country in Europe. He had seenso many ill-deeds during the upheaval in Paris, and afterwards, and also inexile, and also since his return, ill-deeds done by his former comrades nowthat they were in power, and also by men in every rank of the revolutionaryparties, that he had broken with them, peacefully keeping his convictionsto himself useless and untarnished. He read much, wrote a few mildlyincendiary books, pulled--(so it was said)--the wires of anarchistmovements in distant places, in India or the Far East, busied himself withthe universal revolution, and, at the same time, with researches no lessuniversal but of a more genial aspect, namely with a universal language, anew method of popular instruction in music. He never came in contact withanybody in the house: when he met any of its inmates he did no more thanbow to them with exaggerated politeness. However, he condescended to tellChristophe a little about his musical method. Christophe was not the leastinterested in it: the symbols of his ideas mattered very little to him: inany language he would have managed somehow to express them. But Watelet wasnot to be put off, and went on explaining his system gently but firmly:Christophe could not find out anything about the rest of his life. And sohe gave up stopping when he met him on the stairs and only looked at thelittle girl who was always with him: she was fair, pale, anemic: she hadblue eyes, rather a sharp profile, a thin little figure--she was alwaysvery neatly dressed--and she looked sickly and her face was not veryexpressive. Like everybody else he thought she was Watelet's daughter. Shewas an orphan, the daughter of poor parents, whom Watelet had adopted whenshe was four or five, after the death of her father and mother in anepidemic. He had an almost boundless love for the poor, especially for poorchildren. It was a sort of mystic tenderness with him as with Vincent dePaul. He distrusted official charity, and knew exactly what philanthropicinstitutions were worth, and therefore he set about doing charity alone: hedid it by stealth, and took a secret joy in it. He had learned medicine soas to be of some use in the world. One day when he went to the house of aworking-man in the district and found sickness there, he turned to andnursed the invalids: he had some medical knowledge and turned it toaccount. He could not bear to see a child suffer: it broke his heart. But, on the other hand, what a joy it was when he had succeeded in tearing oneof these poor little creatures from the clutches of sickness, and the firstpale smile appeared on the little pinched face! Then Watelet's heart wouldmelt. Those were his moments of Paradise. They made him forget the troublehe often had with his protégés: for they very rarely showed him muchgratitude. And the housekeeper was furious at seeing so many people withdirty boots going up her stairs, and she would complain bitterly. And theproprietor would watch uneasily these meetings of anarchists, and makeremarks. Watelet would contemplate leaving his flat: but that hurt him: hehad his little whimsies: he was gentle and obstinate, and he put up withthe proprietor's observations. 

Christophe won his confidence up to a certain point by the love he showedfor children. That was their common bond. Christophe never met the littlegirl without a catch at his heart: for, though he did not know why, by oneof those mysterious similarities in outline, which the instinct perceivesimmediately and subconsciously, the child reminded him of Sabine's littlegirl. Sabine, his first love, now so far away, the silent grace of whosefleeting shadow had never faded from his heart. And so he took an interestin the pale-faced little girl whom he never saw romping, or running, whosevoice he hardly ever heard, who had no little friend of her own age, whowas always alone, mum, quietly amusing herself with lifeless toys, a dollor a block of wood, while her lips moved as she whispered some story toherself. She was affectionate and a little offhanded in manner: there was aforeign and uneasy quality in her, but her adopted father never saw it: heloved her too much. Alas! Does not that foreign and uneasy quality existeven in the children of our own flesh and blood?. . . Christophe tried tomake the solitary little girl friends with the engineer's children. Butwith both Elsberger and Watelet he met with a polite but categoricalrefusal. These people seemed to make it a point of honor to bury themselvesalive, each in his own mausoleum. If it came to a point each would havebeen ready to help the other: but each was afraid of it being thought thathe himself was in need of help: and as they were both equally proud andvain, --and the means of both were equally precarious, --there was no hope ofeither of them being the first to hold out his hand to the other. 

The larger flat on the second floor was almost always empty. The proprietorof the house reserved it for his own use: and he was never there. He was aretired merchant who had closed down his business as soon as he had made acertain fortune, the figure of which he had fixed for himself. He spent thegreater part of the year in some hotel on the Riviera, and the summer atsome watering-place in Normandy, living as a gentleman with private meanswho enjoys the illusion of luxury cheaply by watching the luxury of others, and, like them, leading a useless existence. 

 * * * * *

The smaller flat was let to a childless couple: M. And Madame Arnaud. Thehusband, a man of between forty and forty-five, was a master at a school. He was so overworked with lectures, and correcting exercises, and givingclasses, that he had never been able to find time to write his thesis: andat last he had given it up altogether. The wife was ten years younger, pretty, and very shy. They were both intelligent, well read, in love witheach other: they knew nobody, and never went out. The husband had no timefor it. The wife had too much time: but she was a brave little creature, who fought down her fits of depression when they came over her, and hidthem, by occupying herself as best she could, trying to learn, taking notesfor her husband, copying out her husband's notes, mending her husband'sclothes, making frocks and hats for herself. She would have liked to go tothe theater from time to time: but Arnaud did not care about it: he was tootired in the evening. And she resigned herself to it. 

Their great Joy was music. They both adored it. He could not play, and shedared not although she could: when she played before anybody, even beforeher husband, it was like a child strumming. However, that was good enoughfor them: and Gluck, Mozart, Beethoven, whom they stammered out, were asfriends to them: they knew their lives in detail, and their sufferingsfilled them with love and pity. Books, too, beautiful, fine books, whichthey read together, gave them happiness. But there are few such books inthe literature of to-day: authors do not worry about those people who canbring them neither reputation, nor pleasure, nor money, such humble readerswho are never seen in society, and do not write in any journal, and canonly love and say nothing. The silent light of art, which in their uprightand religious hearts assumed almost a supernatural character, and theirmutual affection, were enough to make them live in peace, happy enough, though a little sad--(there is no gainsaying that), --very lonely, a littlebruised in spirit. They were both much superior to their position in life. M. Arnaud was full of ideas: but he had neither the time nor enough courageleft to write them down. It meant such a lot of trouble to get articles andbooks published: it was not worth it: futile vanity! Anything he could dowas so small in comparison with the thinkers he loved! He had too true alove for the great works of art to want to produce art himself: it wouldhave seemed to him pretentious, impertinent, and ridiculous. It seemed tobe his lot to spread their influence. He gave his pupils the benefit of hisideas: they would turn them into books later on, --without mentioning hisname of course. --Nobody spent more money than he in subscribing to variouspublications. The poor are always the most generous: they do buy theirbooks: the rich would take it as a slur upon themselves if they did notsomehow manage to get them for nothing. Arnaud ruined himself in buyingbooks: it was his weakness--his vice. He was ashamed of it, and concealedit from his wife. But she did not blame him for it: she would have spentjust as much. --And with it all they were always making fine plans forsaving, with a view to going to Italy some day--though, as they knew quitewell, they never would go: and they were the first to laugh at theirincapacity for keeping money. Arnaud would console himself. His dear wifewas enough for him, and his life of work and inward joys. Was it not alsoenough for her?--She said it was. She dared not say how dear it would havebeen to her if her husband could have some reputation, which would in somesort be reflected upon herself, and brighten her life, and give her easeand comfort: inward joys are beautiful: but a little ray of light fromwithout shining in from time to time is sweet, and does so much good!. . . But she never said anything, because she was timid: and besides, she knewthat even if he wished to make a reputation it was by no means certain thathe would succeed: it was too late!. . . Their greatest sorrow was that theyhad no children. Each hid that sorrow from the other: and they were onlythe more tender with each other: it was as though the poor creatures werestriving to win one another's forgiveness. Madame Arnaud was kind andaffectionate: she would gladly have been friends with Madame Elsberger. Butshe dared not: she was never approached. As for Christophe, husband andwife would have asked nothing better than to know him: they were fascinatedby the music that they could hear faintly when he was playing. But nothingin the world could have induced them to make the first move: they wouldhave thought it indiscreet. 

 * * * * *

The whole of the first floor was occupied by M. And Madame Félix Weil. Theywere rich Jews, and had no children, and they spent six months of the yearin the country near Paris. Although they had lived in the house for twentyyears--(they stayed there as a matter of habit, although they could easilyhave found a flat more in keeping with their fortune)--they were alwayslike passing strangers. They had never spoken a word to any of theirneighbors, and no one knew any more about them than on the day of theirarrival. But that was no reason why the other tenants should not passjudgment on them: on the contrary. They were not liked. And no doubt theydid nothing to win popularity. And yet they were worthy of moreacquaintance: they were both excellent people and remarkably intelligent. The husband, a man of sixty, was an Assyriologist, well known through hisfamous excavations in Central Asia: like most of his race he wasopen-minded and curious, and did not confine himself to his specialstudies: he was interested in an infinite number of things: the arts, social questions, every manifestation of contemporary thought. But thesewere not enough to occupy his mind: for they all amused him, and none ofthem roused passionate interest. He was very intelligent, too intelligent, too much emancipated from all ties, always ready to destroy with one handwhat he had constructed with the other: for he was constructive, alwaysproducing books and theories: he was a great worker: as a matter of habitand spiritual health he was always patiently plowing his deep furrow in thefield of knowledge, without having any belief in the utility of what he wasdoing. He had always had the misfortune to be rich, so that he had neverhad the interest of the struggle for life, and, since his explorations inthe East, of which he had grown tired after a few years, he had notaccepted any official position. Outside his own personal work, however, hebusied himself with clairvoyance, contemporary problems, social reforms ofa practical and pressing nature, the reorganization of public education inFrance: he flung out ideas and created lines of thought: he would set greatintellectual machines working, and would immediately grow disgusted withthem. More than once he had scandalized people, who had been converted to acause by his arguments, by producing the most incisive and discouragingcriticisms of the cause itself. He did not do it deliberately: it was anatural necessity for him: he was very nervous and ironical in temper, andfound it hard to bear with the foibles of things and people which he sawwith the most disconcerting clarity. And, as there is no good cause, norany good man, who, seen at a certain angle or with a certain distortion, does not present a ridiculous aspect, there was nothing that, with hisironic disposition, he could go on respecting for long. All this was notcalculated to make him friends. And yet he was always well-disposed towardspeople, and inclined to do good: he did much good: but no one was evergrateful to him: even those whom he had helped could not in their heartsforgive him, because they had seen that they were ridiculous in his eyes. It was necessary for him not to see too much of men if he were to lovethem. Not that he was a misanthrope. He was not sure enough of himself tobe that. Face to face with the world at which he mocked, he was timid andbashful: at heart he was not at all sure that the world was not right andhimself wrong: he endeavored not to appear too different from other people, and strove to base his manners and apparent opinions on theirs. But hestrove in vain: he could not help judging them: he was keenly sensible ofany sort of exaggeration and anything that was not simple: and he couldnever conceal his irritation. He was especially sensible of the foibles ofthe Jews, because he knew them best: and as, in spite of his intellectualfreedom, which did not admit of barriers between races, he was oftenbrought up sharp against those barriers which men of other races raisedagainst him, --as, in spite of himself, he was out of his element amongChristian ideas, he retired with dignity into his ironic labors and theprofound affection he had for his wife. 

Worst of all, his wife was not secure against his irony. She was a kindly, busy woman, anxious to be useful, and always taken up with variouscharitable works. Her nature was much less complex than that of herhusband, and she was cramped by her moral benevolence and the ratherrigidly intellectual, though lofty, idea of duty that she had begotten. Herwhole life, which was sad enough, without children, with no great joy norgreat love, was based on this moral belief of hers, which was more thananything else the will to believe. Her husband's irony had, of course, seized on the element of voluntary self-deception in her faith, and--(itwas too strong for him)--he had made much fun at her expense. He was a massof contradictions. He had a feeling for duty no less lofty than his wife's, and, at the same time, a merciless desire to analyze, to criticize, and toavoid deception, which made him dismember and take to pieces his moralimperative. He could not see that he was digging away the ground from underhis wife's feet: he used cruelly to discourage her. When he realized thathe had done so, he suffered even more than she: but the harm was done. Itdid not keep them from loving each other faithfully, and working and doinggood. But the cold dignity of the wife was not more kindly judged than theirony of the husband: and as they were too proud to publish abroad the goodthey did, or their desire to do good, their reserve was regarded asindifference, and their isolation as selfishness. And the more consciousthey became of the opinion that was held of them, the more careful werethey to do nothing to dispute it. Reacting against the coarse indiscretionof so many of their race they were the victims of an excessive reservewhich covered a vast deal of pride. 

 * * * * *

As for the ground floor, which was a few steps higher than the littlegarden, it was occupied by Commandant Chabran, a retired officer of theColonial Artillery: he was still young, a man of great vigor, who hadfought brilliantly in the Soudan and Madagascar: then suddenly, he hadthrown the whole thing up, and buried himself there: he did not even wantto hear the army mentioned, and spent his time in digging his flower-beds, and practising the flute without making any progress, and growling aboutpolitics, and scolding his daughter, whom he adored: she was a young womanof thirty, not very pretty, but quite charming, who devoted herself to him, and had not married so as not to leave him. Christophe used often to seethem leaning out of the window: and, naturally, he paid more attention tothe daughter than the father. She used to spend part of the afternoon inthe garden, sewing, dreaming, digging, always in high good humor with hergrumbling old father. Christophe could hear her soft clear voice laughinglyreplying to the growling tones of the Commandant, whose footsteps groundand scrunched on the gravel-paths: then he would go in, and she would staysitting on a seat in the garden, and sew for hours together, neverstirring, never speaking, smiling vaguely, while inside the house the boredold soldier played flourishes on his shrill flute, or, by way of a change, made a broken-winded old harmonium squeal and groan, much to Christophe'samusement--or exasperation--(which, depended on the day and his mood). 

 * * * * *

All these people went on living side by side in that house with itswalled-in garden sheltered from all the buffets of the world, hermeticallysealed even against each other. Only Christophe, with his need of expansionand his great fullness of life, unknown to them, wrapped them about withhis vast sympathy, blind, yet all-seeing. He could not understand them. Hehad no means of understanding them. He lacked Olivier's psychologicalinsight and quickness. But he loved them. Instinctively he put himself intheir place. Slowly, mysteriously, there crept through him a dimconsciousness of these lives so near him and yet so far removed, thestupefying sorrow of the mourning woman, the stoic silence of all theirproud thoughts, the priest, the Jew, the engineer, the revolutionary: thepale and gentle flame of tenderness and faith which burned in silence inthe hearts of the two Arnauds: the naïve aspirations towards the light ofthe man of the people: the suppressed revolt and fertile activity whichwere stifled in the bosom of the old soldier: and the calm resignation ofthe girl dreaming in the shade of the lilac. But only Christophe couldperceive and hear the silent music of their souls: they heard it not: theywere all absorbed in their sorrow and their dreams. 

They all worked hard, the skeptical old scientist, the pessimisticengineer, the priest, the anarchist, and all these proud or dispiritedcreatures. And on the roof the mason sang. 

 * * * * *

In the district round the house among the best of the people Christophefound the same moral solitude--even when the people were banded together. 

Olivier had brought him in touch with a little review for which he wrote. It was called _Ésope_, and had taken for its motto this quotation fromMontaigne:

"_Æsop was put up for sale with two other staves. The purchaser inquired ofthe first what he could do; and he, to put a price upon himself, describedall sorts of marvels; the second said as much for himself, or more. When itcame to Æsop's turn, and he was asked what he could do:--Nothing, he said, for these two have taken everything: they can do everything. _"

Their attitude was that of pure reaction against "the impudence, " asMontaigne says, "of those who profess knowledge and their overweeningpresumption!" The self-styled skeptics of the _Ésope_ review were at heartmen of the firmest faith. But their mask of irony and haughty ignorance, naturally enough, had small attraction for the public: rather it repelled. The people are only with a writer when he brings them words of simple, clear, vigorous, and assured life. They prefer a sturdy lie to an anemictruth. Skepticism is only to their liking when it is the covering of lustynaturalism or Christian idolatry. The scornful Pyrrhonism in which the_Ésope_ clothed itself could only be acceptable to a few minds--"_aemesdegnose_, "--who knew the solid worth beneath it. It was force absolutelylost upon action and life. 

There was no help for it. The more democratic France became, the morearistocratic did her ideas, her art, her science seem to grow. Sciencesecurely lodged behind its special languages, in the depths of itssanctuary, wrapped about with a triple veil, which only the initiate hadthe power to draw, was less accessible than at the time of Buffon and theEncyclopedists. Art, --that art at least which had some respect for itselfand the worship of beauty, --was no less hermetically sealed: it despisedthe people. Even among writers who cared less for beauty than for action, among those who gave moral ideas precedence over esthetic ideas, there wasoften a strange dominance of the aristocratic spirit. They seemed to bemore intent upon preserving the purity of their inward flame than tocommunicate its warmth to others. It was as though they desired not to maketheir ideas prevail but only to affirm them. 

And yet among these writers there were some who applied themselves topopular art. Among the most sincere some hurled into their writingsdestructive anarchical ideas, truths of the distant future, which might bebeneficent in a century or so, but, for the time being, corroded andscorched the soul: others wrote bitter or ironical plays, robbed of allillusion, sad to the last degree. Christophe was left in a state ofcollapse, ham-strung, for a day or two after he read them. 

"And you give that sort of thing to the people?" he would ask, feelingsorry for the poor audiences who had come to forget their troubles for afew hours, only to be presented with these lugubrious entertainments. "It'senough to make them all go and drown themselves!"

"You may be quite easy on that score, " said Olivier, laughing. "The peopledon't go. "

"And a jolly good thing too! You're mad. Are you trying to rob them ofevery scrap of courage to live?"

"Why? Isn't it right to teach them to see the sadness of things, as we do, and yet to go on and do their duty without flinching?"

"Without flinching? I doubt that. But it's very certain that they'll do itwithout pleasure. And you don't go very far when you've destroyed a man'spleasure in living. "

"What else can one do? One has no right to falsify the truth. "

"Nor have you any right to tell the whole truth to everybody. "

"_You_ say that? You who are always shouting the truth aloud, you whopretend to love truth more than anything in the world!"

"Yes: truth for myself and those whose backs are strong enough to bear itBut it is cruel and stupid to tell it to the rest. Yes. I see that now. Athome that would never have occurred to me: in Germany people are not somorbid about the truth as they are here: they're too much taken up withliving: very wisely they see only what they wish to see. I love you for notbeing like that: you are honest and go straight ahead. But you are inhuman. When you think you have unearthed a truth, you let it loose upon the world, without stopping to think whether, like the foxes in the Bible with theirburning tails, it will not set fire to the world. I think it is fine of youto prefer truth to your happiness. But when it comes to the happiness ofother people. . . . Then I say, 'Stop!' You are taking too much uponyourselves. Thou shalt love truth, more than thyself, but thy neighbor morethan truth. "

"Is one to lie to one's neighbor?"

Christophe replied with the words of Goethe:

"We should only express those of the highest truths which will be to thegood of the world. The rest we must keep to ourselves: like the soft raysof a hidden sun, they will shed their light upon all our actions. "

But they were not moved by these scruples. They never stopped to thinkwhether the bow in their hands shot "_ideas or death_, " or both together. They were too intellectual. They lacked love. When a Frenchman has ideas hetries to impose them on others. He tries to do the same thing when he hasnone. And when he sees that he cannot do it he loses interest in otherpeople, he loses interest in action. That was the chief reason why thisparticular group took so little interest in politics, save to moan andgroan. Each of them was shut up in his faith, or want of faith. 

Many attempts had been made to break down their individualism and to formgroups of these men: but the majority of these groups had immediatelyresolved themselves into literary clubs, or split up into absurd factions. The best of them were mutually destructive. There were among them somefirst-rate men of force and faith, men well fitted to rally and guide thoseof weaker will. But each man had his following, and would not consent tomerging it with that of other men. So they were split up into a number ofreviews, unions, associations, which had all the moral virtues, save one:self-denial; for not one of them would give way to the others: and, whilethey wrangled over the crumbs that fell from an honest and well-meaningpublic, small in numbers and poor in purse, they vegetated for a shorttime, starved and languished, and at last collapsed never to rise again, not under the assault of the enemy, but--(most pitiful!)--under the weightof their own quarrels. --The various professions, --men of letters, dramaticauthors, poets, prose writers, professors, members of the Institute, journalists--were divided up into a number of little castes, which theythemselves split up again into smaller castes, each one of which closed itsdoors against the rest. There was no sort of mutual interchange. There wasno unanimity on any subject in France, except at those very rare momentswhen unanimity assumed an epidemic character, and, as a rule, was in thewrong: for it was morbid. A crazy individualism predominated in every kindof French activity: in scientific research as well as in commerce, in whichit prevented business men from combining and organizing working agreements. This individualism was not that of a rich and bustling vitality, but thatof obstinacy and self-repression. To be alone, to owe nothing to others, not to mix with others for fear of feeling their inferiority in theircompany, not to disturb the tranquillity of their haughty isolation: thesewere the secret thoughts of almost all these men who founded "outside"reviews, "outside" theaters, "outside" groups: reviews, theaters, groups, all most often had no other reason for existing than the desire not to bewith the general herd, and an incapacity for joining with other people in acommon idea or course of action, distrust of other people, or, at the veryworst, party hostility, setting one against the other the very men who weremost fitted to understand each other. 

Even when men who thought highly of each other were united in some commontask, like Olivier and his colleagues on the _Ésope_ review, they alwaysseemed to be on their guard with each other: they had nothing of thatopen-handed geniality so common in Germany, where it is apt to become anuisance. Among these young men there was one especially who attractedChristophe because he divined him to be a man of exceptional force: he wasa writer of inflexible logic and will, with a passion for moral ideas, inthe service of which he was absolutely uncompromising and ready in theircause to sacrifice the whole world and himself: he had founded andconducted almost unaided a review in which to uphold them: he had sworn toimpose on Europe and on France the idea of a pure, heroic, and free France:he firmly believed that the world would one day recognize that he wasresponsible for one of the boldest pages in the history of Frenchthought:--and he was not mistaken. Christophe would have been only too gladto know him better and to be his friend. But there was no way of bringingit about. Although Olivier had a good deal to do with him they saw verylittle of each other except on business: they never discussed any intimatematter, and never got any farther than the exchange of a few abstractideas: or rather--(for, to be exact, there was no exchange, and eachadhered to his own ideas)--they soliloquized in each other's company inturn. However, they were comrades in arms and knew their worth. 

There were innumerable reasons for this reservedness, reasons difficult todiscern, even for their own eyes. The first reason was a too great criticalfaculty, which saw too clearly the unalterable differences between one mindand another, backed by an excessive intellectualism which attached too muchimportance to those differences: they lacked that puissant and naïvesympathy whose vital need is of love, the need of giving out itsoverflowing love. Then, too, perhaps overwork, the struggle for existence, the fever of thought, which so taxes strength that by the evening there isnone left for friendly intercourse, had a great deal to do with it. Andthere was that terrible feeling, which every Frenchman is afraid to admit, though too often it is stirring in his heart, the feeling of _not being ofone race_, the feeling that the nation consists of different racesestablished at different epochs on the soil of France, who, though allbound together, have few ideas in common, and therefore ought not, in thecommon interest, to ponder them too much. But above all the reason was toseek in the intoxicating and dangerous passion for liberty, to which, whena man has once tasted it, there is nothing that he will not sacrifice. Suchsolitary freedom is all the more precious for having been bought by yearsof tribulation. The select few have taken refuge in it to escape theslavishness of the mediocre. It is a reaction against the tyranny of thepolitical and religious masses, the terrific crushing weight whichoverbears the individual in France: the family, public opinion, the State, secret societies, parties, coteries, schools. Imagine a prisoner who, toescape, has to scale twenty great walls hemming him in. If he manages toclear them all without breaking his neck, and, above all, without losingheart, he must be strong indeed. A rough schooling for free-will! But thosewho have gone through it bear the marks of it all their life in the maniafor independence, and the impossibility of their ever living in the livesof others. 

Side by side with this loneliness of pride, there was the loneliness ofrenunciation. There were many, many good men in France whose goodness andpride and affection came to nothing in withdrawal from life! A thousandreasons, good and bad, stood in the way of action for them. With some itwas obedience, timidity, force of habit. With others human respect, fear ofridicule, fear of being conspicuous, of being a mark for the comments ofthe gallery, of meddling with things that did not concern them, of havingtheir disinterested actions attributed to motives of interest. There weremen who would not take part in any political or social struggle, women whodeclined to undertake any philanthropic work, because there were too manypeople engaged in these things who lacked conscience and even common sense, and because they were afraid of the taint of these charlatans and fools. Inalmost all such people there are disgust, weariness, dread of action, suffering, ugliness, stupidity, risks, responsibilities: the terrible"What's the use?" which destroys the good-will of so many of the French ofto-day. They are too intelligent, --(their intelligence has no wide sweep ofthe wings), --they are too intent upon reasons for and against. They lackforce. They lack vitality. When a man's life beats strongly he neverwonders why he goes on living: he lives for the sake of living, --because itis a splendid thing to be alive!

In fine, the best of them were a mixture of sympathetic and averagequalities: a modicum of philosophy, moderate desires, fond attachment tothe family, the earth, moral custom; discretion, dread of intruding, ofbeing a nuisance to other people: modesty of feeling, unbending reserve. All these amiable and charming qualities could, in certain cases, bebrought into line with serenity, courage, and inward joy; but at bottomthere was a certain connection between them and poverty in the blood, theprogressive ebb of French vitality. 

The pretty garden, beneath the house in which Christophe and Olivier lived, tucked away between the four walls, was symbolical of that part of the lifeof France. It was a little patch of green earth shut off from the outerworld. Only now and then did the mighty wind of the outer air, whirlingdown, bring to the girl dreaming there the breath of the distant fields andthe vast earth. 

 * * * * *

Now that Christophe was beginning to perceive the hidden resources ofFrance he was furious that she should suffer the oppression of the rabble. The half-light, in which the select and silent few were huddled away, stifled him. Stoicism is a fine thing for those whose teeth are gone. Buthe needed the open air, the great public, the sunshine of glory, the loveof thousands of men and women: he needed to hold close to him those whom heloved, to pulverize his enemies, to fight and to conquer. 

"You can, " said Olivier. "You are strong. You were born to conquer throughyour faults--(forgive me!)--as well as through your qualities. You arelucky enough not to belong to a race and a nation which are tooaristocratic. Action does not repel you. If need be you could even become apolitician. --Besides, you have the inestimable good fortune to write music. Nobody understands you, and so you can say anything and everything. Ifpeople had any idea of the contempt for themselves which you put into yourmusic, and your faith in what they deny, and your perpetual hymn in praiseof what they are always trying to kill, they would never forgive you, andyou would be so fettered, and persecuted, and harassed, that you wouldwaste most of your strength in fighting them: when you had beaten them backyou would have no breath left for going on with your work: your life wouldbe finished. The great men who triumph have the good luck to bemisunderstood. They are admired for the very opposite of what they are. "

"Pooh!" said Christophe. "You don't understand how cowardly your mastersare. At first I thought you were alone, and I used to find excuses for yourinaction. But, as a matter of fact, there's a whole army of you all of thesame mind. You are a hundred times stronger than your oppressors, you are athousand times more worthy, and you let them impose on you with theireffrontery! I don't understand you. You live in a most beautiful country, you are gifted with the finest intelligence and the most human quality ofmind, and with it all you do nothing: you allow yourselves to be overborneand outraged and trampled underfoot by a parcel of fools. Good Lord! Beyourselves! Don't wait for Heaven or a Napoleon to come to your aid! Arise, band yourselves together! Get to work, all of you! Sweep out your house!"

But Olivier shrugged his shoulders, and said, wearily and ironically:

"Grapple with them? No. That is not our game: we have better things to do. Violence disgusts me. I know only too well what would happen. All the oldembittered failures, the young Royalist idiots, the odious apostles ofbrutality and hatred, would seize on anything I did and bring it todishonor. Do you want me to adopt the old device of hate: _Fuori Barbari_, or: _France for the French_?"

"Why not?" asked Christophe. 

"No. Such a device is not for the French. Any attempt to propagate it amongour people under cover of patriotism must fail. It is good enough forbarbarian countries! But our country has no use for hatred. Our geniusnever yet asserted itself by denying or destroying the genius of othercountries, but by absorbing them. Let the troublous North and theloquacious South come to us. . . . "

"And the poisonous East?"

"And the poisonous East: we will absorb it with the rest: we have absorbedmany others! I just laugh at the air of triumph they assume, and thepusillanimity of some of my fellow-countrymen. They think they haveconquered us, they strut about our boulevards, and in our newspapers andreviews, and in our theaters and in the political arena. Idiots! It is theywho are conquered! They will be assimilated after having fed us. Gaul has astrong stomach: in these twenty centuries she has digested more than onecivilization. We are proof against poison. . . . It is meet that you Germansshould be afraid! You must be pure or impure. But with us it is not amatter of purity but of universality. You have an Emperor: Great Britaincalls herself an Empire: but, in fact, it is our Latin Genius that isImperial. We are the citizens of the City of the Universe. _Urbis, Orbis_. "

"That is all very well, " said Christophe, "as long as the nation is healthyand in the flower of its manhood. But there will come a day when its energydeclines: and then there is a danger of its being submerged by the influxof foreigners. Between ourselves, does it not seem as though that day hadarrived?"

"People have been saying that for ages. Again and again our history hasgiven the lie to such fears. We have passed through many different trialssince the days of the Maid of Orleans, when Paris was deserted, and bandsof wolves prowled through the streets. Neither in the prevalent immorality, nor the pursuit of pleasure, nor the laxness, nor the anarchy of thepresent day, do I see any cause for fear. Patience! Those who wish to livemust endure in patience. I am sure that presently there will be a moralreaction, --which will not be much better, and will probably lead to anequal degree of folly; those who are now living on the corruptness ofpublic life will not be the least clamorous in the reaction!. . . But whatdoes that matter to us? All these movements do not touch the real people ofFrance. Rotten fruit does not corrupt the tree. It falls. Besides, allthese people are such a small part of the nation! What does it matter to uswhether they live or die? Why should I bother to organize leagues andrevolutions against them? The existing evil is not the work of any form ofgovernment. It is the leprosy of luxury, a contagion spread by theparasites of intellectual and material wealth. Such parasites will perish. "

"After they have sapped your vitality. "

"It is impossible to despair of such a race. There is in it such hiddenvirtue, such a power of light and practical idealism, that they creep intothe veins even of those who are exploiting and ruining the nation. Even thegrasping, self-seeking politicians succumb to its fascination. Even themost mediocre of men when they are in power are gripped by the greatness ofits Destiny: it lifts them out of themselves: the torch is passed on fromhand to hand among them: one after another they resume the holy war againstdarkness. They are drawn onward by the genius of the people: willy-nillythey fulfil the law of the God whom they deny, _Gesta Dei per Francos_. . . . O my beloved country, I will never lose my faith in thee! And though in thytrials thou didst perish, yet would I find in that only a reason the morefor my proud belief, even to the bitter end, in our mission in the world. Iwill not have my beloved France fearfully shutting herself up in asickroom, and closing every inlet to the outer air. I have no mind toprolong a sickly existence. When a nation has been so great as we havebeen, then it were far better to die rather than to sink from greatness. Therefore let the ideas of the world rush into the channels of our minds! Iam not afraid. The floor will go down of its own accord after it hasenriched the soil of France with its ooze. "

"My poor dear fellow, " said Christophe, "but it's a grim prospect in themeanwhile. Where will you be when your France emerges from the Nile? Don'tyou think it would be better to fight against it? You wouldn't riskanything except defeat, and you seem inclined to impose that on yourself aslong as you like. "

"I should be risking much more than defeat, " said Olivier. "I should berunning the risk of losing my peace of mind, which I prize far more thanvictory. I will not be a party to hatred. I will be just to all my enemies. In the midst of passion I wish to preserve the clarity of my vision, tounderstand and love everything. "

 * * * * *

But Christophe, to whom this love of life, detached from life, seemed to bevery little different from resignation and acceptance of death, felt in hisheart, as in Empedocles of old, the stirring of a hymn to Hatred and toLove, the brother of Hate, fruitful Love, tilling and sowing good seed inthe earth. He did not share Olivier's calm fatalism: he had no suchconfidence in the continuance of a race which did not defend itself, andhis desire was to appeal to all the healthy forces of the nation, to callforth and band together all the honest men in the whole of France. 

 * * * * *

Just as it is possible to learn more of a human being in one minute of lovethan in months of observation, so Christophe had learned more about Francein a week of intimacy with Olivier, hardly ever leaving the house, thanduring a whole year of blind wandering through Paris, and standing atattention at various intellectual and political gatherings. Amid theuniversal anarchy in which he had been floundering, a soul like that of hisfriend seemed to him veritably to be the "_Île de France_"--the island ofreason and serenity in the midst of the ocean. The inward peace which wasin Olivier was all the more striking, inasmuch as it had no intellectualsupport, --as it existed amid unhappy circumstances, --(in poverty andsolitude, while the country of its birth was decadent), --and as its bodywas weak, sickly, and nerve-ridden. That serenity was apparently not thefruit of any effort of will striving to realize it, --(Olivier had littlewill);--it came from the depths of his being and his race. In many of themen of Olivier's acquaintance Christophe perceived the distant light ofthat [Greek: sophrosynae], --"the silent calm of the motionless sea";--andhe, who knew, none better, the stormy, troublous depths of his own soul, and how he had to stretch his will-power to the utmost to maintain thebalance in his lusty nature, marveled at its veiled harmony. 

What he had seen of the inner France had upset all his preconceived ideasabout the character of the French. Instead of a gay, sociable, careless, brilliant people, he saw men of a headstrong and close temper, living inisolation, wrapped about with a seeming optimism, like a gleaming mist, while they were in fact steeped in a deep-rooted and serene pessimism, possessed by fixed ideas, intellectual passions, indomitable souls, whichit would have been easier to destroy than to alter. No doubt these men wereonly the select few among the French: but Christophe wondered where theycould have come by their stoicism and their faith. Olivier told him:

"In defeat. It is you, my dear Christophe, who have forged us anew. Ah! Butwe suffered for it, too. You can have no idea of the darkness in which wegrew up in a France humiliated and sore, which had come face to face withdeath, and still felt the heavy weight of the murderous menace of force. Our life, our genius, our French civilization, the greatness of a thousandyears, --we were conscious that France was in the hands of a brutalconqueror who did not understand her, and hated her in his heart, and atany moment might crush the life out of her for ever. And we had to live forthat and no other destiny! Have you ever thought of the French childrenborn in houses of death in the shadow of defeat, fed with ideas ofdiscouragement, trained to strike for a bloody, fatal, and perhaps futilerevenge: for even as babies, the first thing they learned was that therewas no justice, there was no justice in the world: might prevailed againstright! For a child to open its eyes upon such things is for its soul to bedegraded or uplifted for ever. Many succumbed: they said: 'Since it is so, why struggle against it? Why do anything? Everything is nothing. We'll notthink of it. Let us enjoy ourselves. '--But those who stood out against itare proof against fire: no disillusion can touch their faith: for fromtheir earliest childhood they have known that their road could never leadthem near the road to happiness, and that they had no choice but to followit, else they would suffocate. Such assurance is not come by all at once. It is not to be expected of boys of fifteen. There is bitter agony beforeit is attained, and many tears are shed. But it is well that it should beso. It must be so. . . . 

"_O Faith, virgin of steel. . . . _

"Dig deep with thy lance into the downtrodden hearts of the peoples!peoples!. . . "

In silence Christophe pressed Olivier's hand. 

"Dear Christophe, " said Olivier, "your Germany has made us suffer indeed. "

And Christophe begged for forgiveness almost as though he had beenresponsible for it. 

"There's nothing for you to worry about, " said Olivier, smiling. "The goodit has unintentionally done us far outweighs the ill. You have rekindledour idealism, you have revived in us the keen desire for knowledge andfaith, you have filled our France with schools, you have raised to thehighest pitch the creative powers of a Pasteur, whose discoveries are aloneworth more than your indemnity of two hundred million; you have given newlife to our poetry, our painting, our music: to you we owe the newawakening of the consciousness of our race. We have reward enough for theeffort needed to learn to set our faith before our happiness: for, in doingso, we have come by a feeling of such moral force, that, amid the apathy ofthe world, we have no doubt, even of victory in the end. Though we are fewin number, my dear Christophe, though we seem so weak, --a drop of water inthe ocean of German power--we believe that the drop of water will in theend color the whole ocean. The Macedonian phalanx will destroy the mightyarmies of the plebs of Europe. "

Christophe looked down at the puny Olivier, in whose eyes there shone thelight of faith, and he said:

"Poor weakly little Frenchmen! You are stronger than we are. "

"O beneficent defeat, " Olivier went on. "Blessed be that disaster! We willno more deny it! We are its children. "

II

Defeat new-forges the chosen among men: it sorts out the people: it winnowsout those who are purest and strongest, and makes them purer and stronger. But it hastens the downfall of the rest, or cuts short their flight. Inthat way it separates the mass of the people, who slumber or fall by theway, from the chosen few who go marching on. The chosen few know it andsuffer: even in the most valiant there is a secret melancholy, a feeling oftheir own impotence and isolation. Worst of all, --cut off from the greatmass of their people, they are also cut off from each other. Each mustfight for his own hand. The strong among them think only ofself-preservation. _O man, help thyself!_. . . They never dream that thesturdy saying means: _O men, help yourselves!_ In all there is a want ofconfidence, they lack free-flowing sympathy, and do not feel the need ofcommon action which makes a race victorious, the feeling of overflowingstrength, of reaching upward to the zenith. 

Christophe and Olivier knew something of all this. In Paris, full of menand women who could have understood them, in the house peopled with unknownfriends, they were as solitary as in a desert of Asia. 

 * * * * *

They were very poor. Their resources were almost nil. Christophe had onlythe copying and transcriptions of music given him by Hecht. Olivier hadvery unwisely thrown up his post at the University during the period ofdepression following on his sister's death, which had been accentuated byan unhappy love affair with a young lady he had met at MadameNathan's:--(he had never mentioned it to Christophe, for he was modestabout his troubles: part of his charm lay in the little air of mysterywhich he always preserved about his private affairs, even with his friend, from whom, however, he made no attempt to conceal anything). --In hisdepressed condition when he had longed for silence his work as a lecturerbecame intolerable to him. He had never cared for the profession, whichnecessitates a certain amount of showing off, and thinking aloud, while itgives a man no time to himself. If teaching in a school is to be at all anoble thing it must be a matter of a sort of apostolic vocation, and thatOlivier did not possess in the slightest degree: and lecturing for any ofthe Faculties means being perpetually in contact with the public, which isa grim fate for a man, like Olivier, with a desire for solitude. On severaloccasions he had had to speak in public: it gave him a singular feeling ofhumiliation. At first he loathed being exhibited on a platform. He _saw_the audience, felt it, as with antennæ, and knew that for the most part itwas composed of idle people who were there only for the sake of havingsomething to do: and the role of official entertainer was not at all to hisliking. Worst of all, speaking from a platform is almost bound to distortideas: if the speaker does not take care there is a danger of his passinggradually from a certain theatricality in gesture, diction, attitude, andthe form in which he presents his ideas--to mental trickery. A lecture is athing hovering in the balance between tiresome comedy and polite pedantry. For an artist who is rather bashful and proud, a lecture, which is amonologue shouted in the presence of a few hundred unknown, silent people, a ready-made garment warranted to fit all sizes, though it actually fits noone, is a thing intolerably false. Olivier, being more and more under thenecessity of withdrawing into himself and saying nothing which was notwholly the expression of his thought, gave up the profession of teaching, which he had had so much difficulty in entering: and, as he no longer hadhis sister to check him in his tendency to dream, he began to write. He wasnaïve enough to believe that his undoubted worth as an artist could notfail to be recognized without his doing anything to procure recognition. 

He was quickly undeceived. He found it impossible to get anythingpublished. He had a jealous love of liberty, which gave him a horror ofeverything that might impinge on it, and made him live apart, like a poorstarved plant, among the solid masses of the political churches whosebaleful associations divided the country and the Press between them. He wasjust as much cut off from all the literary coteries and rejected by them. He had not, nor could he have, a single friend among them. He was repelledby the hardness, the dryness, the egoism of the intellectuals--(except forthe very few who were following a real vocation, or were absorbed by apassionate enthusiasm for scientific research). That man is a sorrycreature who has let his heart atrophy for the sake of his mind--when hismind is small. In such a man there is no kindness, only a brain like adagger in a sheath: there is no knowing but it will one day cut yourthroat. Against such a man it is necessary to be always armed. Friendshipis only possible with honest men, who love fine things for their own sake, and not for what they can make out of them, --those who live outside theirart. The majority of men cannot breathe the atmosphere of art. Only thevery great can live in it without loss of love, which is the source oflife. 

Olivier could only count on himself. And that was a very precarioussupport. Any fresh step was a matter of extreme difficulty to him. He wasnot disposed to accept humiliation for the sake of his work. He went hotwith shame at the base and obsequious homage which young authors forcedthemselves to pay to a well-known theater manager, who took advantage oftheir cowardice, and treated them as he would never dare to treat hisservants. Olivier could never have done that to save his life. He just senthis manuscripts by post, or left them at the offices of the theaters or thereviews, where they lay for months unread. However, one day by chance hemet one of his old schoolfellows, an amiable loafer, who had still a sortof grateful admiration for him for the ease and readiness with whichOlivier had done his exercises: he knew nothing at all about literature:but he knew several literary men, which was much better: he was rich and insociety, something of a snob, and so he let them, discreetly, exploit him. He put in a word for Olivier with the editor of an important review inwhich he was a shareholder: and at once one of his forgotten manuscriptswas disinterred and read: and, after much temporization, --(for, if thearticle seemed to be worth something, the author's name, being unknown, wasvalueless), --they decided to accept it. When he heard the good news Olivierthought his troubles were over. They were only just beginning. 

It is comparatively easy to have an article accepted in Paris: but gettingit published is quite a different matter. The unhappy writer has to waitand wait, for months, if need be for life, if he has not acquired the trickof flattering people, or bullying them, and showing himself from time totime at the receptions of these petty monarchs, and reminding them of hisexistence, and making it clear that he means to go on being a nuisance tothem as long as they make it necessary. Olivier just stayed at home, andwore himself out with waiting. At best he would write a letter or two whichwere never answered. He would lose heart, and be unable to work. It wasquite absurd, but there was nothing to be done. He would wait for postafter post, sitting at his desk, with his mind blanketed by all sorts ofvague injuries: then he would get up and go downstairs to the porter'sroom, and look hopefully in his letter-box, only to meet withdisappointment: he would walk blindly about with no thought in his head butto go back and look again: and when the last post had gone, when thesilence of his room was broken only by the heavy footsteps of the people inthe room above, he would feel strangled by the cruel indifference of itall. Only a word of reply, only a word! Could that be refused him if onlyin charity? And yet those who refused him that had no idea of the hurt theywere dealing him. Every man sees the world in his own image. Those who haveno life in their hearts see the universe as withered and dry: and theynever dream of the anguish of expectation, hope, and suffering which rendsthe hearts of the young: or if they give it a thought, they judge themcoldly, with the weary, ponderous irony of those who are surfeited andbeyond the freshness of life. 

At last the article appeared. Olivier had waited so long that it gave himno pleasure: the thing was dead for him. And yet he hoped desperately thatit would be a living thing for others. There were flashes of poetry andintelligence in it which could not pass unnoticed. It fell upon absolutesilence. --He made two or three more attempts. Being attached to no cliquehe met with silence or hostility everywhere. He could not understand it. Hehad thought simply that everybody must be naturally well-disposed towardsthe work of a new man, even if it was not very good. It always representssuch an amount of work, and surely people would be grateful to a man whohas tried to give others a little beauty, a little force, a little joy. Buthe only met with indifference or disparagement. And yet he knew that hecould not be alone in feeling what he had written, and that it must be inthe minds of other good men. He did not know that such good men did notread him, and had nothing to do with literary opinion, or with anything, orwith anything. If here and there there were a few men whom his words hadreached, men who sympathized with him, they would never tell him so: theyremained immured in their unnatural silence. Just as they refrained fromvoting, so they took no share in art: they did not read books, whichshocked them: they did not go to the theater, which disgusted them: butthey let their enemies vote, elect their enemies, engineer a scandaloussuccess and a vulgar celebrity for books and plays and ideas which onlyrepresented an impudent minority of the people of France. 

Since Olivier could not count on those who were mentally akin to himself, as they did not read, he was delivered up to the hosts of the enemy, to themercy of men of letters, who were for the most part hostile to his ideas, and the critics who were at their beck and call. 

His first bouts with them left him bleeding. He was as sensitive tocriticism as old Bruchner, who could not bear to have his work performed, because he had suffered so much from the malevolence of the Press. He didnot even win the support of his former colleagues at the University, who, thanks to their profession, did preserve a certain sense of theintellectual traditions of France, and might have understood him. But forthe most part these excellent young men, cramped by discipline, absorbed intheir work, often rather embittered by their thankless duties, could notforgive Olivier for trying to break away and do something else Like goodlittle officials, many of them were inclined only to admit the superiorityof talent when it was consonant with hierarchic superiority. 

In such a position three courses were open to him: to break down resistanceby force: to submit to humiliating compromises: or to make up his mind towrite only for himself. Olivier was incapable of the two first: hesurrendered to the third. To make a living he went through the drudgery ofteaching and went on writing, and as there was no possibility of his workattaining full growth in publicity, it became more and more involved, chimerical, and unreal. 

Christophe dropped like a thunderbolt into the midst of his dim crepuscularlife. He was furious at the wickedness of people and Olivier's patience. 

"Have you no blood in your veins?" he would say. "How can you stand such alife? You know your own superiority to these swine, and yet you let themsqueeze the life out of you without a murmur!"

"What can I do?" Olivier would say. "I can't defend myself. It revolts meto fight with people I despise: I know that they can use every weaponagainst me: and I can't. Not only should I loathe to stoop to use the meansthey employ, but I should be afraid of hurting them. When I was a boy Iused to let my schoolfellows beat me as much as they liked. They used tothink me a coward, and that I was afraid of being hit. I was more afraid ofhitting than of being hit. I remember some one saying to me one day, whenone of my tormentors was bullying me: 'Why don't you stop it once and forall, and give him a kick in the stomach?' That filled me with horror. Iwould much rather be thrashed. "

"There's no blood in your veins, " said Christophe. "And on top of that, allsorts of Christian ideas!. . . Your religious education in France is reducedto the Catechism: the emasculate Gospel, the tame, boneless NewTestament. . . . Humanitarian clap-trap, always tearful. . . . And theRevolution, Jean-Jacques, Robespierre, '48, and, on top of that, theJews!. . . Take a dose of the full-blooded Old Testament every morning. "

Olivier protested. He had a natural antipathy for the Old Testament, afeeling which dated back to his childhood, when he used secretly to poreover an illustrated Bible, which had been in the library at home, where itwas never read, and the children were even forbidden to open it. Theprohibition was useless! Olivier could never keep the book open for long. He used quickly to grow irritated and saddened by it, and then he wouldclose it: and he would find consolation in plunging into the _Iliad_, orthe _Odyssey_, or the _Arabian Nights_. 

"The gods of the _Iliad_ are men, beautiful, mighty, vicious: I canunderstand them, " said Olivier. "I like them or dislike them: even when Idislike them I still love them: I am in love with them. More than once, with Patroclus, I have kissed the lovely feet of Achilles as he laybleeding. But the God of the Bible is an old Jew, a maniac, a monomaniac, araging madman, who spends his time in growling and hurling threats, andhowling like an angry wolf, raving to himself in the confinement of thatcloud of his. I don't understand him. I don't love him; his perpetualcurses make my head ache, and his savagery fills me with horror:

 "_The burden of Moab. . . . _

 "_The burden of Damascus. . . . _

 "_The burden of Babylon. . . . _

 "_The burden of Egypt. . . . _

 "_The burden of the desert of the sea. . . . _

 "_The burden of the valley of vision. . . . _

"He is a lunatic who thinks himself judge, public prosecutor, andexecutioner rolled into one, and, even in the courtyard of his prison, hepronounces sentence of death on the flowers and the pebbles. One isstupefied by the tenacity of his hatred, which fills the book with bloodycries . . . --'a cry of destruction, . . . The cry is gone round about theborders of Moab: the howling thereof unto Eglaim, and the howling thereofunto Beerelim. . . . '

"Every now and then he takes a rest, and looks round on his massacres, andthe little children done to death, and the women outraged and butchered:and he laughs like one of the captains of Joshua, feasting after the sackof a town:

"'_And the Lord of hosts shall make unto all people a feast of fat things;a feast of wine on the lees, of fat things full of marrow, of wine on thelees well refined. . . . The sword of the Lord is filled with blood, it ismade fat with fatness, with the fat of the kidneys of rams. . . . _'

"But worst of all is the perfidy with which this God sends his prophet tomake men blind, so that in due course he may have a reason for making themsuffer:

"'_Make the heart of this people fat, and make their ears heavy and shuttheir eyes: lest they see with their eyes and hear with their ears andunderstand with their heart, and convert, and be healed. --Lord, howlong?--Until the cities be wasted without inhabitants, and the houseswithout men, and the land be utterly desolate. . . . _' Oh! I have never founda man so evil as that!. . . 

"I'm not so foolish as to deny the force of the language. But I cannotseparate thought and form: and if I do occasionally admire this Hebrew God, it is with the same sort of admiration that I feel for a viper, or a. . . --(I'm trying in vain to find a Shakespearean monster as an example: Ican't find one: even Shakespeare never begat such a hero of Hatred--saintlyand virtuous Hatred). Such a book is a terrible thing. Madness is alwayscontagious. And that particular madness is all the more dangerous inasmuchas it sets up its own murderous pride as an instrument of purification. England makes me shudder when I think that her people have for centuriesbeen nourished on no other fare. . . . I'm glad to think that there is thedike of the Channel between them and me. I shall never believe that anation is altogether civilized as long as the Bible is its staple food. "

"In that case, " said Christophe, "you will have to be just as much afraidof me, for I get drunk on it. It is the very marrow of a race of lions. Stout hearts are those which feed on it. Without the antidote of the OldTestament the Gospel is tasteless and unwholesome fare. The Bible is thebone and sinew of nations with the will to live. A man must fight, and hemust hate. "

"I hate hatred, " said Olivier. 

"I only wish you did!" retorted Christophe. 

"You're right. I'm too weak even for that. What would you? I can't helpseeing the arguments in favor of my enemies. And I say to myself over andover again, like Chardin: 'Gentleness! Gentleness!'. . . . "

"What a silly sheep you are!" said Christophe. "But whether you like it ornot, I'm going to make you leap the ditch you're shying at, and I'm goingto drag you on and beat the big drum for you. "

 * * * * *

In the upshot he took Olivier's affairs in hand and set out to do battlefor him. His first efforts were not very successful. He lost his temper atthe very outset, and did his friend much harm by pleading his cause: herecognized what he had done very quickly, and was in despair at his ownclumsiness. 

Olivier did not stand idly by. He went and fought for Christophe. In spiteof his fear and dislike of fighting, in spite of his lucid and ironicalmind, which scorned any sort of exaggeration in word and deed, when it cameto defending Christophe he was far more violent than anybody else, and eventhan Christophe himself. He lost his head. Love makes a man irrational, andOlivier was no exception to the rule. --However, he was cleverer thanChristophe. Though he was uncompromising and clumsy in handling his ownaffairs, when it came to promoting Christophe's success he was politic andeven tricky: he displayed an energy and ingenuity well calculated to winsupport: he succeeded in interesting various musical critics and Mæcenasesin Christophe, though he would have been utterly ashamed to approach themwith his own work. 

In spite of everything they found it very difficult to better their lot. Their love for each other made them do many stupid things. Christophe gotinto debt over getting a volume of Olivier's poems published secretly, andnot a single copy was sold. Olivier induced Christophe to give a concert, and hardly anybody came to it. Faced with the empty hall, Christopheconsoled himself bravely with Handel's quip: "Splendid! My music will soundall the better. . . . " But these bold attempts did not repay the money theycost: and they would go back to their rooms full of indignation at theindifference of the world. 

 * * * * *

In their difficulties the only man who came to their aid was a Jew, a manof forty, named Taddée Mooch. He kept an art-photograph shop: but althoughhe was interested in his trade and brought much taste and skill to bear onit, he was interested in so many things outside it that he was apt toneglect his business for them. When he did attend to his business he waschiefly engaged in perfecting technical devices, and he would lose his headover new reproduction processes, which, in spite of their ingenuity, hardlyever succeeded, and always cost him a great deal of money. He was avoracious reader, and was always hard on the heels of every new idea inphilosophy, art, science, and politics: he had an amazing knack of findingout men of originality and independence of character: it was as though heanswered to their magnetism. He was a sort of connecting-link betweenOlivier's friends, who were all as isolated as himself, and all working intheir several directions. He used to go from one to the other, and throughhim there was established between them a complete circuit of ideas, thoughneither he nor they had any notion of it. 

When Olivier first proposed to introduce him to Christophe, Christopherefused: he was sick of his experiences with the tribe of Israel. Olivierlaughed and insisted on it, saying that he knew no more of the Jews than hedid of France. At last Christophe consented, but when he saw Taddée Moochhe made a face. In appearance Mooch was extraordinarily Jewish: he was theJew as he is drawn by those who dislike the race: short, bald, badly built, with a greasy nose and heavy eyes goggling behind large spectacles: hisface was hidden by a rough, black, scrubby beard: he had hairy hands, longarms, and short bandy legs: a little Syrian Baal. But he had such a kindlyexpression that Christophe was touched by it. Above all, he was verysimple, and never talked too much. He never paid exaggerated compliments, but just dropped the right word, pat. He was very eager to be of service, and before any kindness was asked of him it would be done. He came often, too often; and he almost always brought good news: work for one or other ofthem, a commission for an article or a lecture for Olivier, ormusic-lessons for Christophe. He never stayed long. It was a sort ofaffectation with him never to intrude. Perhaps he saw Christophe'sirritation, for his first impulse was always towards an ejaculation ofimpatience when he saw the bearded face of the Carthaginian idol, --(he usedto call him "Moloch")--appear round the door: but the next moment it wouldbe gone, and he would feel nothing but gratitude for his perfect kindness. 

Kindness is not a rare quality with the Jews: of all the virtues it is themost readily admitted among them, even when they do not practise it. Indeed, in most of them it remains negative or neutral: indulgence, indifference, dislike for hurting anybody, ironic tolerance. With Mooch itwas an active passion. He was always ready to devote himself to some causeor person: to his poor co-religionists, to the Russian refugees, to theoppressed of every nation, to unfortunate artists, to the alleviation ofevery kind of misfortune, to every generous cause. His purse was alwaysopen: and however thinly lined it might be, he could always manage tosqueeze a mite out of it: when it was empty he would squeeze the mite outof some one else's purse: if he could do any one a service no pains weretoo great for him to take, no distance was too far for him to go. He did itsimply--with exaggerated simplicity. He was a little apt to talk too muchabout his simplicity and sincerity: but the great thing was that he wasboth simple and sincere. 

Christophe was torn between irritation and sympathy with Mooch, and one dayhe said an innocently cruel thing, though he said it with the air of aspoiled child. Mooch's kindness had touched him, and he took his handsaffectionately and said:

"What a pity!. . . What a pity it is that you are a Jew!"

Olivier started and blushed, as though the shaft had been leveled athimself. He was most unhappy, and tried to heal the wound his friend haddealt. 

Mooch smiled, with sad irony, and replied calmly:

"It is an even greater misfortune to be a man. "

To Christophe the remark was nothing but the whim of a moment. But itspessimism cut deeper than he imagined: and Olivier, with his subtleperception, felt it intuitively. Beneath the Mooch of their acquaintancethere was another different Mooch, who was in many ways exactly theopposite. His apparent nature was the result of a long struggle with hisreal nature. Though he was apparently so simple he had a distorted mind:when he gave way to it he was forced to complicate simple things and toendow his most genuine feelings with a deliberately ironical character. Though he was apparently modest and, if anything, too humble, at heart hewas proud, and knew it, and strove desperately to whip it out of himself. His smiling optimism, his incessant activity, his perpetual business inhelping others, were the mask of a profound nihilism, a deadly despondencywhich dared not see itself face to face. Mooch made a show of immense faithin all sorts of things: in the progress of humanity, in the future of thepure Jewish spirit, in the destiny of France, the soldier of the newspirit--(he was apt to identify the three causes). Olivier was not taken inby it, and used to say to Christophe:

"At heart he believes in nothing. "

With all his ironical common sense and calmness Mooch was a neurasthenicwho dared not look upon the void within himself. He had terrible momentswhen he felt his nothingness: sometimes he would wake suddenly in themiddle of the night screaming with terror. And he would cast about forthings to do, like a drowning man clinging to a life-buoy. 

It is a costly privilege to be a member of a race which is exceeding old. It means the bearing of a frightful burden of the past, trials andtribulations, weary experience, disillusion of mind and heart, --all theferment of immemorial life, at the bottom of which is a bitter deposit ofirony and boredom. . . . Boredom, the immense boredom of the Semites, whichhas nothing in common with our Aryan boredom, though that, too, makes ussuffer; while it is at least traceable to definite causes, and vanisheswhen those causes cease to exist: for in most cases it is only the resultof regret that we cannot have what we want. But in some of the Jews thevery source of joy and life is tainted with a deadly poison. They have nodesire, no interest in anything: no ambition, no love, no pleasure. Onlyone thing continues to exist, not intact, but morbid and fine-drawn, inthese men uprooted from the East, worn out by the amount of energy theyhave had to give out for centuries, longing for quietude, without havingthe power to attain it: thought, endless analysis, which forbids thepossibility of enjoyment, and leaves them no courage for action. The mostenergetic among them set themselves parts to play, and play them, ratherthan act on their own account. It is a strange thing that in many ofthem--and not in the least intelligent or the least seriously minded--thislack of interest in life prompts the impulse, or the unavowed desire, toact a part, to play at life, --the only means they know of living!

Mooch was an actor after his fashion. He rushed about to try to deaden hissenses. But whereas most people only bestir themselves for selfish reasons, he was restlessly active in procuring the happiness of others. His devotionto Christophe was both touching and a bore. Christophe would snub him andthen immediately be sorry for it. But Mooch never bore him any ill-will. Nothing abashed him. Not that he had any ardent affection for Christophe. It was devotion that he loved rather than the men to whom he devotedhimself. They were only an excuse for doing good, for living. 

He labored to such effect that he managed to induce Hecht to publishChristophe's _David_ and some other compositions. Hecht appreciatedChristophe's talent, but he was in no hurry to reveal it to the world. Itwas not until he saw that Mooch was on the point of arranging thepublication at his own expense with another firm that he took theinitiative out of vanity. 

And on another occasion, when things were very serious and Olivier was illand they had no money, Mooch thought of going to Félix Weil, the richarcheologist, who lived in the same house. Mooch and Weil were acquainted, but had little sympathy with one another. They were too different: Mooch'srestlessness and mysticism and revolutionary ideas and "vulgar" manners, which, perhaps, he exaggerated, were an incentive to the irony of FélixWeil, with his calm, mocking temper, his distinguished manners andconservative mind. They had only one thing in common: they were bothequally lacking in any profound interest in action: and if they did indulgein action, it was not from faith, but from their tenacious and mechanicalvitality. But neither was prepared to admit it: they preferred to givetheir minds to the parts they were playing, and their different parts hadvery little in common. And so Mooch was quite coldly received by Weil: whenhe tried to interest him in the artistic projects of Olivier andChristophe, he was brought up sharp against a mocking skepticism. Mooch'sperpetual embarkations for one Utopia or another were a standing joke inJewish society, where he was regarded as a dangerous visionary. But on thisoccasion, as on so many others, he was not put out: and he went on speakingabout the friendship of Christophe and Olivier until he roused Weil'sinterest. He saw that and went on. 

He had touched a responsive chord. The friendless solitary old manworshiped friendship: the one great love of his life had been a friendshipwhich he had left behind him: it was his inward treasure: when he thoughtof it he felt a better man. He had founded institutions in his friend'sname, and had dedicated his books to his memory. He was touched by whatMooch told him of the mutual tenderness of Christophe and Olivier. His ownstory had been something like it. His lost friend had been a sort of elderbrother to him, a comrade of youth, a guide whom he had idolized. Thatfriend had been one of those young Jews, burning with intelligence andgenerous ardor, who suffer from the hardness of their surroundings, and setthemselves to uplift their race, and, through their race, the world, andburn hotly into flame, and, like a torch of resin, flare for a few hoursand then die. The flame of his life had kindled the apathy of young Weil. He had raised him from the earth. While his friend was alive Weil hadmarched by his side in the shining light of his stoical faith, --faith inscience, in the power of the spirit, in a future happiness, --the rays ofwhich were shed upon everything with which that messianic soul came incontact. When he was left alone, in his weakness and irony, Weil fell fromthe heights of that idealism into the sands of that Book of Ecclesiastes, which exists in the mind of every Jew and saps his spiritual vitality. Buthe had never forgotten the hours spent in the light with his friend:jealously he guarded its clarity, now almost entirely faded. He had neverspoken of him to a soul, not even to his wife, whom he loved: it was asacred thing. And the old man, who was considered prosaic and dry of heart, and nearing the end of his life, used to say to himself the bitter andtender words of a Brahmin of ancient India:

"_The poisoned tree of the world puts forth two fruits sweeter than thewaters of the fountain of life: one is poetry, the other, friendship. _"

From that time on he took an interest in Christophe and Olivier. He knewhow proud they were, and got Mooch, without saying anything, to send himOlivier's volume of poems, which had just been published: and, without thetwo friends having anything to do with it, without their having even thesmallest idea of what he was up to, he managed to get the Academy to awardthe book a prize, which came in the nick of time to help them in theirdifficulty. 

When Christophe discovered that such unlooked-for assistance came from aman of whom he was inclined to think ill, he regretted all the unkindthings he had said or thought of him: he gulped down his dislike ofcalling, and went and thanked him. His good intentions met with no reward. Old Weil's irony was excited by Christophe's young enthusiasm, although hetried hard to conceal it from him, and they did not get on at all well. 

That very day, when Christophe returned, irritated, though still grateful, to his attic, after his interview with Weil, he found Mooch there, doingOlivier some fresh act of service, and also a review containing adisparaging article on his music by Lucien Lévy-Coeur;--it was not writtenin a vein of frank criticism, but took the insultingly kindly line ofchaffing him and banteringly considering him alongside certain third-rateand fourth-rate musicians whom he loathed. 

"You see, " said Christophe to Olivier, after Mooch had gone, "we alwayshave to deal with Jews, nothing but Jews! Perhaps we're Jews ourselves? Dotell me that we're not. We seem to attract them. We're always knocking upagainst them, both friends and foes. "

"The reason is, " said Olivier, "that they are more intelligent than therest. The Jews are almost the only people in France to whom a free man cantalk of new and vital things. The rest are stuck fast in the past amongdead things. Unfortunately the past does not exist for the Jews, or atleast it is not the same for them as for us. With them we can only talkabout the things of to-day: with our fellow-countrymen we can only discussthe things of yesterday. Look at the activity of the Jews in every kind ofway: commerce, industry, education, science, philanthropy, art. . . . "

"Don't let's talk about art, " said Christophe. 

"I don't say that I am always in sympathy with what they do: very often Idetest it. But at least they are alive, and can understand men who arealive. It is all very well for us to criticise and make fun of the Jews, and speak ill of them. We can't do without them. "

"Don't exaggerate, " said Christophe jokingly. "I could do without themperfectly. "

"You might go on living perhaps. But what good would that be to you if yourlife and your work remained unknown, as they probably would without theJews? Would the members of your own religion come to your assistance? TheCatholic Church lets the best of its members perish without raising a handto help them. Men who are religious from the very bottom of their hearts, men who give their lives in the defense of God, --if they have dared tobreak away from Catholic dominion and shake off the authority of Rome, --atonce find the unworthy mob who call themselves Catholic not onlyindifferent, but hostile: they condemn them to silence, and abandon them tothe mercy of the common enemy. If a man of independent spirit, be he neverso great and Christian at heart, is not a Christian as a matter ofobedience, it is nothing to the Catholics that in him is incarnate all thatis most pure and most truly divine in their faith. He is not of the pack, the blind and deaf sect which refuses to think for itself. He is cast out, and the rest rejoice to see him suffering alone, torn to pieces by theenemy, and crying for help to those who are his brothers, for whose faithhe is done to death. In the Catholicism of to-day there is a horrible, death-dealing power of inertia. It would find it far easier to forgive itsenemies than those who wish to awake it and restore it to life. . . . My dearChristophe, where should we be, and what should we do--we, who areCatholics by birth, we, who have shaken free, without the little band offree Protestants and Jews? The Jews in Europe of to-day are the most activeand living agents of good and evil. They carry hither and thither thepollen of thought. Have not your worst enemies and your friends from thevery beginning been Jews?"

"That's true, " said Christophe. "They have given me encouragement and help, and said things to me which have given me new life for the struggle, byshowing me that I was understood. No doubt very few of my friends haveremained faithful to me: their friendship was but a fire of straw. Nomatter! That fleeting light is a great thing in darkness. You are right: wemustn't be ungrateful. "

"We must not be stupid, either, " replied Olivier. "We must not mutilate ouralready diseased civilization by lopping off some of its most livingbranches. If we were so unfortunate as to have the Jews driven from Europe, we should be left so poor in intelligence and power for action that weshould be in danger of utter bankruptcy. In France especially, in thepresent condition of French vitality, their expulsion would mean a moredeadly drain on the blood of the nation than the expulsion of theProtestants in the seventeenth century. --No doubt, for the time being, theydo occupy a position out of all proportion to their true merit. They dotake advantage of the present moral and political anarchy, which in nosmall degree they help to aggravate, because it suits them, and because itis natural to them to do so. The best of them, like our friend Mooch, makethe mistake, in all sincerity, of identifying the destiny of France withtheir Jewish dreams, which are often more dangerous than useful. But youcan't blame them for wanting to build France in their own image: it meansthat they love the country. If their love becomes a public danger, all wehave to do is to defend ourselves and keep them in their place, which, inFrance, is the second. Not that I think their race inferior to ours:--(allthese questions of the supremacy of races are idiotic and disgusting). --Butwe cannot admit that a foreign race which has not yet been fused into ourown, can possibly know better than we do what suits us. The Jews are welloff in France: I am glad of it: but they must not think of turning Franceinto Judea! An intelligent and strong Government which was able to keep theJews in their place would make them one of the most useful instruments forthe building of the greatness of France: and it would be doing both themand us a great service. These hypernervous, restless, and unsettledcreatures need the restraint of law and the firm hand of a just master, inwhom there is no weakness, to curb them. The Jews are like women: admirablewhen they are reined in; but, with the Jews as with women, their use ofmastery is an abomination, and those who submit to it present a pitiful andabsurd spectacle. "

 * * * * *

In spite of their love for each other, and the intuitive knowledge thatcame with it, there were many things which Christophe and Olivier could notunderstand in each other, things, too, which shocked them. In the beginningof their friendship, when each tried instinctively only to suffer theexistence of those qualities in himself which were most like the qualitiesof his friend, they never remarked them. It was only gradually that thedifferent aspects of their two nationalities appeared on the surface again, more sharply defined than before: for being in contrast, each showed theother up. There were moments of difficulty, moments when they clashed, which, with all their fond indulgence, they could not altogether avoid. 

Sometimes they misunderstood each other. Olivier's mind was a mixture offaith, liberty, passion, irony, and universal doubt, for which Christophecould not find any working formula. 

Olivier, on his part, was distressed by Christophe's lack of psychology:being of an old intellectual stock, and therefore aristocratic, he wasmoved to smile at the awkwardness of such, a vigorous, though lumbering andsingle mind, which had no power of self-analysis, and was always beingtaken in by others and by itself. Christophe's sentimentality, his noisyoutbursts, his facile emotions, used sometimes to exasperate Olivier, towhom they seemed absurd. Not to speak of a certain worship of force, theGerman conviction of the excellence of fist-morality, _Faustrecht_, towhich Olivier and his countrymen had good reason for not subscribing. 

And Christophe could not bear Olivier's irony, which used sometimes to makehim furious with exasperation: he could not bear his mania for arguing, hisperpetual analysis, and the curious intellectual immorality, which wassurprising in a man who set so much store by moral purity as Olivier, andarose from the very breadth of his mind, to which every kind of negationwas detestable, --so that he took a delight in the contemplation of ideasthe opposite of his own. Olivier's outlook on things was in some sorthistorical and panoramic: it was so necessary for him to understandeverything that he always saw reasons both for and against, and supportedeach in turn, according as the opposite thesis was put forward: and so amidsuch contradictions he lost his way. He would leave Christophe hopelesslyperplexed. It was not that he had any desire to contradict or any taste forparadox: it was an imperious need in him for justice and common sense: hewas exasperated by the stupidity of any assumption, and he had to reactagainst it. The crudeness with which Christophe judged immoral men andactions, by seeing everything as much coarser and more brutal than itreally was, distressed Olivier, who was just as moral, but was not of thesame unbending steel; he allowed himself to be tempted, colored, and moldedby outside influences. He would protest against Christophe's exaggerationsand fly off into exaggeration in the opposite direction. Almost every daythis perverseness of mind would make him take up the cudgels for hisadversaries against his friends. Christophe would lose his temper. He wouldcry out upon Olivier's sophistry and his indulgence of hateful things andpeople. Olivier would smile: he knew the utter absence of illusion that laybehind his indulgence: he knew that Christophe believed in many more thingsthan he did, and had a greater power of acceptance! But Christophe wouldlook neither to the right hand nor the left, but went straight ahead. Hewas especially angry with Parisian "kindness. "

"Their great argument, of which they are so proud, in favor of 'pardoning'rascals, is, " he would say, "that all rascals are sufficiently unhappy intheir wickedness, or that they are irresponsible or diseased. . . . In thefirst place, it is not true that those who do evil are unhappy. That's amoral idea in action, a silly melodramatic idea, stupid, empty optimism, such as you find in Scribe and Capus, --(Scribe and Capus, your Parisiangreat men, artists of whom your pleasure-seeking, vulgar society is worthy, childish hypocrites, too cowardly to face their own ugliness). --It is quitepossible for a rascal to be a happy man. He has every chance of being so. And as for his irresponsibility, that is an idiotic idea. Do have thecourage to face the fact that Nature does not care a rap about good andevil, and is so far malevolent that a man may easily be a criminal and yetperfectly sound in mind and body. Virtue is not a natural thing. It is thework of man. It is his duty to defend it. Human society has been built upby a few men who were stronger and greater than the rest. It is their dutyto see that the work of so many ages of frightful struggles is not spoiledby the cowardly rabble. "

At bottom there was no great difference between these ideas and Olivier's:but, by a secret instinct for balance and proportion, he was never sodilettante as when he heard provocative words thrown out. 

"Don't get so excited, my friend, " he would say to Christophe. "Let theworld hug its vices. Like the friends in the 'Decameron, ' let us breathe inpeace the balmy air of the gardens of thought, while under the cypress-hilland the tall, shady pines, twined about with roses, Florence is devastatedby the black plague. "

He would amuse himself for days together by pulling to pieces art, science, philosophy, to find their hidden wheels: so he came by a sort ofPyrrhonism, in which everything that was became only a figment of the mind, a castle in the air, which had not even the excuse of the geometricsymbols, of being necessary to the mind. Christophe would rage against hispulling the machine to pieces:

"It was going quite well: you'll probably break it. Then how will you bebetter off? What are you trying to prove? That nothing is nothing? GoodLord! I know that. It is because nothingness creeps in upon us from everyside that we fight. Nothing exists? I exist. There's no reason for doinganything? I'm doing what I can. If people like death, let them die! For mypart, I'm alive, and I'm going to live. My life is in one scale of thebalance, my mind and thought in the other. . . . To hell with thought!"

He would fly off with his usual violence, and in their argument he wouldsay things that hurt. Hardly had he said them than he was sorry. He wouldlong to withdraw them: but the harm was done. Olivier was very sensitive:his skin was easily barked: a harsh word, especially if it came from someone he loved, hurt him terribly. He was too proud to say anything, andwould retire into himself. And he would see in his friend those suddenflashes of unconscious egoism which appear in every great artist. Sometimeshe would feel that his life was no great thing to Christophe compared witha beautiful piece of music:--(Christophe hardly troubled to disguise thefact). --He would understand and see that Christophe was right: but it madehim sad. 

And then there were in Christophe's nature all sorts of disordered elementswhich eluded Olivier and made him uneasy. He used to have sudden fits of afreakish and terrible humor. For days together he would not speak: or hewould break out in diabolically malicious moods and try deliberately tohurt. Sometimes he would disappear altogether and be seen no more for therest of the day and part of the night. Once he stayed away for two wholedays. God knows what he was up to! He was not very clear about ithimself. . . . The truth was that his powerful nature, shut up in that narrowlife, and those small rooms, as in a hen-coop, every now and then reachedbursting-point. His friend's calmness maddened him: then he would long tohurt him, to hurt some one. He would have to rush away, and wear himselfout. He would go striding through the streets of Paris and the outskirts inthe vague quest of adventure, which sometimes he found: and he would nothave been sorry to meet with some rough encounter which would have givenhim the opportunity of expending some of his superfluous energy in abrawl. . . . It was hard for Olivier, with his poor health and weakness ofbody, to understand. Christophe was not much nearer understanding it. Hewould wake up from his aberrations as from an exhausting dream, --a littleuneasy and ashamed of what he had been doing and might yet do. But when thefit of madness was over he would feel like a great sky washed by the storm, purged of every taint, serene, and sovereign of his soul. He would be moretender than ever with Olivier, and bitterly sorry for having hurt him. Hewould give up trying to account for their little quarrels. The wrong wasnot always on his side: but he would take all the blame upon himself, andput it down to his unjust passion for being right; and he would think itbetter to be wrong with his friend than to be right, if right were not onhis side. 

Their misunderstandings were especially grievous when they occurred in theevening, so that the two friends had to spend the night in disunion, whichmeant that both of them were morally upset. Christophe would get up andscribble a note and slip it under Olivier's door: and next day as soon ashe woke up he would beg his pardon. Sometimes, even, he would knock at hisdoor in the middle of the night: he could not bear to wait for the day tocome before he humbled himself. As a rule, Olivier would be just as unableto sleep. He knew that Christophe loved him, and had not wished to hurthim: but he wanted to hear him say so. Christophe would say so, and thenthe whole thing would be forgotten. Then they would be pacified. Delightfulstate! How well they would sleep for the rest of the night!

"Ah!" Olivier would sigh. "How difficult it is to understand each other!"

"But is it necessary always to understand each other?" Christophe wouldask. "I give it up. We only need love each other. "

All these petty quarrels which, with anxious tenderness, they would at oncefind ways of mending, made them almost dearer to each other than before. When they were hotly arguing Antoinette would appear in Olivier's eyes. Thetwo friends would pay each other womanish attentions. Christophe never letOlivier's birthday go by without celebrating it by dedicating a compositionto him, or by the gift of flowers, or a cake, or a little present, boughtHeaven knows how!--(for they often had no money in the house)--Olivierwould tire his eyes out with copying out Christophe's scores at night andby stealth. 

Misunderstandings between friends are never very serious so long as a thirdparty does not come between them. --But that was bound to happen: there aretoo many people in this world ready to meddle in the affairs of others andmake mischief between them. 

 * * * * *

Olivier knew the Stevens, whom Christophe rarely visited, and he too hadbeen attracted by Colette. The reason why Christophe had not met him in thegirl's little court was that just at that time Olivier was suffering fromhis sister's death, and had shut himself up with his grief and saw no one. Colette, on her part, did not go out of her way to see him: she likedOlivier, but she did not like unhappy people: she used to declare that shewas so sensitive that she could not bear the sight of sorrow: she waiteduntil Olivier's sorrow was over before she remembered his existence. Whenshe heard that he seemed to be himself again, and that there was no dangerof infection, she made bold to beckon him to her. Olivier did not need muchinducement to go. He was shy but he liked society, and he was easily led:and he had a weakness for Colette. When he told Christophe of his intentionof going back to her, Christophe, who had too much respect for his friend'sliberty to express any adverse opinion, just shrugged his shoulders andsaid jokingly:

"Go, dear boy, if it amuses you. "

But nothing would have induced him to follow his example. He had made uphis mind to have nothing more to do with a coquette like Colette or theworld she lived in. Not that he was a misogynist: far from it. He had avery tender feeling for all the young women who worked for their living, the factory-hands, and typists, and Government clerks, who are to be seenevery morning, half awake, always a little late, hurrying to theirworkshops and offices. It seemed to him that a woman was only in possessionof all her senses when she was working and struggling for her ownindividual existence, by earning her daily bread and her independence. Andit seemed to him that only then did she possess all her charm, her alertsuppleness of movement, the awakening of all her senses, her integrity oflife and will. He detested the idle, pleasure-seeking woman, who seemed tohim to be only an overfed animal, perpetually in the act of digestion, bored, browsing over unwholesome dreams. Olivier, on the contrary, adoredthe _far niente_ of women, their charm, like the charm of flowers, livingonly to be beautiful and to perfume the air about them. He was more of anartist: Christophe was more human. Unlike Colette, Christophe loved otherpeople in proportion as they shared in the suffering of the world. So, between him and them there was a bond of brotherly compassion. 

Colette was particularly anxious to see Olivier again, after she heard ofhis friendship with Christophe: for she was curious to hear the details. She was rather angry with Christophe for the disdainful manner in which heseemed to have forgotten her: and, though she had no desire forrevenge, --(it was not worth the trouble: and revenge does mean a certainamount of trouble), --she would have been very glad to pay him out. She waslike a cat that bites the hand that strokes it. She had an ingratiating waywith her, and she had no difficulty in getting Olivier to talk. Nobodycould be more clear-sighted than he, or less easily taken in by people, when he was away from them: but nobody could be more naïvely confiding thanhe when he was with a woman whose eyes smiled kindly at him. Colettedisplayed so genuine an interest in his friendship with Christophe that hewent so far as to tell her the whole story, and even about certain of theiramicable misunderstandings, which, at a distance, seemed amusing, and hetook the whole blame for them on himself. He also confided to ColetteChristophe's artistic projects, and also some of his opinions--which werenot altogether flattering--concerning France and the French. Nothing thathe told her was of any great importance in itself, but Colette repeated itall at once, and adapted it partly to make the story more spicy, and partlyto satisfy her secret feeling of malice against Christophe. And as thefirst person to receive her confidence was naturally her inseparable LucienLévy-Coeur, who had no reason for keeping it secret, the story went therounds, and was embellished by the way: a note of ironic pity for Olivier, who was represented as a victim, was introduced, and he cut rather a sorryfigure. It seemed unlikely that the story could be very interesting toanybody, since the heroes of it were very little known: but a Parisiantakes an interest in everything that does not concern him. So much so, thatone day Christophe heard the story from the lips of Madame Roussin. She methim one day at a concert, and asked him if it were true that he hadquarreled with that poor Olivier Jeannin: and she asked about his work, andalluded to things which he believed were known only to himself and Olivier. And when he asked her how she had come by her information, she said she hadhad it from Lucien Lévy-Coeur, who had had it direct from Olivier. 

The blow overwhelmed Christophe. Violent and uncritical as he was, it neveroccurred to him to think how utterly fantastic the story was: he only sawone thing: his secrets which he had confided to Olivier had beenbetrayed--betrayed to Lucien Lévy-Coeur. He could not stay to the end ofthe concert: he left the hall at once. Around him all was blank and dark. In the street he narrowly escaped being run over. He said to himself overand over again: "My friend has betrayed me!. . . "

Olivier was with Colette. Christophe locked the door of his room, so thatwhen Olivier came in he could not have his usual talk with him. He heardhim come in a few moments later and try to open the door, and whisper"Good-night" through the keyhole: he did not stir. He was sitting on hisbed in the dark, holding his head in his hands, and saying over and overagain: "My friend has betrayed me!. . . ": and he stayed like that halfthrough the night. Then he felt how dearly he loved Olivier: for he was notangry with him for having betrayed him: he only suffered. Those whom welove have absolute rights over us, even the right to cease loving us. Wecannot bear them any ill-will; we can only be angry with ourselves forbeing so unworthy of love that it must desert us. There is mortal anguishin such a state of mind--anguish which destroys the will to live. 

Next morning, when he saw Olivier, he did not tell him anything: he sodetested the idea of reproaching him, --reproaching him for having abusedhis confidence and flung his secrets into the enemy's maw, --that he couldnot find a single word to say to him. But his face said what he could notspeak: his expression was icy and hostile. Olivier was struck dumb: hecould not understand it. He tried timidly to discover what Christophe hadagainst him. Christophe turned away from him brutally, and made no reply. Olivier was hurt in his turn, and said no more, and gulped down hisdistress in silence. They did not see each other again that day. 

Even if Olivier had made him suffer a thousand times more, Christophe wouldnever have done anything to avenge himself, and he would have done hardlyanything to defend himself: Olivier was sacred to him. But it was necessarythat the indignation he felt should be expended upon some one: and sincethat some one could not be Olivier, it was Lucien Lévy-Coeur. With hisusual passionate injustice he put upon him the responsibility for theill-doing which he attributed to Olivier: and he suffered intolerable pangsof jealousy in the thought that such a man as that could have robbed him ofhis friend's affection, just as he had previously ousted him from hisfriendship with Colette Stevens. To bring his exasperation to a head, thatvery day he happened to see an article by Lucien Lévy-Coeur on aperformance of _Fidelio_. In it he spoke of Beethoven in a bantering way, and poked fun at his heroine. Christophe was as alive as anybody to theabsurdities of the opera, and even to certain mistakes in the music. He hadnot always displayed an exaggerated respect for the acknowledged masterhimself. But he set no store by always agreeing with his own opinions, norhad he any desire to be Frenchily logical. He was one of those men who arequite ready to admit the faults of their friends, but cannot bear anybodyelse to do so. And, besides, it was one thing to criticise a great artist, however bitterly, from a passionate faith in art, and even--(one maysay)--from an uncompromising love for his fame and intolerance of anythingmediocre in his work, --and another thing, as Lucien Lévy-Coeur did, only touse such criticism to flatter the baseness of the public, and to make thegallery laugh, by an exhibition of wit at the expense of a great man. Again, free though Christophe was in his judgments, there had always been acertain sort of music which he had tacitly left alone and shielded: musicwhich was not to be tampered with: that music, which was higher and betterthan music, the music of an absolutely pure soul, a great health-givingsoul, to which a man could turn for consolation, strength, and hope. Beethoven's music was in the category. To see a puppy like Lévy-Coeurinsulting Beethoven made him blind with anger. It was no longer a questionof art, but a question of honor; everything that makes life rare, love, heroism, passionate virtue, the good human longing for self-sacrifice, wasat stake. The Godhead itself was imperiled! There was no room for argumentIt is as impossible to suffer that to be besmirched as to hear the womanyou respect and love insulted: there is but one thing to do, to hate andkill. . . . What is there to say when the insulting blackguard was, of allmen, the one whom Christophe most despised?

And, as luck would have it, that very evening the two men came face toface. 

 * * * * *

To avoid being left alone with Olivier, contrary to his habit, Christophewent to an At Home at the Roussins'. He was asked to play. He consentedunwillingly. However, after a moment or two he became absorbed in the musiche was playing, until, glancing up, he saw Lucien Lévy-Coeur standing in alittle group, watching him with an ironical stare. He stopped short, in themiddle of a bar: he got up and turned away from the piano. There was anawkward silence. Madame Roussin came up to Christophe in her surprise andsmiled forcedly; and, very cautiously, --for she was not sure whether thepiece was finished or not, --she asked him:

"Won't you go on, Monsieur Krafft?"

"I've finished, " he replied curtly. 

He had hardly said it than he became conscious of his rudeness; but, instead of making him more restrained, it only excited him the more. Hepaid no heed to the amused attention of his auditors, but went and satin a corner of the room from which he could follow Lucien Lévy-Coeur'smovements. His neighbor, an old general, with a pinkish, sleepy face, light-blue eyes, and a childish expression, thought it incumbent on him tocompliment him on the originality of his music. Christophe bowed irritably, and growled out a few inarticulate sounds. The general went on talkingwith effusive politeness and a gentle, meaningless smile: and he wantedChristophe to explain how he could play such a long piece of music frommemory. Christophe fidgeted impatiently, and thought wildly of knocking theold gentleman off the sofa. He wanted to hear what Lucien Lévy-Coeur wassaying: he was waiting for an excuse for attacking him. For some momentspast he had been conscious that he was going to make a fool of himself: butno power on earth could have kept him from it. --Lucien Lévy-Coeur, in hishigh falsetto voice, was explaining the aims and secret thoughts of greatartists to a circle of ladies. During a moment of silence Christophe heardhim talking about the friendship of Wagner and King Ludwig, with all sortsof nasty innuendoes. 

"Stop!" he shouted, bringing his fist down on the table by his side. 

Everybody turned in amazement. Lucien Lévy-Coeur met Christophe's eyes andpaled a little, and said:

"Were you speaking to me?"

"You hound!. . . Yes, " said Christophe. 

He sprang to his feet. 

"You soil and sully everything that is great in the world, " he went onfuriously. "There's the door! Get out, you cur, or I'll fling you throughthe window!"

He moved towards him. The ladies moved aside screaming. There was a momentof general confusion. Christophe was surrounded at once. Lucien Lévy-Coeurhad half risen to his feet: then he resumed his careless attitude in hischair. He called a servant who was passing and gave him a card: and he wenton with his remarks as though nothing had happened: but his eyelids weretwitching nervously, and his eyes blinked as he looked this way and thatto see how people had taken it. Roussin had taken his stand in front ofChristophe, and he took him by the lapel of his coat and urged him in thedirection of the door. Christophe hung his head in his anger and shame, and his eyes saw nothing but the wide expanse of shirt-front, and kept oncounting the diamond studs: and he could feel the big man's breath on hischeek. 

"Come, come, my dear fellow!" said Roussin. "What's the matter with you?Where are your manners? Control yourself! Do you know where you are? Come, come, are you mad?"

"I'm damned if I ever set foot in your house again!" said Christophe, breaking free: and he reached the door. 

The people prudently made way for him. In the cloak-room a servant heldout a salver. It contained Lucien Lévy-Coeur's card. He took it withoutunderstanding what it meant, and read it aloud: then, suddenly, snortingwith rage, he fumbled in his pockets: mixed up with a varied assortment ofthings, he pulled out three or four crumpled dirty cards:

"There! There!" he said, flinging them on the salver so violently that oneof them fell to the ground. 

He left the house. 

 * * * * *

Olivier knew nothing about it. Christophe chose as his witnesses the firstmen of his acquaintance who turned up, the musical critic, ThéophileGoujart, and a German, Doctor Barth, an honorary lecturer in a SwissUniversity, whom he had met one night in a café; he had made friends withhim, though they had little in common: but they could talk to each otherabout Germany. After conferring with Lucien Lévy-Coeur's witnesses, pistolswere chosen. Christophe was absolutely ignorant about the use of arms, andGoujart told him it would not be a bad thing for him to go and have a fewlessons: but Christophe refused, and while he was waiting for the day tocome went on with his work. 

But his mind was distracted. He had a fixed idea, of which he was dimlyconscious, while it kept buzzing in his head like a bad dream. . . . "It wasunpleasant, yes, very unpleasant. . . . What was unpleasant?--Oh! the duelto-morrow. . . . Just a joke! Nobody is ever hurt. . . . But it was possible. . . . Well, then, afterwards?. . . Afterwards, that was it, afterwards. . . . A cockof the finger by that swine who hates me may wipe out my life. . . . So beit!. . . --Yes, to-morrow, in a day or two, I may be lying in the loathsomesoil of Paris. . . . --Bah! Here or anywhere, what does it matter!. . . Oh! Lord:I'm not going to play the coward!--No, but it would be monstrous to wastethe mighty world of ideas that I feel springing to life in me for amoment's folly. . . . What rot it is, these modern duels in which they try toequalize the chances of the two opponents! That's a fine sort of equalitythat sets the same value on the life of a mountebank as on mine! Why don'tthey let us go for each other with fists and cudgels? There'd be somepleasure in that. But this cold-blooded shooting!. . . And, of course, heknows how to shoot, and I have never had a pistol in my hand. . . . They areright: I must learn. . . . He'll try to kill me. I'll kill him. "

He went out. There was a range a few yards away from the house. Christopheasked for a pistol, and had it explained how he ought to hold it. With hisfirst shot he almost killed his instructor: he went on with a second and athird, and fared no better: he lost patience, and went from bad to worse. Afew young men were standing by watching and laughing. He paid no heed tothem. With his German persistency he went on trying, and was so indifferentto their laughter and so determined to succeed that, as always happens, his blundering patience roused interest, and one of the spectators gavehim advice. In spite of his usual violence he listened to everything withchildlike docility; he managed to control his nerves, which were makinghis hand tremble: he stiffened himself and knit his brows: the sweat waspouring down his cheeks: he said not a word: but every now and then hewould give way to a gust of anger, and then go on shooting. He stayed therefor a couple of hours. At the end of that time he hit the bull's-eye. Fewthings could have been more absorbing than the sight of such a power ofwill mastering an awkward and rebellious body. It inspired respect. Some ofthose who had scoffed at the outset had gone, and the others were silencedone by one, and had not been able to tear themselves away. They took offtheir hats to Christophe when he went away. 

When he reached home Christophe found his friend Mooch waiting anxiously. Mooch had heard of the quarrel, and had come at once: he wanted to knowhow it had originated. In spite of Christophe's reticence and desirenot to attach any blame to Olivier, he guessed the reason. He was verycool-headed, and knew both the friends, and had no doubt of Olivier'sinnocence of the treachery ascribed to him. He looked into the matter, andhad no difficulty in finding out that the whole trouble arose from thescandal-mongering of Colette and Lucien Lévy-Coeur. He rushed back withhis evidence to Christophe, thinking that he could in that way preventthe duel. But the result was exactly the opposite of what he expected:Christophe was only the more rancorous against Lévy-Coeur when he learnedthat it was through him that he had come to doubt his friend. To get rid ofMooch, who kept on imploring him not to fight, he promised him everythinghe asked. But he had made up his mind. He was quite happy now: he was goingto fight for Olivier, not for himself!

A remark made by one of the seconds as the carriage was going along a roadthrough the woods suddenly caught Christophe's attention. He tried to findout what they were thinking, and saw how little they really cared abouthim. Professor Barth was wondering when the affair would be over, andwhether he would be back in time to finish a piece of work he had begunon the manuscripts in the _Bibliothèque Nationale_. Of Christophe's threecompanions, he was the most interested in the result of the encounter asa matter of German national pride. Goujart paid no attention either toChristophe or the other German, but discussed certain scabrous subjectsin connection with the coarser branches of physiology with Dr. Jullien, ayoung physician from Toulouse, who had recently come to live next door toChristophe, and occasionally borrowed his spirit-lamp, or his umbrella, orhis coffee-cups, which he invariably returned broken. In return he gave himfree consultations, tried medicines on him, and laughed at his simplicity. Under his impassive manner, that would have well become a Castilianhidalgo, there was a perpetual love of teasing. He was highly delightedwith the adventure of the duel, which struck him as sheer burlesque: andhe was amusing himself with fancying the mess that Christophe would makeof it. He thought it a great joke to be driving through the woods at theexpense of good old Krafft. --That, clearly, was what was in the minds ofthe trio: they regarded it as a jolly excursion which cost them nothing. Not one of them attached the least importance to the duel. But, on theother hand, they were just as calmly prepared for anything that might comeof it. 

They reached the appointed spot before the others. It was a little inn inthe heart of the forest. It was a pleasure-resort, more or less unclean, towhich Parisians used to resort to cleanse their honor when the dirt on itbecame too apparent. The hedges were bright with the pure flowers of theeglantine. In the shade of the bronze-leaved oak-trees there were rowsof little tables. At one of these tables were seated three bicyclists:a painted woman, in knickerbockers, with black socks: and two men inflannels, who were stupefied by the heat, and every now and then gave outgrowls and grunts as though they had forgotten how to speak. 

The arrival of the carriage produced a little buzz of excitement in theinn. Goujart, who knew the house and the people of old, declared that hewould look after everything. Barth dragged Christophe into an arbor andordered beer. The air was deliciously warm and soft, and resounding withthe buzzing of bees. Christophe forgot why he had come. Barth emptied thebottle, and said, after a short silence:

"I know what I'll do. "

He drank and went on:

"I shall have plenty of time: I'll go on to Versailles when it's all over. "

Goujart was heard haggling with the landlady over the price of thedueling-ground. Jullien had not been wasting his time: as he passed nearthe bicyclists he broke into noisy and ecstatic comment on the woman's barelegs: and there was exchanged a perfect deluge of filthy epithets in whichJullien did not come off worst. Barth said in a whisper:

"The French are a low-minded lot. Brother, I drink to your victory. "

He clinked his glass against Christophe's. Christophe was dreaming: scrapsof music were floating in his mind, mingled with the harmonious humming ofinsects. He was very sleepy. 

The wheels of another carriage crunched over the gravel of the drive. Christophe saw Lucien Lévy-Coeur's pale face, with its inevitable smile:and his anger leaped up in him. He got up, and Barth followed him. 

Lévy-Coeur, with his neck swathed in a high stock, was dressed with ascrupulous care which was strikingly in contrast with his adversary'suntidiness. He was followed by Count Bloch, a sportsman well known forhis mistresses, his collection of old pyxes, and his ultra-Royalistopinions, --Léon Mouey, another man of fashion, who had reached his positionas Deputy through literature, and was a writer from political ambition: hewas young, bald, clean-shaven, with a lean bilious face: he had a longnose, round eyes, and a head like a bird's, --and Dr. Emmanuel, a fine typeof Semite, well-meaning and cold, a member of the Academy of Medicine, achief-surgeon in a hospital, famous for a number of scientific books, andthe medical skepticism which made him listen with ironic pity to theplaints of his patients without making the least attempt to cure them. 

The newcomers saluted the other three courteously. Christophe barelyresponded, but was annoyed by the eagerness and the exaggerated politenesswith which they treated Lévy-Coeur's seconds. Jullien knew Emmanuel, andGoujart knew Mouey, and they approached them obsequiously smiling. Moueygreeted them with cold politeness and Emmanuel jocularly and withoutceremony. As for Count Bloch, he stayed by Lévy-Coeur, and with a rapidglance he took in the condition of the clothes and linen of the three menof the opposing camp, and, hardly opening his lips, passed abrupt humorouscomment on them with, his friend, --and both of them stood calm and correct. 

Lucien Lévy-Coeur stood at his ease waiting for Count Bloch, who had theordering of the duel, to give the signal. He regarded the affair as a mereformality. He was an excellent shot, and was fully aware of his adversary'swant of skill. He would not be foolish enough to make use of his advantageand hit him, always supposing, as was not very probable, that the secondsdid not take good care that no harm came of the encounter: for he knew thatnothing is so stupid as to let an enemy appear to be a victim, when a muchsurer and better method is to wipe him out of existence without any fussbeing made. But Christophe stood waiting, stripped to his shirt, which wasopen to reveal his thick neck, while his sleeves were rolled up to show hisstrong wrists, head down, with his eyes glaring at Lévy-Coeur: he stoodtaut, with murder written implacably on every feature: and Count Bloch, whowatched him carefully, thought what a good thing it was that civilizationhad as far as possible suppressed the risks of fighting. 

After both men had fired, of course without result, the seconds hurriedforward and congratulated the adversaries. Honor was satisfied. --Not soChristophe. He stayed there, pistol in hand, unable to believe that it wasall over. He was quite ready to repeat his performance at the range theevening before, and go on shooting until one or other of them had hit thetarget. When he heard Goujart proposing that he should shake hands with hisadversary, who advanced chivalrously towards him with his perpetual smile, he was exasperated by the pretense of the whole thing. Angrily he hurledhis pistol away, pushed Goujart aside, and flung himself upon LucienLévy-Coeur. They were hard put to it to keep him from going on with thefight with his fists. 

The seconds intervened while Lévy-Coeur escaped. Christophe broke away fromthem, and, without listening to their laughing expostulation, he strodealong in the direction of the forest, talking loudly and gesticulatingwildly. He did not even notice that he had left his hat and coat on thedueling-ground. He plunged into the woods. He heard his seconds laughingand calling him: then they tired of it, and did not worry about him anymore. Very soon he heard the wheels of the carriages rumbling away andaway, and knew that they had gone. He was left alone among the silenttrees. His fury had subsided. He flung himself down on the ground andsprawled on the grass. 

Shortly afterwards Mooch arrived at the inn. He had been pursuingChristophe since the early morning. He was told that his friend was in thewoods, and went to look for him. He beat all the thickets, and awoke allthe echoes, and was going away in despair when he heard him singing: hefound his way by the voice, and at last came upon him in a little clearingwith his arms and legs in the air, rolling about like a young calf. WhenChristophe saw him he shouted merrily, called him "dear old Moloch, " andtold him how he had shot his adversary full of holes until he was like asieve: he made him tuck in his tuppenny, and then join him in a game ofleap-frog: and when he jumped over him he gave him a terrific thump. Mooch was not very good at it, but he enjoyed the game almost as much asChristophe. --They returned to the inn arm-in-arm, and caught the trainback to Paris at the nearest station. 

Olivier knew nothing of what had happened. He was surprised at Christophe'stenderness: he could not understand his sudden change. It was not untilthe next day, when he saw the newspapers, that he knew that Christophehad fought a duel. It made him almost ill to think of the danger thatChristophe had run. He wanted to know why the duel had been fought. Christophe refused to tell him anything. When he was pressed he said witha laugh:

"It was for you. "

Olivier could not get a word more out of him. Mooch told him all about it. Olivier was horrified, quarreled with Colette, and begged Christophe toforgive his imprudence. Christophe was incorrigible, and quoted for hisbenefit an old French saying, which he adapted so as to infuriate poorMooch, who was present to share in the happiness of the friends:

"My dear boy, let this teach you to be careful. . . . 

 "_From an idle chattering girl, From a wheedling, hypocritical Jew, From a painted friend, From a familiar foe, And from flat wine, Libera Nos, Domine!_"

Their friendship was re-established. The danger of losing it, which hadcome so near, made it only the more dear. Their small misunderstandingshad vanished: the very differences between them made them more attractiveto each other. In his own soul Christophe embraced the souls of the twocountries, harmoniously united. He felt that his heart was rich and full:and, as usual with him, his abundant happiness expressed itself in a flowof music. 

Olivier marveled at it. Being too critical in mind, he was never far frombelieving that music, which he adored, had said its last word. He washaunted by the morbid idea that decadence must inevitably succeed a certaindegree of progress: and he trembled lest the lovely art, which made himlove life, should stop short, and dry up, and disappear into the ground. Christophe would scoff at such pusillanimous ideas. In a spirit ofcontradiction he would pretend that nothing had been done before heappeared on the scene, and that everything remained to be done. Olivierwould instance French music, which seemed to have reached a point ofperfection and ultimate civilization beyond which there could not possiblybe anything. Christophe would shrug his shoulders:

"French music?. . . There has never been any. . . . And yet you have such finethings to do in the world! You can't really be musicians, or you would havediscovered that. Ah! if only I were a Frenchman!. . . "

And he would set out all the things that a Frenchman might turn into music:

"You involve yourselves in forms which do not suit you, and you do nothingat all with those which are admirably fitted for your use. You are apeople of elegance, polite poetry, beautiful gestures, beautiful walkingmovements, beautiful attitudes, fashion, clothes, and you never writeballets nowadays, though you ought to be able to create an inimitable artof poetic dancing. . . . --You are a people of laughter and comedy, and younever write comic operas, or else you leave it to minor musicians, theconfectioners of music. Ah! if I were a Frenchman I would set Rabelais tomusic, I would write comic epics. . . . --You are a people of story-tellers, and you never write novels in music: (for I don't count the feuilletonsof Ghistave Charpentier). You make no use of your gift of psychologicalanalysis, your insight into character. Ah! if I were a Frenchman I wouldgive you portraits in music. . . . (Would you like me to sketch the girlsitting in the garden under the lilac?). . . . I would write you Stendhal fora string quartet. . . . --You are the greatest democracy in Europe, and youhave no theater for the people, no music for the people. Ah! if I were aFrenchman, I would set your Revolution to music: the 14th July, the 10thAugust, Valmy, the Federation, I would express the people in music! Notin the false form of Wagnerian declamation. I want symphonies, choruses, dances. Not speeches! I'm sick of them. There's no reason why peopleshould always be talking in a music drama! Bother the words! Paint in boldstrokes, in vast symphonies with choruses, immense landscapes in music, Homeric and Biblical epics, fire, earth, water, and sky, all bright andshining, the fever which makes hearts burn, the stirring of the instinctsand destinies of a race, the triumph of Rhythm, the emperor of the world, who enslaves thousands of men, and hurls armies down to death. . . . Musiceverywhere, music in everything! If you were musicians you would havemusic for every one of your public holidays, for your official ceremonies, for the trades unions, for the student associations, for your familyfestivals. . . . But, above all, above all, if you were musicians, you wouldmake pure music, music which has no definite meaning, music which has nodefinite use, save only to give warmth, and air, and life. Make sunlightfor yourselves! _Sat prata_. . . . (What is that in Latin?). . . . There has beenrain enough. Your music gives me a cold. One can't see in it: light yourlanterns. . . . You complain of the Italian _porcherie_, who invade yourtheaters and conquer the public, and turn you out of your own house?It is your own fault! The public are sick of your crepuscular art, yourharmonized neurasthenia, your contrapuntal pedantry. The public goes whereit can find life, however coarse and gross. Why do you run away from life?Your Debussy is a bad man, however great he may be as an artist. He aidsand abets you in your torpor. You want roughly waking up. "

"What about Strauss?"

"No better. Strauss would finish you off. You need the digestion of myfellow-countrymen to be able to bear such immoderate drinking. And eventhey cannot bear it. . . . Strauss's _Salome_!. . . A masterpiece. . . . I shouldnot like to have written it. . . . I think of my old grandfather and uncleGottfried, and with what respect and loving tenderness they used to talkto me about the lovely art of sound!. . . But to have the handling of suchdivine powers, and to turn them to such uses!. . . A flaming, consumingmeteor! An Isolde, who is a Jewish prostitute. Bestial and mournful lust. The frenzy of murder, pillage, incest, and untrammeled instincts which isstirring in the depths of German decadence. . . . And, on the other hand, the spasm of a voluptuous and melancholy suicide, the death-rattle whichsounds through your French decadence. . . . On the one hand, the beast: on theother, the prey. Where is man?. . . Your Debussy is the genius of good taste:Strauss is the genius of bad taste. Debussy is rather insipid. But Straussis very unpleasant. One is a silvery thread of stagnant water, losingitself in the reeds, and giving off an unhealthy aroma. The other is amighty muddy flood. . . . Ah! the musty base Italianism and neo-Meyerbeerism, the filthy masses of sentiment which are borne on by the torrent!. . . Anodious masterpiece!. . . Salome, the daughter of Ysolde. . . . And whose motherwill Salome be in her turn?"

"Yes, " said Olivier, "I wish we could jump fifty years. This headlonggallop towards the precipice must end one way or another: either the horsemust stop or fall. Then we shall breathe again. Thank Heaven, the earthwill not cease to flower, nor the sky to give light, with or without music!What have we to do with an art so inhuman!. . . The West is burning away. . . . Soon. . . . Very soon. . . . I see other stars arising in the furthest depths ofthe East. "

"Bother the East!" said Christophe. "The West has not said its last wordyet. Do you think I am going to abdicate? I have enough to say to keepyou going for centuries. Hurrah for life! Hurrah for joy! Hurrah for thecourage which drives us on to struggle with our destiny! Hurrah for lovewhich maketh the heart big! Hurrah for friendship which rekindles ourfaith, --friendship, a sweeter thing than love! Hurrah for the day! Hurrahfor the night! Glory be to the sun! _Laus Deo_, the God of joy, the God ofdreams and actions, the God who created music! Hosannah!. . . "

With that he sat down at his desk and wrote down everything that was in hishead, without another thought for what he had been saying. 

 * * * * *

At that time Christophe was in a condition in which all the elements of hislife were perfectly balanced. He did not bother his head with estheticdiscussions as to the value of this or that musical form, nor with reasonedattempts to create a new form: he did not even have to cast about forsubjects for translation into music. One thing was as good as another. Theflood of music welled forth without Christophe knowing exactly what feelinghe was expressing. He was happy: that was all: happy in expanding, happy inhaving expanded, happy in feeling within himself the pulse of universallife. 

His fullness of joy was communicated to those about him. 

The house with its closed garden was too small for him. He had the view outover the garden of the neighboring convent with the solitude of its greatavenues and century-old trees: but it was too good to last. In front ofChristophe's windows they were building a six-story house, which shut outthe view and completely hemmed him in. In addition, he had the pleasure ofhearing the creaking of pulleys, the chipping of stones, the hammering ofnails, all day long from morning to night. Among the workmen he found hisold friend the slater, whose acquaintance he had made on the roof. Theymade signs to each other, and once, when he met him in the street, he tookthe man to a wineshop, and they drank together, much to the surprise ofOlivier, who was a little scandalized. He found the man's drollery andunfailing good-humor very entertaining, but did not curse him any the less, with his troop of workmen and stupid idiots who were raising a barricadein front of the house and robbing him of air and light. Olivier did notcomplain much: he could quite easily adapt himself to a limited horizon:he was like the stove of Descartes, from which the suppressed ideas dartedupward to the free sky. But Christophe needed more air. Shut up in thatconfined space, he avenged himself by expanding into the lives of thoseabout him. He drank in their inmost life, and turned it into music. Olivierused to tell him that he looked like a lover. 

"If I were in love, " Christophe would reply, "I should see nothing, lovenothing, be interested in nothing outside my love. "

"What is the matter with you, then?"

"I'm very well. I'm hungry. "

"Lucky Christophe!" Olivier would sigh. "I wish you could hand a little ofyour appetite over to us. "

Health, like sickness, is contagious. The first to feel the benefit ofChristophe's vitality was naturally Olivier. Vitality was what he mostlacked. He retired from the world because its vulgarity revolted him. Brilliantly clever though he was, and in spite of his exceptional artisticgifts, he was too delicate to be a great artist. Great artists do not feeldisgust: the first law for every healthy being is to live: and that lawis even more imperative for a man of genius: for such a man lives more. Olivier fled from life: he drifted along in a world of poetic fictions thathad no body, no flesh and blood, no relation to reality. He was one ofthose literary men who, in quest of beauty, have to go outside time, intothe days that are no more, or the days that have never been. As though thewine of life were not as intoxicating, and its vintages as rich nowadays asever they were! But men who are weary in soul recoil from direct contactwith life: they can only bear to see it through the veil of visions spunby the backward movement of time, and hear it in the echo which sends backand distorts the dead words of those who were once alive. --Christophe'sfriendship gradually dragged Olivier out of this Limbo of art. The sun'srays pierced through to the innermost recesses of his soul in which he waslanguishing. 

 * * * * *

Elsberger, the engineer, also succumbed to Christophe's contagiousoptimism. It was not shown in any change in his habits: they were tooinveterate: and it was too much to expect him to become enterprising enoughto leave France and go and seek his fortune elsewhere. But he was shakenout of his apathy: he recovered his taste for research, and reading, andthe scientific work which he had long neglected. He would have been muchastonished had he been told that Christophe had something to do withhis new interest in his work: and certainly no one would have been moresurprised than Christophe. 

 * * * * *

But of all the inhabitants of the house, Christophe was the soonestintimate with the little couple on the second floor. More than once as hepassed their door he had stopped to listen to the sound of the piano whichMadame Arnaud used to play quite well when she was alone. Then he gave themtickets for his concert, for which they thanked him effusively. And afterthat he used to go and sit with them occasionally in the evening. Hehad never heard Madame Arnaud playing again: she was too shy to play incompany: and even when she was alone, now that she knew she could be heardon the stairs, she kept the soft pedal down. But Christophe used to play tothem, and they would talk about it for hours together. The Arnauds used tospeak of music with such eagerness and freshness of feeling that he wasenchanted with them. He had not thought it possible for French people tocare so much for music. 

"That, " Olivier would say, "is because you have only come acrossmusicians. "

"I'm perfectly aware, " Christophe would reply, "that professed musiciansare the very people who care least for music: but you can't make me believethat there are many people like you in France. "

"A few thousands at any rate. "

"I suppose it's an epidemic, the latest fashion. "

"It is not a matter of fashion, " said Arnaud. "_He who does not rejoice tohear a sweet accord of instruments, or the sweetness of the natural voice, and is not moved by it, and does not tremble from head to foot with itssweet ravishment, and is not taken completely out of himself, does therebyshow himself to have a twisted, vicious, and depraved soul, and of such anone we should beware as of a man ill-born. . . . _"

"I know that, " said Christophe. "It is my friend Shakespeare. "

"No, " said Arnaud gently. "It is a Frenchman who lived before him, Ronsard. That will show you that, if it is the fashion in France to care for music, it is no new thing. "

But what astonished Christophe was not so much that people in France shouldcare for music, as that almost without exception they cared for the samemusic as the people in Germany. In the world of Parisian snobs and artists, in which he had moved at first, it had been the mode to treat the Germanmasters as distinguished foreigners, by all means to be admired, but to bekept at a distance: they were always ready to poke fun at the dullness of aGluck, and the barbarity of a Wagner: against them they set up the subtletyof the French composers. And in the end Christophe had begun to wonderwhether a Frenchman could have the least understanding of German music, tojudge by the way it was rendered in France. Only a short time before he hadcome away perfectly scandalized from a performance of an opera of Gluck's:the ingenious Parisians had taken it into their heads to deck the oldfellow up, and cover him with ribbons, and pad out his rhythms, and bedizenhis music with, impressionistic settings, and charming little dancinggirls, forward and wanton. . . . Poor Gluck! There was nothing left of hiseloquent and sublime feeling, his moral purity, his naked sorrow. Was itthat the French could not understand these things?--And now Christophecould see how deeply and tenderly his new friends loved the very inmostquality of the Germanic spirit, and the old German _lieder_, and the Germanclassics. And he asked them if it was not the fact that the great Germanswere as foreigners to them, and that a Frenchman could only really love theartists of his own nationality. 

"Not at all!" they protested. "It is only the critics who take uponthemselves to speak for us. They always follow the fashion, and they wantus to follow it too. But we don't worry about them any more than they worryabout us. They're funny little people, trying to teach us what is and isnot French--us, who are French of the old stock of France!. . . They come andtell us that our France is in Rameau, --or Racine, --and nowhere else. Asthough we did not know, --(and thousands like us in the provinces, and inParis). How often Beethoven, Mozart, and Gluck, have sat with us by thefireside, and watched with us by the bedside of those we love, and sharedour troubles, and revived our hopes, and been one of ourselves! If wedared say exactly what we thought, it is much more likely that the Frenchartists, who are set up on a pedestal by our Parisian critics, arestrangers among us. "

"The truth is, " said Olivier, "that if there are frontiers in art, they arenot so much barriers between races as barriers between classes. I'm not sosure that there is a French art or a German art: but there is certainlyone art for the rich and another for the poor. Gluck was a great man ofthe middle-classes: he belongs to our class. A certain French artist, whose name I won't mention, is not of our class: though he was of themiddle-class by birth, he is ashamed of us, and denies us: and we denyhim. "

What Olivier said was true. The better Christophe got to know the French, the more he was struck by the resemblance between the honest men of Franceand the honest men of Germany. The Arnauds reminded him of dear old Schulzwith his pure, disinterested love of art, his forgetfulness of self, hisdevotion to beauty. And he loved them in memory of Schulz. 

 * * * * *

At the same time as he realized the absurdity of moral frontiers betweenthe honest men of different nationalities, Christophe began to see theabsurdity of the frontiers that lay between the different ideas of honestmen of the same nationality. Thanks to him, though without any deliberateeffort on his part, the Abbé Corneille and M. Watelet, two men who seemedvery far indeed from understanding each other, made friends. 

Christophe used to borrow books from both of them and, with a want ofceremony which shocked Olivier, he used to lend their books in turn to theother. The Abbé Corneille was not at all scandalized: he had an intuitiveperception of the quality of a man: and, without seeming to do so, he hadmarked the generous and even unconsciously religious nature of his youngneighbor. A book by Kropotkin, which had been borrowed from M. Watelet, andfor different reasons had given great pleasure to all three of them, beganthe process of bringing them together. It chanced one evening that they metin Christophe's room. At first Christophe was afraid that they might berude to each other: but, on the contrary, they were perfectly polite, Theydiscussed various sage subjects: their travels, and their experience ofmen. And they discovered in each other a fund of gentleness and the spiritof the Gospels, and chimerical hopes, in spite of the many reasons thateach had for despair, They discovered a mutual sympathy, mingled with alittle irony. Their sympathy was of a very discreet nature. They neverrevealed their fundamental beliefs. They rarely met and did not try tomeet: but when they did so they were glad to see each other. 

Of the two men the Abbé Corneille was not the least independent of mind, though Christophe would never have thought it. He gradually came toperceive the greatness of the religious and yet free ideas, the immense, serene, and unfevered mysticism which permeated the priest's whole mind, the every action of his daily life, and his whole outlook on theworld, --leading him to live in Christ, as he believed that Christ had livedin God. 

He denied nothing, no single element of life. To him the whole ofScripture, ancient and modern, lay and religious, from Moses to Berthelot, was certain, divine, the very expression of God. Holy Writ was to him onlyits richest example, just as the Church was the highest company of menunited in the brotherhood of God: but in neither of them was the spiritconfined in any fixed, unchanging truth. Christianity was the livingChrist. The history of the world was only the history of the perpetualadvance of the idea of God. The fall of the Jewish Temple, the ruin of thepagan world, the repulse of the Crusades, the humiliation of Boniface VIII, Galileo flinging the world back into giddy space, the infinitely littlebecoming more mighty than the great, the downfall of kingdoms, and the endof the Concordats, all these for a time threw the minds of men out of theirreckoning. Some clung desperately to the passing order: some caught at aplank and drifted. The Abbé Corneille only asked: "Where do we stand asmen? Where is that which makes us live?" For he believed: "Where life is, there is God. "--And that was why he was in sympathy with Christophe. 

For his part, Christophe was glad once more to hear the splendid music of agreat religious soul. It awoke in him echoes distant and profound. Throughthe feeling of perpetual reaction, which is in vigorous natures a vitalinstinct, the instinct of self-preservation, the stroke which preservesthe quivering balance of the boat, and gives it a new drive onward, --hissurfeit of doubts and his disgust with Parisian sensuality had for the lasttwo years been slowly restoring God to his place in Christophe's heart. Notthat he believed in God. He denied God. But he was filled with the spiritof God. The Abbé Corneille used to tell him with a smile, that like hisnamesake, the sainted giant, he bore God on his shoulders without knowingit. 

"How is it that I don't see it then?" Christophe would ask. 

"You are like thousands of others: you see God every day, and never knowthat it is He. God reveals Himself to all, in every shape, --to some Heappears in their daily life, as He did to Saint Peter in Galilee, --toothers (like your friend M. Watelet), as He did to Saint Thomas, in woundsand suffering that call for healing, --to you in the dignity of your ideal:_Noli me tangere_. . . . Some day you will know it. "

"I will never surrender, " said Christophe. "I am free. Free I shallremain. "

"Only the more will you live in God, " replied the priest calmly. 

But Christophe would not submit to being made out a Christian against hiswill. He defended himself ardently and simply, as though it mattered in theleast whether one label more than another was plastered on to his ideas. The Abbé Corneille would listen with a faint ecclesiastical irony, that washardly perceptible, while it was altogether kindly. He had an inexhaustiblefund of patience, based on his habit of faith. It had been tempered by thetrials to which the existing Church had exposed him: while it had made himprofoundly melancholy, and had even dragged him through terrible moralcrises, he had not really been touched by it all. It was cruel to sufferthe oppression of his superiors, to have his every action spied upon bythe Bishops, and watched by the free-thinkers, who were endeavoring toexploit his ideas, to use him as a weapon against his own faith, and tobe misunderstood and attacked both by his co-religionists and the enemiesof his religion. It was impossible for him to offer any resistance: forsubmission was enforced upon him. It was impossible for him to submit inhis heart: for he knew that the authorities were wrong. It was agony forhim to hold his peace. It was agony for him to speak and to be wronglyinterpreted. Not to mention the soul for which he was responsible, he hadto think of those, who looked to him for counsel and help, while he had tostand by and see them suffer. . . . The Abbé Corneille suffered both for themand for himself, but he was resigned. He knew how small a thing were thedays of trial in the long history of the Church. --Only, by dint of beingturned in upon himself in his silent resignation, slowly he lost heart, andbecame timid and afraid to speak, so that it became more and more difficultfor him to do anything, and little by little the torpor of silence creptover him. Meeting Christophe had given him new courage. His neighbor'syouthful ardor and the affectionate and simple interest which he took inhis doings, his sometimes indiscreet questions, did him a great deal ofgood. Christophe forced him to mix once more with living men and women. 

Aubert, the journeyman electrician, once met him in Christophe's room. Hestarted back when he saw the priest, and found it hard to conceal hisfeeling of dislike. Even when he had overcome his first inclination, he wasuncomfortable and oddly embarrassed at finding himself in the company of aman in a cassock, a creature to whom he could attach no exact definition. However, his sociable instincts and the pleasure he always found in talkingto educated men were stronger than his anti-clericalism. He was surprisedby the pleasant relations existing between M. Watelet and the AbbéCorneille: he was no less surprised to find a priest who was a democrat, and a revolutionary who was an aristocrat: it upset all his preconceivedideas. He tried vainly to classify them in any social category: for healways had to classify people before he could begin to understand them. Itwas not easy to find a pigeon-hole for the peaceful freedom of mind of apriest who had read Anatole France and Renan, and was prepared to discussthem calmly, justly, and with some knowledge. In matters of science theAbbé Corneille's way was to accept the guidance of those who knew, ratherthan of those who laid down the law. He respected authority, but in hiseyes it stood lower than knowledge. The flesh, the spirit, and charity:the three orders, the three rungs of the divine ladder, the ladder ofJacob. --Of course, honest Aubert was far, indeed, from understanding, oreven from dreaming, of the possibility of such a state of mind. The AbbéCorneille used to tell Christophe that Aubert reminded him of certainFrench peasants whom he had seen one day. A young Englishwoman had askedthem the way, in English. They listened solemnly, but did not understand. Then they spoke in French. She did not understand. Then they looked at eachother pityingly, and wagged their heads, and went on with their work, andsaid:

"What a pity! What a pity! Such a pretty girl, too!. . . "

As though they had thought her deaf, or dumb, or soft in the head. . . . 

At first Aubert was abashed by the knowledge and distinguished manners ofthe priest and M. Watelet, and sat mum, listening intently to what theysaid. Then, little by little, he joined in the conversation, giving way tothe naïve pleasure that he found in hearing himself speak. He paraded hisgenerous store of rather vague ideas. The other two would listen politely, and smile inwardly. Aubert was delighted, and could not hold himself in:he took advantage of, and presently abused, the inexhaustible patience ofthe Abbé Corneille. He read his literary productions to him. The priestlistened resignedly; and it did not bore him overmuch, for he listened notso much to the words as to the man. And then he would reply to Christophe'scommiseration:

"Bah! I hear so many of them!"

Aubert was grateful to M. Watelet and the Abbé Corneille: and, withouttaking much trouble to understand each other's ideas, or even to find outwhat they were, the three of them became very good friends without exactlyknowing why. They were very surprised to find themselves so intimate. Theywould never have thought it. --Christophe was the bond between them. 

He had other innocent allies in the three children, the two littleElsbergers and M. Watelet's adopted daughter. He was great friends withthem: they adored him. He told each of them about the other, and gave theman irresistible longing to know each other. They used to make signs to eachother from the windows, and spoke to each other furtively on the stairs. Aided and abetted by Christophe, they even managed to get permissionsometimes to meet in the Luxembourg Gardens. Christophe was delighted withthe success of his guile, and went to see them there the first time theywere together: they were shy and embarrassed, and hardly knew what to makeof their new happiness. He broke down their reserve in a moment, andinvented games for them, and races, and played hide-and-seek: he joined inas keenly as though he were a child of ten: the passers-by cast amused andquizzical glances at the great big fellow, running and shouting and dodginground trees, with three little girls after him. And as their parents werestill suspicious of each other, and showed no great readiness to let theseexcursions to the Luxembourg Gardens occur very often--(because it keptthem too far out of sight)--Christophe managed to get Commandant Chabran, who lived on the ground floor, to invite the children to play in the gardenbelonging to the house. 

Chance had thrown Christophe and the old soldier together:--(chance alwayssingles out those who can turn it to account). --Christophe's writing-tablewas near his window. One day the wind blew a few sheets of music down intothe garden. Christophe rushed down, bareheaded and disheveled, just as hewas, without even taking the trouble to brush his hair. He thought he wouldonly have to see a servant. However, the daughter opened the door to him. He was rather taken aback, but told her what he had come for. She smiledand let him in: they went into the garden. When he had picked up his papershe was for hurrying away, and she was taking him to the door, when they metthe old soldier. The Commandant gazed at his odd visitor in some surprise. His daughter laughed, and introduced him. 

"Ah! So you are the musician?" said the old soldier. "We are comrades. "

They shook hands. They talked in a friendly, bantering tone of the concertsthey gave together, Christophe with his piano, the Commandant with hisflute. Christophe tried to go, but the old man would not let him: and heplunged blindly into a disquisition on music. Suddenly he stopped short, and said:

"Come and see my canons. "

Christophe followed him, wondering how anybody could be interested inanything he might think about French artillery. The old man showed him intriumph a number of musical canons, amazing productions, compositions thatmight just as well be read upside down, or played as duets, one personplaying the right-hand page, and the other the left. The Commandant was anold pupil of the Polytechnic, and had always had a taste for music: butwhat he loved most of all in it was the mathematical problem: it seemedto him--(as up to a point it is)--a magnificent mental gymnastic: andhe racked his brains in the invention and solution of puzzles in theconstruction of music, each more useless and extravagant than the last. Ofcourse, his military career had not left him much time for the developmentof his mania: but since his retirement he had thrown himself into it withenthusiasm: he expended on it all the energy and ingenuity which he hadpreviously employed in pursuing the hordes of negro kings through thedeserts of Africa, or avoiding their traps. Christophe found his puzzlesquite amusing, and set him a more complicated one to solve. The old soldierwas delighted: they vied with one another: they produced a perfect showerof musical riddles. After they had been playing the game for some time, Christophe went upstairs to his own room. But the very next morning hisneighbor sent him a new problem, a regular teaser, at which the Commandanthad been working half the night: he replied with another: and the duel wenton until Christophe, who was getting tired of it, declared himself beaten:at which the old soldier was perfectly delighted. He regarded his successas a retaliation on Germany. He invited Christophe to lunch. Christophe'sfrankness in telling the old soldier that he detested his musicalcompositions, and shouting in protest when Chabran began to murder an_andante_ of Haydn on his harmonium, completed the conquest. From that timeon they often met to talk. But not about music. Christophe could not summonup any great interest in his neighbor's crotchety notions about it, andmuch preferred getting him to talk about military subjects. The Commandantasked nothing better: music was only a forced amusement for the unhappyman: in reality, he was fretting his life out. 

He was easily led on to yarn about his African campaigns. Giganticadventures worthy of the tales of a Pizarro and a Cortez! Christophe wasdelighted with the vivid narrative of that marvelous and barbaric epic, ofwhich he knew nothing, and almost every Frenchman is ignorant: the tale ofthe twenty years during which the heroism, and courage, and inventiveness, and superhuman energy of a conquering handful of Frenchmen were spent faraway in the depths of the Black Continent, where they were surroundedby armies of negroes, where they were deprived of the most rudimentaryarms of war, and yet, in the face of public opinion and a panic-strickenGovernment, in spite of France, conquered for France an empire greater thanFrance itself. There was the flavor of a mighty joy, a flavor of blood inthe tale, from which, in Christophe's mind's eye, there sprang the figuresof modern _condottieri_, heroic adventurers, unlooked for in the France ofto-day, whom the France of to-day is ashamed to own, so that she modestlydraws a veil over them. The Commandant's voice would ring out bravelyas he recalled it all: and he would jovially recount, with learneddescriptions--(oddly interpolated in his epic narrative)--of the geologicalstructure of the country, in cold, precise terms, the story of thetremendous marches, and the charges at full gallop, and the man-hunts, inwhich he had been hunter and quarry, turn and turn about, in a struggle tothe death. --Christophe would listen and watch his face, and feel a greatpity for such a splendid human animal, condemned to inaction, and forced tospend his time in playing ridiculous games. He wondered how he could everhave become resigned to such a lot. He asked the old man how he had doneit. The Commandant was at first not at all inclined to let a strangerinto his confidence as to his grievances. But the French are naturallyloquacious, especially when they have a chance of pitching into each other:

"What on earth should I do, " he said, "in the army as it is to-day? Themarines write books. The infantry study sociology. They do everything butmake war. They don't even prepare for it: they prepare never to go to waragain: they study the philosophy of war. . . . The philosophy of war! That'sa game for beasts of burden wondering how much thrashing they are going toget!. . . Discussing, philosophizing, no, that's not my work. Much betterstay at home and go on with my canons!"

He was too much ashamed to air the most serious of his grievances: thesuspicion created among the officers by the appeal to informers, thehumiliation of having to submit to the insolent orders of certain crass andmischievous politicians, the army's disgust at being put to base policeduty, taking inventories of the churches, putting down industrial strikes, at the bidding of capital and the spite of the party in power--the pettyburgess radicals and anti-clericals--against the rest of the country. Notto speak of the old African's disgust with the new Colonial Army, which wasfor the most part recruited from the lowest elements of the nation, by wayof pandering to the egoism and cowardice of the rest, who refuse to sharein the honor and the risks of securing the defense of "greaterFrance"--France beyond the seas. 

Christophe was not concerned with these French quarrels: they were noaffair of his: but he sympathized with the old soldier. Whatever he mightthink of war, it seemed to him that an army was meant to produce soldiers, as an apple-tree to produce apples, and that it was a strange perversion tograft on to it politicians, esthetes, and sociologists. And yet he couldnot understand how a man of such vigor could give way to his adversaries. It is to be his own worst enemy for a man not to fight his enemies. Inall French people of any worth at all there was a spirit of surrender, astrange temper of renunciation. --To Christophe it was even more profound, and even more touching as it existed in the old soldier's daughter. 

Her name was Céline. She had beautiful hair, plaited and braided so asto set off her high, round forehead and her rather pointed ears, herthin cheeks, and her pretty chin: she was like a country girl, with fineintelligent dark eyes, very trustful, very soft, rather short-sighted: hernose was a little too large, and she had a tiny mole on her upper lip bythe corner of her mouth, and she had a quiet smile which made her poutprettily and thrust out her lower lip, which was a little protruding. Shewas kind, active, clever, but she had no curiosity of mind. She read verylittle, and never any of the newest books, never went to the theater, nevertraveled, --(for traveling bored her father, who had had too much of itin the old days), --never had anything to do with any polite charitablework, --(her father used to condemn all such things), --made no attempt tostudy, --(he used to make fun of blue stockings), --hardly ever left herlittle patch of garden inclosed by its four high walls, so that it was likebeing at the bottom of a deep well. And yet she was not really bored. Sheoccupied her time as best she could, and was good-tempered and resigned. About her and about the setting which every woman unconsciously createsfor herself wherever she may be, there was a Chardinesque atmosphere: thesame soft silence, the same tranquil expression, the same attitude ofabsorption--(a little drowsy and languid)--in the common task: the poetryof the daily round, of the accustomed way of life, with its fixed thoughtsand actions, falling into exactly the same place at exactly the sametime--thoughts and actions which are cherished none the less with anall-pervading tranquil gentleness: the serene mediocrity of the fine-souledwomen of the middle-class: honest, conscientious, truthful, calm--calm intheir pleasures, unruffled in their labors, and yet poetic in all theirqualities. They are healthy and neat and tidy, clean in body and mind: alltheir lives are sweetened with the scent of good bread, and lavender, andintegrity, and kindness. There is peace in all that they are and do, thepeace of old houses and smiling souls. . . . 

Christophe, whose affectionate trustfulness invited trust, had become veryfriendly with her: they used to talk quite frankly: and he even went so faras to ask her certain questions, which she was surprised to find herselfanswering: she would tell him things which she had not told anybody, evenher most intimate friends. 

"You see, " Christophe would say, "you're not afraid of me. There's nodanger of our falling in love with each other: we're too good friends forthat. "

"You're very polite!" she would answer with a laugh. 

Her healthy nature recoiled as much as Christophe's from philanderingfriendship, that form of sentimentality dear to equivocal men and women, who are always juggling with their emotions. They were just comrades one toanother. 

He asked her one day what she was doing in the afternoons, when he saw hersitting in the garden with her work on her knees, never touching it, andnot stirring for hours together. She blushed, and protested that it was nota matter of hours, but only a matter of a few minutes, perhaps a quarter ofan hour, during which she "went on with her story. "

"What story?"

"The story I am always telling myself. "

"You tell yourself stories? Oh, tell them to me!"

She told him that he was too curious. She would only go so far as tointimate that they were stories of which she was not the heroine. 

He was surprised at that:

"If you are going to tell yourself stories, it seems to me that it would bemore natural if you told your own story with embellishments, and lived in ahappier dream-life. "

"I couldn't, " she said. "If I did that, I should become desperate. "

She blushed again at having revealed even so much of her inmost thoughts:and she went on:

"Besides, when I am in the garden and a gust of wind reaches me, I amhappy. Then the garden becomes alive for me. And when the wind blusters andcomes from a great distance, he tells me so many things!"

In spite of her reserve, Christophe could see the hidden depths ofmelancholy that lay behind her good-humor, and the restless activity which, as she knew perfectly well, led nowhere. Why did she not try to break awayfrom her condition and emancipate herself? She would have been so wellfitted for a useful and active life!--But she alleged her affection for herfather, who would not hear of her leaving him. In vain did Christophe tellher that the old soldier was perfectly vigorous and energetic, and had noneed of her, and that a man of his stamp could quite well be left alone, and had no right to make a sacrifice of her. She would begin to defend herfather: by a pious fiction she would pretend that it was not her fatherwho was forcing her to stay, but she herself who could not bear to leavehim. --And, up to a point, what she said was true. It seemed to have beenaccepted from time immemorial by herself, and her fatter, and all theirfriends that their life had to be thus and thus, and not otherwise. Shehad a married brother, who thought it quite natural that she should devoteher life to their father in his stead. He was entirely wrapped up in hischildren. He loved them jealously, and left them no will of their own. Hislove for his children was to him, and especially to his wife, a voluntarybondage which weighed heavily on their life, and cramped all theirmovements: his idea seemed to be that as soon as a man has children, hisown life comes to an end, and he has to stop short in his own development:he was still young, active, and intelligent, and there he was reckoning upthe years he would have still to work before he could retire. --Christophesaw how these good people were weighed down by the atmosphere of familyaffection, which is so deep-rooted in France--deep-rooted, but stifling anddestructive of vitality. And it has become all the more oppressive sincefamilies in France have been reduced to the minimum: father, mother, oneor two children, and here and there, perhaps, an uncle or an aunt. It isa cowardly, fearful love, turned in upon itself, like a miser clingingtightly to his hoard of gold. 

A fortuitous circumstance gave Christophe a yet greater interest in thegirl, and showed him the full extent of the suppression of the emotionsof the French, their fear of life, of letting themselves go, and claimingtheir birthright. 

Elsberger, the engineer, had a brother ten years younger than himself, likewise an engineer. He was a very good fellow, like thousands of others, of the middle-class, and he had artistic aspirations: he was one of thosepeople who would like to practise an art, but are afraid of compromisingtheir reputation and position. As a matter of fact, it is not a verydifficult problem, and most of the artists of to-day have solved itwithout any great danger to themselves. But it needs a certain amount ofwill-power: and not everybody is capable of even that much expenditure ofenergy: such people are not sure enough of wanting what they really want:and as their position in life grows more assured, they submit and driftalong, without any show of revolt or protest. They cannot be blamed if theybecome good citizens instead of bad artists. But their disappointment toooften leaves behind it a secret discontent, a _qualis artifex pereo_, whichas best it can assumes a crust of what is usually called philosophy, andspoils their lives, until the wear and tear of daily life and new anxietieshave erased all trace of the old bitterness. Such was the case of AndréElsberger. He would have liked to be a writer: but his brother, who wasvery self-willed, had made him follow in his footsteps and enter upon ascientific career. André was clever, and quite well equipped for scientificwork--or for literature, for that matter: he was not sure enough ofbeing an artist, and he was too sure that he was middle-class: and so, provisionally at first, --(one knows what that means)--he had bowed to hisbrother's wishes: he entered the _Centrale_, high up in the list, andpassed out equally high, and since then he had practised his profession asan engineer conscientiously, but without being interested in it. Of course, he had lost the little artistic quality that he had possessed, and he neverspoke of it except ironically. 

"And then, " he used to say--(Christophe recognized Olivier's pessimistictendency in his arguments)--"life is not good enough to make one worryabout a spoiled career. What does a bad poet more or less matter!. . . "

The brothers were fond of one another: they were of the same stamp morally:but they did not get on well together. They had both been Dreyfus-mad. ButAndré was attracted by syndicalism, and was an anti-militarist: and Eliewas a patriot. 

From time to time André would visit Christophe without going to see hisbrother: and that astonished Christophe: for there was no great sympathybetween himself and André, who used hardly ever to open his mouth exceptto gird at something or somebody, --which was very tiresome: and whenChristophe said anything, André would not listen. Christophe made no effortto conceal the fact that he found his visits a nuisance: but André did notmind, and seemed not to notice it. At last Christophe found the key to theriddle one day when he found his visitor leaning out of the window, andpaying much more attention to what was happening in the garden below thanto what he was saying. He remarked upon it, and André was not reluctant toadmit that he knew Mademoiselle Chabran, and that she had something to dowith his visits to Christophe. And, his tongue being, loosed, he confessedthat he had long been attached to the girl, and perhaps something more thanthat: the Elsbergers had long ago been in close touch with the Chabrans:but, though they had been very intimate, politics and recent eventshad separated them: and thereafter they saw very little of each other. Christophe did not disguise his opinion that it was an idiotic state ofthings. Was it impossible for people to think differently, and yet toretain their mutual esteem? André said he thought it was, and protestedthat he was very broad-minded: but he would not admit the possibility oftolerance in certain questions, concerning which, he said, he could notadmit any opinion different from his own: and he instanced the famousAffair. On that, as usual, he became wild. Christophe knew the sort ofthing that happened in that connection, and made no attempt to argue: buthe; asked whether the Affair was never going to come to an end, or whetherits curse was to go on and on to the end of time, descending even unto thethird and fourth generation. André began to laugh: and without answeringChristophe, he fell to tender praise of Céline Chabran, and protestedagainst her father's selfishness, who thought it quite natural that sheshould be sacrificed to him. 

"Why don't you marry her, " asked Christophe, "if you love her and she lovesyou?"

André said mournfully that Céline was clerical. Christophe asked what hemeant by that. André replied that he meant that she was religious, and hadvowed a sort of feudal service to God and His bonzes. 

"But how does that affect you?"

"I don't want to share my wife with any one. "

"What! You are jealous even of your wife's ideas? Why, you're more selfisheven than the Commandant!"

"It's all very well for you to talk: would you take a woman who did notlove music?"

"I have done so. "

"How can a man and a woman live together if they don't think the same?"

"Don't you worry about what you think! Ah! my dear fellow, ideas count forso little when one loves. What does it matter to me whether the woman Ilove cares for music as much as I do? She herself is music to me! When aman has the luck, as you have, to find a dear girl whom he loves, and sheloves him, she must believe what she likes, and he must believe what helikes! When all is said and done, what do your ideas amount to? There isonly one truth in the world, there is only one God: love. "

"You speak like a poet. You don't see life as it is. I know only too manymarriages which have suffered from such a want of union in thought. "

"Those husbands and wives did not love each other enough. You have to knowwhat you want. "

"Wanting does not do everything in life. Even if I wanted to marryMademoiselle Chabran, I couldn't. "

"I'd like to know why. "

André spoke of his scruples: his position was not assured: he had nofortune and no great health. He was wondering whether he had the right tomarry in such circumstances. It was a great responsibility. Was there not agreat risk of bringing unhappiness on the woman he loved, and himself, --notto mention any children there might be?. . . It was better to wait--or giveup the idea. 

Christophe shrugged his shoulders. 

"That's a fine sort of love! If she loves you, she will be happy in herdevotion to you. And as for the children, you French people are absurd. Youwould like only to bring them into the world when you are sure of turningthem out with comfortable private means, so that they will have nothing tosuffer and nothing to fear. . . . Good Lord! That's nothing to do with you:your business is only to give them life, love of life, and courage todefend it. The rest . . . Whether they live or die . . . Is the common lot. Isit better to give up living than to take the risks of life?"

The sturdy confidence which emanated from Christophe affected André, butdid not change his mind. He said:

"Yes, perhaps, that is true. . . . "

But he stopped at that. Like all the rest, his will and power of actionseemed to be paralyzed. 

 * * * * *

Christophe had set himself to fight the inertia which he found In mostof his French friends, oddly coupled with laborious and often feverishactivity. Almost all the people he met in the various middle-class houseswhich he visited were discontented. They had almost all the same disgustwith the demagogues and their corrupt ideas. In almost all there was thesame sorrowful and proud consciousness of the betrayal of the genius oftheir race. And it was by no means the result of any personal rancor northe bitterness of men and classes beaten and thrust out of power and activelife, or discharged officials, or unemployed energy, nor that of an oldaristocracy which has returned to its estates, there to die in hiding likea wounded lion. It was a feeling of moral revolt, mute, profound, general:it was to be found everywhere, in a greater or less degree, in the army, inthe magistracy, in the University, in the officers, and in every vitalbranch of the machinery of government. But they took no active measures. They were discouraged in advance: they kept on saying:

"There is nothing to be done:"

or

"Let us try not to think of it. "

Fearfully they dodged anything sad in their thoughts and conversation: andthey took refuge in their home life. 

If they had been content to refrain only from political action! But evenin their daily lives these good people had no interest in doing anythingdefinite. They put up with the degrading, haphazard contact with horriblepeople whom they despised, because they could not take the trouble to fightagainst them, thinking that any such revolt must of necessity be useless. Why, for instance, should artists, and, in particular, the musicianswith whom Christophe was most in touch, unprotestingly put up with theeffrontery of the scaramouches of the Press, who laid down the law forthem? There were absolute idiots among them, whose ignorance _in omni rescibili_ was proverbial, though they were none the less invested witha sovereign authority _in omni re scibili_. They did not even take thetrouble to write their articles and books: they had secretaries, poorstarving creatures, who would have sold their souls, if they had had suchthings, for bread or women. There was no secret about it in Paris. Andyet they went on riding their high horse and patronizing the artists. Christophe used to roar with anger sometimes when he read their articles. 

"They have no heart!" he would say. "Oh! the cowards!"

"Who are you screaming at?" Olivier would ask. "The idiots of themarket-place?"

"No. The honest men. These rascals are plying their trade: they lie, theysteal, they rob and murder. But it is the others--those who despise themand yet let them go on--that I despise a thousand times more. If theircolleagues on the Press, if honest, cultured critics, and the artists onwhose backs these harlequins strut and poise themselves, did not put upwith it, in silence, from shyness or fear of compromising themselves, orfrom some shameful anticipation of mutual service, a sort of secret pactmade with the enemy so that they may be immune from their attacks, --if theydid not let them preen themselves in their patronage and friendship, theirupstart power would soon be killed by ridicule. There's the same weaknessin everything, everywhere. I've met twenty honest men who have said to meof so-and-so: 'He is a scoundrel. ' But there is not one of them who wouldnot refer to him as his 'dear colleague, ' and, if he met him, shake handswith him. --'There are too many of them!' they say. --Too many cowards. Toomany flabby honest men. "

"Eh! What do you want them to do?"

"Be every man his own policeman! What are you waiting for? For Heaven totake your affairs in hand? Look you, at this very moment. It is three daysnow since the snow fell. Your streets are thick with it, and your Paris islike a sewer of mud. What do you do? You protest against your MunicipalCouncil for leaving you in such a state of filth. But do you yourselves doanything to clear it away? Not a bit of it! You sit with your arms folded. Not one of you has energy enough even to clean the pavement in front ofhis house. Nobody does his duty, neither the State nor the members of theState: each man thinks he has done as much as is expected of him by layingthe blame on some one else. You have become so used, through centuries ofmonarchical training, to doing nothing for yourselves that you all seem tospend your time in star-gazing and waiting for a miracle to happen. Theonly miracle that could happen would be if you all suddenly made up yourminds to do something. My dear Olivier, you French people have plenty ofbrains and plenty of good qualities: but you lack blood. You most of all. There's nothing the matter with your mind or your heart. It's your lifethat's all wrong. You're sputtering out. "

"What can we do? We can only wait for life to return to us. "

"You must want life to return to you. You must want to be cured. You must_want_, use your will! And if you are to do that you must first let in somepure air into your houses. If you won't go out of doors, then at leastyou must keep your houses healthy. You have let the air be poisoned bythe unwholesome vapors of the market-place. Your art and your ideas aretwo-thirds adulterated. And you are so dispirited that it hardly occasionsyou any surprise, and rouses you to no sort of indignation. Some of thesegood people--(it is pitiful to see)--are so cowed that they actuallypersuade themselves that they are wrong and the charlatans are right. Why--even on your _Ésope_ review, in which you profess not to be taken inby anything, --I have found unhappy young men persuading themselves thatthey love an art and ideas for which they have not a vestige of love. Theyget drunk on it, without any sort of pleasure, simply because they are toldto do so: and they are dying of boredom--boredom with the monstrous lie ofthe whole thing!"

 * * * * *

Christophe passed through these wavering and dispirited creatures like awind shaking the slumbering trees. He made no attempt to force them to hisway of thinking: he breathed into them energy enough to make them think forthemselves. He used to say:

"You are too humble. The grand enemy is neurasthenia, doubt. A man can andmust be tolerant and human. But no man may doubt what he believes to begood and true. A man must believe in what he thinks. And he should maintainwhat he believes. Whatever our powers may be, we have no right to forswearthem. The smallest creature in the world, like the greatest, has his duty. And--(though he is not sufficiently conscious of it)--he has also a power. Why should you think that your revolt will carry so little weight? A sturdyupright conscience which dares assert itself is a mighty thing. More thanonce during the last few years you have seen the State and public opinionforced to reckon with the views of an honest man, who had no other weaponsbut his own moral force, which, with constant courage and tenacity, he haddared publicly to assert. . . . 

"And if you must go on asking what's the good of taking so much trouble, what's the good of fighting, _what's the good of it all?_. . . Then, I willtell you:--Because France is dying, because Europe is perishing--because, if we did not fight, our civilization, the edifice so splendidlyconstructed, at the cost of centuries of labor, by our humanity, wouldcrumble away. These are not idle words. The country is in danger, ourEuropean mother-country, --and more than any, yours, your own nativecountry, France. Your apathy is killing her. Your silence is killing her. Each of your energies as it dies, each of your ideas as it accepts andsurrenders, each of your good intentions as it ends in sterility, everydrop of your blood as it dries up, unused, in your veins, means death toher. . . . Up! up! You must live! Or, if you must die, then you must diefighting like men!"

 * * * * *

But the chief difficulty lay not in getting them to do something, but ingetting them to act together. There they were quite unmanageable. The bestof them were the most obstinate, as Christophe found in dealing with thetenants in his own house: M. Félix Weil, Elsberger, the engineer, andCommandant Chabran, lived on terms of polite and silent hostility. And yet, though Christophe knew very little of them, he could see that, underneaththeir party and racial labels, they all wanted the same thing. 

There were many reasons particularly why M. Weil and the Commandant shouldhave understood each other. By one of those contrasts common to thoughtfulmen, M. Weil, who never left his books and lived only in the life of themind, had a passion for all things military. "_We are all cranks_, " saidthe half-Jew Montaigne, applying to mankind in general what is perfectlytrue of certain types of minds, like the type of which M. Weil was anexample. The old intellectual had the craze for Napoleon. He collectedbooks and relics which brought to life in him the terrible dream of theImperial epic. Like many Frenchmen of that crepuscular epoch, he wasdazzled by the distant rays of that glorious sun. He used to go through thecampaigns, fight the battles all over again, and discuss operations: hewas one of those chamber-strategists who swarm in the Academies and theUniversities, who explain Austerlitz and declare how Waterloo should havebeen fought. He was the first to make fun of the "Napoleonite" in himself:it tickled his irony: but none the less he went on reading the splendidstories with the wild enthusiasm of a child playing a game: he would weepover certain episodes: and when he realized that he had been weak enough toshed tears, he would roar with laughter, and call himself an old fool. As amatter of fact, he was a Napoleonite not so much from patriotism as froma romantic interest and a platonic love of action. However, he was a goodpatriot, and much more attached to France than many an actual Frenchman. The French anti-Semites are stupid and actively mischievous in castingtheir insulting suspicions on the feeling for France of the Jews who havesettled in the country. Outside the reasons by which any family does ofnecessity, after a generation or two, become attached to the land of itsadoption, where the blood of the soil has become its own, the Jews haveespecial reason to love the nation which in the West stands for the mostadvanced ideas of intellectual and moral liberty. They love it becausefor a hundred years they have helped to make it so, and its liberty is inpart their work. How, then, should they not defend it against every menaceof feudal reaction? To try--as a handful of unscrupulous politicians anda herd of wrong-headed people would like--to break the bonds which bindthese Frenchmen by adoption to France, is to play into the hands of thatreaction. 

Commandant Chabran was one of those wrong-headed old Frenchmen who areroused to fury by the newspapers, which make out that every immigrantinto France is a secret enemy, and, in a human, hospitable spirit, forcethemselves to suspect and hate and revile them, and deny the brave destinyof the race, which is the conflux of all the races. Therefore, he thoughtit incumbent on him not to know the tenant of the first floor, although hewould have been glad to have his acquaintance. As for M. Weil, he wouldhave been very glad to talk to the old soldier: but he knew him for anationalist, and regarded him with mild contempt. 

Christophe had much less reason than the Commandant for being interested inM. Weil. But he could not bear to hear ill spoken of anybody unjustly. Andhe broke many a lance in defence of M. Weil when he was attacked in hispresence. 

One day, when the Commandant, as usual, was railing against the prevailingstate of things, Christophe said to him:

"It is your own fault. You all shut yourselves up inside yourselves. Whenthings in France are not going well, to your way of thinking, you submit toit and send in your resignation. One would think it was a point of honorwith you to admit yourselves beaten. I've never seen anybody lose a causewith such absolute delight. Come, Commandant, you have made war; is thatfighting, or anything like it?"

"It is not a question of fighting, " replied the Commandant. "We don't fightagainst France. In such struggles as these we have to argue, and vote, andmix with all sorts of knaves and low blackguards: and I don't like it. "

"You seem to be profoundly disgusted! I suppose you had to do with knavesand low blackguards in Africa!"

"On my honor, that did not disgust me nearly so much. Out there one couldalways knock them down! Besides, if it's a question of fighting, you needsoldiers. I had my sharpshooters out there. Here I am all alone. "

"It isn't that there is any lack of good men. "

"Where are they?"

"Everywhere. All round us. "

"Well: what are they doing?"

"Just what you're doing. Nothing. They say there's nothing to be done. "

"Give me an instance. "

"Three, if you like, in this very house. "

Christophe mentioned M. Weil, --(the Commandant gave an exclamation), --andthe Elsbergers, --(he jumped in his seat):

"That Jew? Those Dreyfusards?"

"Dreyfusards?" said Christophe. "Well: what does that matter?"

"It is they who have ruined France. "

"They love France as much as you do. "

"They're mad, mischievous lunatics. "

"Can't you be just to your adversaries?"

"I can get on quite well with loyal adversaries who use the same weapons. The proof of that is that I am here talking to you, Monsieur German. I canthink well of the Germans, although some day I hope to give them back withinterest the thrashing we got from them. But it is not the same thing withour enemies at home: they use underhand weapons, sophistry, and unsoundideas, and a poisonous humanitarianism. . . . "

"Yes. You are in the same state of mind as that of the knights of theMiddle Ages, when, for the first time, they found themselves faced withgunpowder. What do you want? There is evolution in war too. "

"So be it. But then, let us be frank, and say that war is war. "

"Suppose a common enemy were to threaten Europe, wouldn't you throw in yourlot with the Germans?"

"We did so, in China. "

"Very well, then: look about you. Don't you see that the heroic idealismof your country and every other country in Europe is actually threatened?Don't you see that they are all, more or less, a prey to the adventurers ofevery class of society? To fight that common enemy, don't you think youshould join with those of your adversaries who are of some worth and moralvigor? How can a man like you set so little store by the realities of life?Here are people who uphold an ideal which is different from your own! Anideal is a force, you cannot deny it: in the struggle in which you wererecently engaged, it was your adversaries' ideal which defeated you. Instead of wasting your strength in fighting against it, why not make useof it, side by side with your own, against the enemies of all ideals, themen who are exploiting your country and your wealth of ideas, the men whoare bringing European civilization to rottenness?"

"For whose sake? One must know where one is. To make our adversariestriumph?"

"When you were in Africa, you never stopped to think whether you werefighting for the King or the Republic. I fancy that not many of you evergave a thought to the Republic. "

"They didn't care a rap. "

"Good! And that was well for France. You conquered for her, as well as foryourselves, and for the honor and the joy of it. Why not do the same here?Why not widen the scope of the fight? Don't go haggling over differences inpolitics and religion. These things are utterly futile. What does it matterwhether your nation is the eldest daughter of the Church or the eldestdaughter of Reason? The only thing that does matter is that it shouldlive! Everything that exalts life is good. There is only one enemy, pleasure-seeking egoism, which fouls the sources of life and dries them up. Exalt force, exalt the light, exalt fruitful love, the joy of sacrifice, action, and give up expecting other people to act for you. Do, act, combine! Come!. . . "

And he laughed and began to bang out the first bars of the march in _Bminor_ from the _Choral Symphony_. 

"Do you know, " he said, breaking off, "that if I were one of yourmusicians, say Charpentier or Bruneau (devil take the two of them!), I would combine in a choral symphony _Aux armes, citoyens!_, _l'Internationale_, _Vive Henri IV_, and _Dieu Protège la France!_, --(Yousee, something like this. )--I would make you a soup so hot that it wouldburn your mouth! It would be unpleasant, --(no worse in any case than whatyou are doing now):--but I vow it would warm your vitals, and that youwould have to set out on the march!"

And he roared with laughter. 

The Commandant laughed too:

"You're a fine fellow, Monsieur Krafft. What a pity you're not one of us!"

"But I am one of you! The fight is the same everywhere. Let us close up theranks!"

The Commandant quite agreed: but there he stayed. Then Christophe pressedhis point and brought the conversation back to M. Weil and the Elsbergers. And the old soldier no less obstinately went back to his eternal argumentsagainst Jews and Dreyfusards, and nothing that Christophe had said seemedto have had the slightest effect on him. 

Christophe grew despondent. Olivier said to him:

"Don't you worry about it. One man cannot all of a sudden change the wholestate of mind of a nation. That's too much to expect! But you have done agood deal without knowing it. "

"What have I done?" said Christophe. 

"You are Christophe. "

"What good is that to other people?"

"A great deal. Just go on being what you are, my dear Christophe. Don't youworry about us. "

But Christophe could not surrender. He went on arguing with CommandantChabran, sometimes with great vehemence. It amused Céline. She wasgenerally present at their discussions, sitting and working in silence. Shetook no part in the argument: but it seemed to make her more lively: andquite a different expression would come into her eyes: it was as though itgave her more breathing-space. She began to read, and went out a littlemore, and found more things to interest her. And one day, when Christophewas battling with her father about the Elsbergers, the Commandant saw hersmile: he asked her what she was thinking, and she replied calmly:

"I think M. Krafft is right. "

The Commandant was taken aback, and said:

"You . . . You surprise me!. . . However, right or wrong, we are what we are. And there's no reason why we should know these people. Isn't it so, mydear?"

"No, father, " she replied. "I would like to know them. "

The Commandant said nothing, and pretended that he had not heard. Hehimself was much less insensible of Christophe's influence than he cared toappear. His vehemence and narrow-mindedness did not prevent his having aproper sense of justice and very generous feelings. He loved Christophe, heloved his frankness and his moral soundness, and he used often bitterly toregret that Christophe was a German. Although he always lost his temper inthese discussions, he was always eager for more, and Christophe's argumentsdid produce an effect on him though he would never have been willing toadmit it. But one day Christophe found him absorbed in reading a book whichhe would not let him see. And when Céline took Christophe to the door andfound herself alone with him, she said:

"Do you know what he was reading? One of M. Weil's books. "

Christophe was delighted. 

"What does he say about it?"

"He says: 'Beast!'. . . But he can't put it down. "

Christophe made no allusion to the fact with the Commandant. It was he whoasked:

"Why have you stopped hurling that blessed Jew at my head?"

"Because I don't think there's any need to, " said Christophe. "Why?" askedthe Commandant aggressively. 

Christophe made no reply, and went away laughing. 

 * * * * *

Olivier was right. It is not through words that a man can influence othermen: but through his life. There are people who irradiate an atmosphereof peace from their eyes, and in their gestures, and through the silentcontact with the serenity of their souls. Christophe irradiated life. Softly, softly, like the moist air of spring, it penetrated the walls andthe closed windows of the somnolent old house: it gave new life to thehearts of men and women, whom sorrow, weakness, and isolation had for yearsbeen consuming, so that they were withered and like dead creatures. Whata power there is in one soul over another! Those who wield that power andthose who feel it are alike ignorant of its working. And yet the life ofthe world is in the ebb and flow controlled by that mysterious power ofattraction. 

On the second floor, below Christophe and Olivier's room, there lived, as we have seen, a young woman of thirty-five, a Madame Germain, a widowof two years' standing, who, the year before, had lost her little girl, a child of seven. She lived with her mother-in-law, and they never sawanybody. Of all the tenants of the house, they had the least to do withChristophe. They had hardly met, and they had never spoken to each other. 

She was a tall woman, thin, but with a good figure; she had fine browneyes, dull and rather inexpressive, though every now and then there glowedin them a hard, mournful light. Her face was sallow and her complexionwaxy: her cheeks were hollow and her lips were tightly compressed. Theelder Madame Germain was a devout lady, and spent all her time at church. The younger woman lived in jealous isolation in her grief. She took nointerest in anything or anybody. She surrounded herself with portraits andpictures of her little girl, and by dint of staring at them she had ceasedto see her as she was: the photographs and dead presentments had killed theliving image of the child. She had ceased to see her as she was, but sheclung to it: she was determined to think of nothing but the child: and so, in the end, she reached a point at which she could not even think of her:she had completed the work of death. There she stopped, frozen, with herheart turned to stone, with no tears to shed, with her life withered. Religion was no aid to her. She went through the formalities, but her heartwas not in them, and therefore she had no living faith: she gave money forMasses, but she took no active part in any of the work of the Church: herwhole religion was centered in the one thought of seeing her child again. What did the rest matter? God? What had she to do with God? To see herchild again, only to see her again. . . . And she was by no means sure thatshe would do so. She wished to believe it, willed it hardly, desperately:but she was in doubt. . . . She could not bear to see other children, and usedto think:

"Why are they not dead too?"

In the neighborhood there was a little girl who in figure and manner waslike her own. When she saw her from behind, with her little pigtails downher back, she used to tremble. She would follow her, and, when the childturned round and she saw that it was not _she_, she would long to strangleher. She used to complain that the Elsberger children made a noisebelow her, though they were very quiet, and even very subdued by theirup-bringing: and when the unhappy children began to play about theirroom, she would send her maid to ask her neighbors to make them be quiet. Christophe met her once as he was coming in with the little girls, and washurt and horrified by the hard way in which she looked at them. 

One summer evening when the poor woman was sitting in the dark in theself-hypnotized condition of the utter emptiness of her living death, sheheard Christophe playing. It was his habit to sit at the piano in thehalf-light, musing and improvising. His music irritated her, for itdisturbed the empty torpor into which she had sunk. She shut the windowangrily. The music penetrated through to her room. Madame Germain wasfilled with a sort of hatred for it. She would have been glad to stopChristophe, but she had no right to do so. Thereafter, every day at thesame time she sat waiting impatiently and irritably for the music to begin:and when it was later than usual her irritation was only the more acute. Inspite of herself, she had to follow the music through to the end, and whenit was over she found it hard to sink back into her usual apathy. --And oneevening, when she was curled up in a corner of her dark room, and, throughthe walls and the closed window, the distant music reached her, thatlight-giving music . . . She felt a thrill run through her, and once moretears came to her eyes. She went and opened the window, and stood therelistening and weeping. The music was like rain drop by drop falling uponher poor withered heart, and giving it new life. Once more she could seethe sky, the stars, the summer night: within herself she felt the dawningof a new interest in life, as yet only a poor, pale light, vague andsorrowful sympathy for others. And that night, for the first time for manymonths, the image of her little girl came to her in her dreams. --For thesurest road to bring us near the beloved dead, the best means of seeingthem again, is not to go with them into death, but to live. They live inour lives, and die with us. 

She made no attempt to meet Christophe. Bather she avoided him. But sheused to hear him go by on the stairs with the children: and she would standin hiding behind her door to listen to their babyish prattle, which somoved her heart. 

One day, as she was going out, she heard their little padding footstepscoming down the stairs, rather more noisily than usual, and the voice ofone of the children saying to her sister:

"Don't make so much noise, Lucette. Christophe says you mustn't because ofthe sorrowful lady. "

And the other child began to walk more quietly and to talk in a whisper. Then Madame Germain could not restrain herself: she opened the door, andtook the children in her arms, and hugged them fiercely. They were afraid:one of the children began to cry. She let them go, and went back into herown room. 

After that, whenever she met them, she used to try to smile at them, a poorwithered smile, --(for she had grown unused to smiling);--she would speak tothem awkwardly and affectionately, and the children would reply shyly intimid, bashful whispers. They were still afraid of the sorrowful lady, moreafraid than ever: and now, whenever they passed the door, they used to runlest she should come out and catch them. She used to hide to catch sightof them as they passed. She would have been ashamed to be seen talking tothe children. She was ashamed in her own eyes. It seemed to her that shewas robbing her own dead child of some of the love to which she only wasentitled. She would kneel down and pray for her forgiveness. But now thatthe instinct for life and love was newly awakened in her, she could notresist it: it was stronger than herself. 

One evening, as Christophe came in, he saw that there was an unusualcommotion in the house. He met a tradesman, who told him that the tenantof the third floor, M. Watelet, had just died suddenly of angina pectoris. Christophe was filled with pity, not so much for his unhappy neighbor asfor the child who was left alone in the world. M. Watelet was not known tohave any relations, and there was every reason to believe that he had leftthe girl almost entirely unprovided for. Christophe raced upstairs, andwent into the flat on the third floor, the door of which was open. Hefound the Abbé Corneille with the body, and the child in tears, cryingto her father: the housekeeper was making clumsy efforts to console her. Christophe took the child in his arms and spoke to her tenderly. She clungto him desperately: he could not think of leaving her: he wanted to takeher away, but she would not let him. He stayed with her. He sat near thewindow in the dying light of day, and went on rocking her in his arms andspeaking to her softly. The child gradually grew calmer, and went to sleep, still sobbing. Christophe laid her on her bed, and tried awkwardly toundress her and undo the laces of her little shoes. It was nightfall. Thedoor of the flat had been left open. A shadow entered with a rustling ofskirts. In the fading light Christophe recognized the fevered eyes of thesorrowful lady. He was amazed. She stood by the door, and said thickly:

"I came. . . . Will you . . . Will you let me take her?"

Christophe took her hand and pressed it. Madame Germain was in tears. Thenshe sat by the bedside. And, a moment later, she said:

"Let me stay with her. . . . "

Christophe went up to his own room with the Abbé Corneille. The priest wasa little embarrassed, and begged Ms pardon for coming up. He hoped, hesaid, humbly, that the dead man would have nothing to reproach him with: hehad gone, not as a priest, but as a friend. Christophe was too much movedto speak, and left him with an affectionate shake of the hand. 

Next morning, when Christophe went down, he found the child with her armsround Madame Germain's neck, with the naïve confidence which makes childrensurrender absolutely to those who have won their affection. She was glad togo with her new friend. . . . Alas! she had soon forgotten her adopted father. She showed just the same affection for her new mother. That was not verycomforting. Did Madame Germain, in the egoism of her love, see it?. . . Perhaps. But what did it matter? The thing is to love. That way lieshappiness. . . . 

A few weeks after the funeral Madame Germain took the child into thecountry, far away from Paris. Christophe and Olivier saw them off. Thewoman had an expression of contentment and secret joy which they had neverknown in her before. She paid no attention to them. However, just as theywere going, she noticed Christophe, and held out her hand, and said:

"It was you who saved me. "

"What's the matter with the woman?" asked Christophe in amazement, as theywere going upstairs after her departure. 

A few days later the post brought him a photograph of a little girl whom hedid not know, sitting on a stool, with her little hands sagely folded inher lap, while she looked up at him with clear, sad eyes. Beneath it werewritten these words:

"With thanks from my dear, dead child. "

 * * * * *

Thus it was that the breath of life passed into all these people. In theattic on the fifth floor was a great and mighty flame of humanity, thewarmth and light of which were slowly filtered through the house. 

But Christophe saw it not. To him the process was very slow. 

"Ah!" he would sigh, "if one could only bring these good people together, all these people of all classes and every kind of belief, who refuse toknow each other! Can't it be done?"

"What do you want?" said Olivier. "You would need to have mutual toleranceand a power of sympathy which can only come from inward joy, --the joy of ahealthy, normal, harmonious existence, --the joy of having a useful outletfor one's activity, of feeling that one's efforts are not wasted, and thatone is serving some great purpose. You would need to have a prosperouscountry, a nation at the height of greatness, or--(better still)--on theroad to greatness. And you must also have--(the two things go together)--apower which could employ all the nation's energies, an intelligent andstrong power, which would be above party. Now, there is no power aboveparty save that which finds its strength in itself--not in the multitude, that power which seeks not the support of anarchical majorities, --as itdoes nowadays when it is no more than a well-trained dog in the handsof second-rate men, and bends all to its will by service rendered: thevictorious general, the dictatorship of Public Safety, the supremacy of theintelligence. . . What you will. It does not depend on us. You must have theopportunity and the men capable of seizing it: you must have happiness andgenius. Let us wait and hope! The forces are there: the forces of faith, knowledge, work, old France and new France, and the greater France. . . . Whatan upheaval it would be, if the word were spoken, the magic word whichshould let loose these forces all together! Of course, neither you nor Ican say the word. Who will say it? Victory? Glory?. . . Patience! The chiefthing is for the strength of the nation to be gathered together, and notto rust away, and not to lose heart before the time comes. Happiness andgenius only come to those peoples who have earned them by ages of stoicpatience, and labor, and faith. "

"Who knows?" said Christophe. "They often come sooner than we think--justwhen we expect them least. You are counting too much on the work of ages. Make ready. Gird your loins. Always be prepared with your shoes on yourfeet and your staff in your hand. . . . For you do not know that the Lord willnot pass your doors this very night. "

 * * * * *

The Lord came very near that night. His shadow fell upon the threshold ofthe house. 

 * * * * *

Following on a sequence of apparently insignificant events, relationsbetween France and Germany suddenly became strained: and, in a few days, the usual neighborly attitude of banal courtesy passed into the provocativemood which precedes war. There was nothing surprising in this, except tothose who were living under the illusion that the world is governed byreason. But there were many such in France: and numbers of people wereamazed from day to day to see the vehement Gallophobia of the GermanPress becoming rampant with the usual quasi-unanimity. Certain of thosenewspapers which, in the two countries, arrogate to themselves a monopolyof patriotism, and speak in the nation's name, and dictate to the State, sometimes with the secret complicity of the State, the policy it shouldfollow, launched forth insulting ultimatums to France. There was a disputebetween Germany and England; and Germany did not admit the right of Francenot to interfere: the insolent newspapers called upon her to declare forGermany, or else threatened to make her pay the chief expenses of the war:they presumed that they could wrest alliance from her fears, and alreadyregarded her as a conquered and contented vassal, --to be frank, likeAustria. It only showed the insane vanity of German Imperialism, drunk withvictory, and the absolute incapacity of German statesmen to understandother races, so that they were always applying the simple common measurewhich was law for themselves: Force, the supreme reason. Naturally, such abrutal demand, made of an ancient nation, rich in its past ages of a gloryand a supremacy in Europe, such as Germany had never known, had had exactlythe opposite effect to that which Germany expected. It had provoked theirslumbering pride; France was shaken from top to base; and even the mostdiffident of the French roared with anger. 

The great mass of the German people had nothing at all to do with theprovocation: they were shocked by it: the honest men of every countryask only to be allowed to live in peace: and the people of Germany areparticularly peaceful, affectionate, anxious to be on good terms witheverybody, and much more inclined to admire and emulate other nations thanto go to war with them. But the honest men of a nation are not asked fortheir opinion: and they are not bold enough to give it. Those who are notvirile enough to take public action are inevitably condemned to be itspawns. They are the magnificent and unthinking echo which casts back thesnarling cries of the Press and the defiance of their leaders, and swellsthem into the _Marseillaise_, or the _Wacht am Rhein_. 

It was a terrible blow to Christophe and Olivier. They were so used toliving in mutual love that they could not understand why their countriesdid not do the same. Neither of them could grasp the reasons for thepersistent hostility, which was now so suddenly brought to the surface, especially Christophe, who, being a German, had no sort of ground forill-feeling against the people whom his own people had conquered. Although he himself was shocked by the intolerable vanity of some of hisfellow-countrymen, and, up to a certain point, was entirely with the Frenchagainst such a high-handed Brunswicker demand, he could not understandwhy France should, after all, be unwilling to enter into an alliance withGermany. The two countries seemed to him to have so many deep-seatedreasons for being united, so many ideas in common, and such great tasks toaccomplish together, that it annoyed him to see them persisting in theirwasteful, sterile ill-feeling. Like all Germans, he regarded France as themost to blame for the misunderstanding: for, though he was quite ready toadmit that it was painful for her to sit still under the memory of herdefeat, yet that was, after all, only a matter of vanity, which should beset aside in the higher interests of civilization and of France herself. He had never taken the trouble to think out the problem of Alsace andLorraine. At school he had been taught to regard the annexation of thosecountries as an act of justice, by which, after centuries of foreignsubjection, a German province had been restored to the German flag. And so, he was brought down with a run, and he discovered that his friend regardedthe annexation as a crime. He had never even spoken to him about thesethings, so convinced was he that they were of the same opinion: and now hefound Olivier, of whose good faith and broad-mindedness he was certain, telling him, dispassionately, without anger and with profound sadness, thatit was possible for a great people to renounce the thought of vengeance forsuch a crime, but quite impossible for them to subscribe to it withoutdishonor. 

They had great difficulty in understanding each other. Olivier's historicalargument, alleging the right of France to claim Alsace as a Latin country, made no impression on Christophe: there were just as good arguments to thecontrary: history can provide politics with every sort of argument in everysort of cause. Christophe was much more accessible to the human, and notonly French, aspect of the problem. Whether the Alsatians were or were notGermans was not the question. They did not wish to be Germans: and thatwas all that mattered. What nation has the right to say: "These people aremine: for they are my brothers"? If the brothers in question renounce thatnation, though they be a thousand times in the wrong, the consequences ofthe breach must always be borne by the party who has failed to win thelove of the other, and therefore has lost the right to presume to bind theother's fortunes up with his own. After forty years of strained relations, vexations, patent or disguised, and even of real advantage gained from theexact and intelligent administration of Germany, the Alsatians persist intheir refusal to become Germans: and, though they might give in from sheerexhaustion, nothing could ever wipe out the memory of the sufferings of thegenerations, forced to live in exile from their native land, or, what iseven more pitiful, unable to leave it, and compelled to bend under a yokewhich was hateful to them, and to submit to the seizure of their countryand the slavery of their people. 

Christophe naïvely confessed that he had never seen the matter in thatlight: and he was considerably perturbed by it. And honest Germans alwaysbring to a discussion an integrity which does not always go with thepassionate self-esteem of a Latin, however sincere he may be. It neveroccurred to Christophe to support his argument by the citation of similarcrimes perpetrated by all nations all through the history of the world. Hewas too proud to fall back upon any such humiliating excuse: he knew that, as humanity advances, its crimes become more odious, for they stand in aclearer light. But he knew also that if France were victorious in her turnshe would be no more moderate in the hour of victory than Germany had been, and that yet another link would be added to the chain of the crimes of thenations. So the tragic conflict would drag on for ever, in which the bestelements of European civilization were in danger of being lost. 

Though the subject was terribly painful for Christophe, it was even more sofor Olivier. It meant for him, not only the sorrow of a great fratricidalstruggle between the two nations best fitted for alliance together. InFrance the nation was divided, and one faction was preparing to fight theother. For years pacific and anti-militarist doctrines had been spread andpropagated both by the noblest and the vilest elements of the nation. TheGovernment had for a long time held aloof, with the weak-kneed dilettantismwith which it handled everything which did not concern the immediateinterests of the politicians: and it never occurred to it that it mightbe less dangerous frankly to maintain the most dangerous doctrines thanto leave them free to creep into the veins of the people and ruin theircapacity for war, while armaments were being prepared. These doctrinesappealed to the Free Thinkers who were dreaming of founding a Europeanbrotherhood, working all together to make the world more just and human. They appealed also to the selfish cowardice of the rabble, who wereunwilling to endanger their skins for anything or anybody. --These ideas hadbeen taken up by Olivier and many of his friends. Once or twice, in hisrooms, Christophe had been present at discussions which had amazed him. Hisfriend Mooch, who was stuffed full of humanitarian illusions, used to say, with eyes blazing, quite calmly, that war must be abolished, and that thebest way of setting about it was to incite the soldiers to mutiny, and, ifnecessary, to shoot down their leaders: and he would insist that it wasbound to succeed. Elie Elsberger would reply, coldly and vehemently, that, if war were to break out, he and his friends would not set out for thefrontier before they had settled their account with the enemy at home. André Elsberger would take Mooch's part. . . . One day Christophe came in fora terrible scene between the two brothers. They threatened to shoot eachother. Although their bloodthirsty words were spoken in a bantering tone, he had a feeling that neither of them had uttered a single threat which hewas not prepared to put into action. Christophe was amazed when he thoughtof a race of men so absurd as to be always ready to commit suicide for thesake of ideas. . . . Madmen. Crazy logicians. And yet they are good men. Eachman sees only his own ideas, and wishes to follow them through to the end, without turning aside by a hair's breadth. And it is all quite useless: forthey crush each other out of existence. The humanitarians wage war on thepatriots. The patriots wage war on the humanitarians. And meanwhile theenemy comes and destroys both country and humanity in one swoop. 

"But tell me, " Christophe would ask André Elsberger, "are you in touch withthe proletarians of the rest of the nations?"

"Some one has to begin. And we are the people to do it. We have always beenthe first. It is for us to give the signal!"

"And suppose the others won't follow!"

"They will. "

"Have you made treaties, and drawn up a plan?"

"What's the good of treaties? Our force is superior to diplomacy. "

"It is not a question of ideas: it's a question of strategy. If you aregoing to destroy war, you must borrow the methods of war. Draw up your planof campaign in the two countries. Arrange that on such and such a date inFrance and Germany your allied troops shall take such and such a step. But, if you go to work without a plan, how can you expect any good to come ofit? With chance on the one hand, and tremendous organized forces on theother--the result would never be in doubt: you would be crushed out ofexistence. "

André Elsberger did not listen. He shrugged his shoulders and took refugein vague threats: a handful of sand, he said, was enough to smash the wholemachine, if it were dropped into the right place in the gears. 

But it is one thing to discuss at leisure, theoretically, and quite anotherto have to put one's ideas into practice, especially when one has to makeup one's mind quickly. . . . Those are frightful moments when the great tidesurges through the depths of the hearts of men! They thought they were freeand masters of their thoughts! But now, in spite of themselves, they areconscious of being dragged onwards, onwards. . . . An obscure power of will isset against their will. Then they discover that it is not they who existin reality, not they, but that unknown Force, whose laws govern the wholeocean of humanity. . . . 

Men of the firmest intelligence, men the most secure in their faith, nowsaw it dissolve at the first puff of reality, and stood turning this wayand that, not daring to make up their minds, and often, to their immensesurprise, deciding upon a course of action entirely different from anythat they had foreseen. Some of the most eager to abolish war suddenlyfelt a vigorous passionate pride in their country leap into being in theirhearts. Christophe found Socialists, and even revolutionary syndicalists, absolutely bowled over by their passionate pride in a duty utterly foreignto their temper. At the very beginning of the upheaval, when as yethe hardly believed that the affair could be serious, he said to AndréElsberger, with his usual German want of tact, that now was the moment toapply his theories, unless he wanted Germany to take France. André fumed, and replied angrily:

"Just you try!. . . Swine, you haven't even guts enough to muzzle yourEmperor and shake off the yoke, in spite of your thrice-blessed SocialistParty, with its four hundred thousand members and its three millionelectors. We'll do it for you! Take us? We'll take you. . . . "

And as they were held on and on in suspense, they grew restless andfeverish. André was in torment. He knew that his faith was true, and yethe could not defend it! He felt that he was infected by the moral epidemicwhich spreads among the people of a nation the collective insanity of theirideas, the terrible spirit of war! It attacked everybody about Christophe, and even Christophe himself. They were no longer on speaking terms, andkept themselves to themselves. 

But it was impossible to endure such suspense for long. The wind of actionwilly-nilly sifted the waverers into one group or another. And one day, when it seemed that they must be on the eve of the ultimatum, --when, inboth countries, the springs of action were taut, ready for slaughter, Christophe saw that everybody, including the people in his own house, hadmade up their minds. Every kind of party was instinctively rallied roundthe detested or despised Government which represented France. Not onlythe honest men of the various parties: but the esthetes, the masters ofdepraved art, took to interpolating professions of patriotic faith in theirwork. The Jews were talking of defending the soil of their ancestors. Atthe mere mention of the flag tears came to Hamilton's eyes. And they wereall sincere: they were all victims of the contagion. André Elsberger andhis syndicalist friends, just as much as the rest, and even more: for, being crushed by necessity and pledged to a party that they detested, theysubmitted with a grim fury and a stormy pessimism which made them crazy foraction. Aubert, the artisan, torn between his cultivated humanitarianismand his instinctive chauvinism, was almost beside himself. After manysleepless nights he had at last found a formula which could accommodateeverything: that France was synonymous with Humanity. Thereafter he neverspoke to Christophe. Almost all the people in the house had closed theirdoors to him. Even the good Arnauds never invited him. They went on playingmusic and surrounding themselves with art; they tried to forget the generalobsession. But they could not help thinking of it. When either of themalone happened to meet Christophe alone, he or she would shake handswarmly, but hurriedly and furtively. And if, the very same day, Christophemet them together, they would pass him by with a frigid bow. On theother hand, people who had not spoken to each other for years now rushedtogether. One evening Olivier beckoned to Christophe to go near the window, and, without a word, he pointed to the Elsbergers talking to CommandantChabran in the garden below. 

Christophe had no time to be surprised at such a revolution in the minds ofhis friends. He was too much occupied with his own mind, in which there hadbeen an upheaval, the consequences of which he could not master. Olivierwas much calmer than he, though he had much more reason to be upset. Ofall Christophe's acquaintance, he seemed to be the only one to escape thecontagion. Though he was oppressed by the anxious waiting for the outbreakof war, and the dread of schism at home, which he saw must happen in spiteof everything, he knew the greatness of the two hostile faiths which sooneror later would come to grips: he knew also that it is the part of France tobe the experimental ground in human progress, and that all new ideas needto be watered with her blood before they can come to flower. For his ownpart, he refused to take part in the skirmish. While the civilized nationswere cutting each other's throats he was fain to repeat the device ofAntigone: "_I am made for love, and not for hate_. "--For love and forunderstanding, which is another form of love. His fondness for Christophewas enough to make his duty plain to him. At a time when millions of humanbeings were on the brink of hatred, he felt that the duty and happiness offriends like himself and Christophe was to love each other, and to keeptheir reason uncontaminated by the general upheaval. He remembered howGoethe had refused to associate himself with the liberation movement of1813, when hatred sent Germany to march out against France. 

Christophe felt the same: and yet he was not easy in his mind. He who in away had deserted Germany, and could not return thither, he who had been fedwith the European ideas of the great Germans of the eighteenth century, sodear to his old friend Schulz, and detested the militarist and commercialspirit of New Germany, now found himself the prey of gusty passions: and hedid not know whither they would lead him. He did not tell Olivier, but hespent his days in agony, longing for news. Secretly he put his affairs inorder and packed his trunk. He did not reason the thing out. It was toostrong for him. Olivier watched him anxiously, and guessed the strugglewhich was going on in his friend's mind: and he dared not question him. They felt that they were impelled to draw closer to each other than ever, and they loved each other more: but they were afraid to speak: theytrembled lest they should discover some difference of thought which mightcome between them and divide them, as their old misunderstanding had done. Often their eyes would meet with an expression of tender anxiety, asthough they were on the eve of parting for ever. And they were silent andoppressed. 

 * * * * *

But still on the roof of the house that was being built on the other sideof the yard, all through those days of gloom, with the rain beating down onthem, the workmen were putting the finishing touches: and Christophe'sfriend, the loquacious slater, laughed and shouted across:

"There! The house is finished!"

 * * * * *

Happily, the storm passed as quickly as it had come. The chancelleriespublished bulletins announcing the return of fair weather, barometricallyas it were. The howling dogs of the Press were despatched to their kennels. In a few hours the tension was relieved. It was a summer evening, andChristophe had rushed in breathless to convey the good news to Olivier. Hewas happy, and could breathe again. Olivier looked at him with a little sadsmile. And he dared not ask him the question that lay next his heart. Hesaid:

"Well: you have seen them all united, all these people who could notunderstand each other. "

"Yes, " said Christophe good-humoredly, "I have seen them united. You'resuch humbugs! You all cry out upon each other, but at bottom you're all ofthe same mind. "

"You seem to be glad of it, " remarked Olivier. 

"Why not? Because they were united at my expense?. . . Bah! I'm strong enoughfor that . . . Besides, it's a fine thing to feel the mighty torrent rushingyou along, and the demons that were let loose in your hearts. . . . "

"They terrify me, " said Olivier. "I would rather have eternal solitude thanhave my people united at such a cost. "

They relapsed into silence: and neither of them dared approach the subjectwhich was troubling them. At last Olivier pulled himself together, and, ina choking voice, said:

"Tell me frankly, Christophe: you were going away?"

Christophe replied:

"Yes. "

Olivier was sure that he would say it. And yet his heart ached for it. Hesaid:

"Tell me, Christophe: could you . . . Could you . . . ?"

Christophe drew his hand over his forehead and said:

"Don't let's talk of it. I don't like to think of it. "

Olivier went on sorrowfully:

"You would have fought against us?"

"I don't know. I never thought about it. "

"But, in your heart, you had decided?"

Christophe said:

"Yes. "

"Against me?"

"Never against you. You are mine. Where I am, you are too. "

"But against my country?"

"For my country. "

"It is a terrible thing, " said Olivier. "I love my country, as you do. Ilove France: but could I slay my soul for her? Could I betray my consciencefor her? That would be to betray her. How could I hate, having no hatred, or, without being guilty of a lie, assume a hatred that I did not feel? Themodern State was guilty of a monstrous crime--a crime which will prove itsundoing--when it presumed to impose its brazen laws on the free Church ofthose spirits the very essence of whose being is to love and understand. Let Cæsar be Cæsar, but let him not assume the Godhead! Let him take ourmoney and our lives: over our souls he has no rights: he shall not stainthem with blood. We are in this world to give it light, not to darken it:let each man fulfil his duty! If Cæsar desires war, then let Cæsar havearmies for that purpose, armies as they were in olden times, armies ofmen whose trade is war! I am not so foolish as to waste my time in vainlymoaning and groaning in protest against force. But I am not a soldier inthe army of force. I am a soldier in the army of the spirit: with thousandsof other men who are my brothers-in-arms I represent France in that army. Let Cæsar conquer the world if he will! We march to the conquest of truth. "

"To conquer, " said Christophe, "you must vanquish, you must live. Truth isno hard dogma, secreted by the brain, like a stalactite by the walls ofa cave. Truth is life. It is not to be found in your own head, but to besought for in the hearts of others. Attach yourself to them, be one withthem. Think as much as you like, but do you every day take a bath ofhumanity. You must live in the life of others and love and bow to destiny. "

"It is our fate to be what we are. It does not depend on us whether weshall or shall not think certain things, even though they be dangerous. Wehave reached such a pitch of civilization that we cannot turn back. "

"Yes, you have reached the farthest limit of the plateau of civilization, that dizzy height to which no nation can climb without feeling anirresistible desire to fling itself down. Religion and instinct areweakened in you. You have nothing left but intelligence. You are machinesgrinding out philosophy. Death comes rushing in upon you. "

"Death comes to every nation: it is a matter of centuries. "

"Have done with your centuries! The whole of life is a matter of days andhours. If you weren't such an infernally metaphysical lot, you'd nevergo shuffling over into the absolute, instead of seizing and holding thepassing moment. "

"What do you want? The flame burns the torch away. You can't both live andhave lived, my dear Christophe. "

"You must live. "

"It is a great thing to have been great. "

"It is only a great thing when there are still men who are alive enough andgreat enough to appreciate it. "

"Wouldn't you much rather have been the Greeks, who are dead, than any ofthe people who are vegetating nowadays?"

"I'd much rather be myself, Christophe, and very much alive. "

Olivier gave up the argument. It was not that he was without an answer. But it did not interest him. All through the discussion he had only beenthinking of Christophe. He said, with a sigh:

"You love me less than I love you. "

Christophe took his hand and pressed it tenderly:

"Dear Olivier, " he said, "I love you more than my life. But you mustforgive me if I do not love you more than Life, the sun of our two races. Ihave a horror of the night into which your false progress drags me. Allyour sentiments of renunciation are only the covering of the same BuddhistNirvana. Only action is living, even when it brings death. In this worldwe can only choose between the devouring flame and night. In spite of thesad sweetness of dreams in the hour of twilight, I have no desire for thatpeace which is the forerunner of death. The silence of infinite spaceterrifies me. Heap more fagots upon the fire! More! And yet more! Myselftoo, if needs must. I will not let the fire dwindle. If it dies down, thereis an end of us, an end of everything. "

"What you say is old, " said Olivier; "it comes from the depths of thebarbarous past. "

He took down from his shelves a book of Hindoo poetry, and read the sublimeapostrophe of the God Krishna:

"_Arise, and fight with a resolute heart. Setting no store by pleasure orpain, or gain or loss, or victory or defeat, fight with all thy might. . . . _"

Christophe snatched the book from his hands and read:

"_. . . I have nothing in the world to bid me toil: there is nothing that isnot mine: and yet I cease not from my labor. If I did not act, without atruce and without relief, setting an example for men to follow, all menwould perish. If for a moment I were to cease from my labors, I shouldplunge the world in chaos, and I should he the destroyer of life. _"

"Life, " repeated Olivier, --"what is life?"

"A tragedy, " said Christophe. "Hurrah!"

 * * * * *

The panic died down. Every one hastened to forget, with a hidden fear intheir hearts. No one seemed to remember what had happened. And yet it wasplain that it was still in their thoughts, from the joy with which theyresumed their lives, the pleasant life from day to day, which is nevertruly valued until it is endangered. As usual when danger is past, theygulped it down with renewed avidity. 

Christophe flung himself into creative work with tenfold vigor. He draggedOlivier after him. In reaction against their recent gloomy thoughts theyhad begun to collaborate in a Rabelaisian epic. It was colored by thatbroad materialism which follows on periods of moral stress. To thelegendary heroes--Gargantua, Friar John, Panurge--Olivier had added, onChristophe's inspiration, a new character, a peasant, Jacques Patience, simple, cunning, sly, resigned, who was the butt of the others, putting upwith it when he was thrashed and robbed, --putting up with it when they madelove to his wife, and laid waste his fields, --tirelessly putting his housein order and cultivating his land, --forced to follow the others to war, bearing the burden of the baggage, coming in for all the kicks, and stillputting up with it, --waiting, laughing at the exploits of his masters andthe thrashings they gave him, and saying, "They can't go on for ever, "foreseeing their ultimate downfall, looking out for it out of the corner ofhis eye, and silently laughing at the thought of it, with his great mouthagape. One fine day it turned out that Gargantua and Friar John weredrowned while they were away on a crusade. Patience honestly regrettedtheir loss, merrily took heart of grace, saved Panurge, who was drowningalso, and said:

"I know that you will go on playing your tricks on me: you don't take mein: but I can't do without you: you drive away the spleen, and make melaugh. "

Christophe set the poem to music with great symphonic pictures, with soliand chorus, mock-heroic battles, riotous country fairs, vocal buffooneries, madrigals à la Jannequin, with tremendous childlike glee, a storm at sea, the Island of Bells, and, finally, a pastoral symphony, full of the airof the fields, and the blithe serenity of the flutes and oboes, and theclean-souled folk-songs of Old France. --The friends worked away withboundless delight. The weakly Olivier, with his pale cheeks, found newhealth in Christophe's health. Gusts of wind blew through their garret. Thevery intoxication of Joy! To be working together, heart to heart with one'sfriend! The embrace of two lovers is not sweeter or more ardent than sucha yoking together of two kindred souls. They were so near in sympathythat often the same ideas would flash upon them at the same moment. OrChristophe would write the music for a scene for which Olivier wouldimmediately find words. Christophe impetuously dragged Olivier along in hiswake. His mind swamped that of his friend, and made it fruitful. 

The joy of creation was enhanced by that of success. Hecht had just made uphis mind to publish the _David_: and the score, well launched, had had aninstantaneous success abroad. A great Wagnerian _Kapellmeister_, a friendof Hecht's, who had settled in England, was enthusiastic about it: he hadgiven it at several of his concerts with considerable success, which, with the _Kapellmeister's_ enthusiasm, had carried it over to Germany, where also the _David_ had been played. The _Kapellmeister_ had enteredinto correspondence with Christophe, and had asked him for more of hiscompositions, offered to do anything he could to help him, and was engagedin ardent propaganda in his cause. In Germany, the _Iphigenia_, whichhad originally been hissed, was unearthed, and it was hailed as a workof genius. Certain facts in Christophe's life, being of a romanticnature, contributed not a little to the spurring of public interest. The_Frankfurter Zeitung_ was the first to publish an enthusiastic article. Others followed. Then, in France, a few people began to be aware that theyhad a great musician in their midst. One of the Parisian conductors askedChristophe for his Rabelaisian epic before it was finished: and Goujart, perceiving his approaching fame, began to speak mysteriously of a friendof his who was a genius, and had been discovered by himself. He wrote alaudatory article about the admirable _David_, --entirely forgetting thatonly the year before he had decried it in a short notice of a few lines. Nobody else remembered it either or seemed to be in the least astonishedat his sudden change. There are so many people in Paris who are now loudin their praises of Wagner and César Franck, where formerly they roundlyabused them, and actually use the fame of these men to crush those newartists whom to-morrow they will be lauding to the skies!

Christophe did not set any great store on his success. He knew that hewould one day win through: but he had not thought that the day could be sonear at hand: and he was distrustful of so rapid a triumph. He shruggedhis shoulders, and said that he wanted to be left alone. He could haveunderstood people applauding the _David_ the year before, when he wrote it:but now he was so far beyond it; he had climbed higher. He was inclined tosay to the people who came and talked about his old work:

"Don't worry me with that stuff. It disgusts me. So do you. " And he plungedinto his new work again, rather annoyed at having been disturbed. However, he did feel a certain secret satisfaction. The first rays of the light offame are very sweet. It is good, it is healthy, to conquer. It is likethe open window and the first sweet scents of the spring coming into ahouse. --Christophe's contempt for his old work was of no avail, especiallywith regard to the _Iphigenia_: there was a certain amount of atonement forhim in seeing that unhappy production, which had originally brought himonly humiliation, belauded by the German critics, and in great requestwith the theaters, as he learned from a letter from Dresden, in which thedirectors stated that they would be glad to produce the piece during theirnext season. 

 * * * * *

The very day when Christophe received the news, which, after years ofstruggling, at last opened up a calmer horizon, with victory in thedistance, he had another letter from Germany. 

It was in the afternoon. He was washing his face and talking gaily toOlivier in the next room, when the housekeeper slipped an envelope underthe door. His mother's writing. . . . He had been just on the point of writingto her, and was happy at the thought of being able to tell her of hissuccess, which would give her so much pleasure. He opened the letter. Therewere only a few lines. How shaky the writing was!

 _"My dear boy, I am not very well. If it were possible, I should like to see you again. Love. "MOTHER. "_

Christophe gave a groan. Olivier, who was working in the next room, ran tohim in alarm. Christophe could not speak, and pointed to the letter on thetable. He went on groaning, and did not listen to what Olivier said, whotook in the letter at a glance, and tried to comfort him. He rushed to hisbed, where he had laid his coat, dressed hurriedly, and without waiting tofasten his collar, --(his hands were trembling too much)--went out. Oliviercaught him up on the stairs: what was he going to do? Go by the firsttrain? There wasn't one until the evening. It was much better to wait therethan at the station. Had he enough money?--They rummaged through theirpockets, and when they counted all that they possessed between them, itonly amounted to thirty francs. It was September. Hecht, the Arnauds, alltheir friends, were out of Paris. They had no one to turn to. Christophewas beside himself, and talked of going part of the way on foot. Olivierbegged him to wait for an hour, and promised to procure the money somehow. Christophe submitted: he was incapable of a single idea himself. Olivierran to the pawnshop: it was the first time he had been there: for his ownsake, he would much rather have been left with nothing than pledge any ofhis possessions, which were all associated with some precious memory: butit was for Christophe, and there was no time to lose. He pawned his watch, for which he was advanced a sum much smaller than he had expected. Hehad to go home again and fetch some of his books, and take them to abookseller. It was a great grief to him, but at the time he hardly thoughtof it: his mind could grasp nothing but Christophe's trouble. He returned, and found Christophe just where he had left him, sitting by his desk, ina state of collapse. With their thirty francs the sum that Olivier hadcollected was more than enough. Christophe was too upset to think of askinghis friend how he had come by it, or whether he had kept enough to liveon during his absence. Olivier did not think of it either: he had givenChristophe all he possessed. He had to look after Christophe, just like achild, until it was time for him to go. He took him to the station, andnever left him until the train began to move. 

In the darkness into which he was rushing Christophe sat wide-eyed, staringstraight in front of him and thinking:

"Shall I be in time?"

He knew that his mother must have been unable to wait for her to write tohim. And in his fevered anxiety he was impatient of the jolting speed ofthe express. He reproached himself bitterly for having left Louisa. Andat the same time he felt how vain were his reproaches: he had no power tochange the course of events. 

However, the monotonous rocking of the wheels and springs of the carriagesoothed him gradually, and took possession of his mind, like tossing wavesof music dammed back by a mighty rhythm. He lived through all his pastlife again from the far-distant days of his childhood: loves, hopes, disillusion, sorrows, --and that exultant force, that intoxication ofsuffering, enjoying, and creating, that delight in blotting out the lightof life and its sublime shadows, which was the soul of his soul, the livingbreath of the God within him. Now as he looked back on it all was clear. His tumultuous desires, his uneasy thoughts, his faults, mistakes, andheadlong struggles, now seemed to him to be the eddy and swirl borne onby the great current of life towards its eternal goal. He discovered theprofound meaning of those years of trial: each test was a barrier which wasburst by the gathering waters of the river, a passage from a narrow to awider valley, which the river would soon fill: always he came to a widerview and a freer air. Between the rising ground of France and the Germanplain the river had carved its way, not without many a struggle, floodingthe meadows, eating away the base of the hills, gathering and absorbingall the waters of the two countries. So it flowed between them, not todivide, but to unite them: in it they were wedded. And for the first timeChristophe became conscious of his destiny, which was to carry through thehostile peoples, like an artery, all the forces of life of the two sides ofthe river. --A strange serenity, a sudden calm and clarity, came over him, as sometimes happens in the darkest hours. . . . Then the vision faded, and hesaw nothing but the tender, sorrowful face of his old mother. 

It was hardly dawn when he reached the little German town. He had to takecare not to be recognized, for there was still a warrant of arrest outagainst him. But nobody at the station took any notice of him: the town wasasleep: the houses were shut up and the streets deserted: it was the grayhour when the lights of the night are put out and the light of day is notyet come, --the hour when sleep is sweetest and dreams are lit with the palelight of the east. A little servant-girl was taking down the shutters ofa shop and singing an old German folk-song. Christophe almost choked withemotion. O Fatherland! Beloved!. . . He was fain to kiss the earth as heheard the humble song that set his heart aching in his breast; he felt howunhappy he had been away from his country, and how much he loved it. . . . Hewalked on, holding his breath. When he saw his old house he was obligedto stop and put his hand to his lips to keep himself from crying out. Howwould he find his mother, his mother whom he had deserted?. . . He took along breath and almost ran to the door. It was ajar. He pushed it open. Noone there . . . The old wooden staircase creaked under his footsteps. He wentup to the top floor. The house seemed to be empty. The door of his mother'sroom was shut. 

Christophe's heart thumped as he laid his hand on the doorknob. And he hadnot the strength to open it. . . . 

 * * * * *

Louisa was alone, in bed, feeling that the end was near. Of her two othersons, Rodolphe, the business man, had settled in Hamburg, the other, Ernest, had emigrated to America, and no one knew what had become of him. There was no one to attend to her except a woman in the house, who cametwice a day to see if Louisa wanted anything, stayed for a few minutes, andthen went about her business: she was not very punctual, and was often latein coming. To Louisa it seemed quite natural that she should be forgotten, as it seemed to her quite natural to be ill. She was used to suffering, andwas as patient as an angel. She had heart disease and palpitations, duringwhich she would think she was going to die: she would lie with her eyeswide open, and her hands clutching the bedclothes, and the sweat drippingdown her face. She never complained. She knew that it must be so. She wasready: she had already received the sacrament. She had only one anxiety:lest God should find her unworthy to enter into Paradise. She enduredeverything else in patience. 

In a dark corner of her little room, near her pillow, on the wall of therecess, she had made a little shrine for her relics and trophies: she hadcollected the portraits of those who were dear to her: her three children, her husband, for whose memory she had always preserved her love in itsfirst freshness, the old grandfather, and her brother, Gottfried: she wastouchingly devoted to all those who had been kind to her, though it werenever so little. On her coverlet, close to her eyes, she had pinned thelast photograph of himself that Christophe had sent her: and his lastletters were under her pillow. She had a love of neatness and scrupuloustidiness, and it hurt her to know that everything was not perfectly inorder in her room. She listened for the little noises outside which markedthe different moments of the day for her. It was so long since she hadfirst heard them! All her life had been spent in that narrow space. . . . Shethought of her dear Christophe. How she longed for him to be there, nearher, just then! And yet she was resigned even to his absence. She was surethat she would see him again on high. She had only to close her eyes to seehim. She spent days and days, half-unconscious, living in the past. . . . 

She would see once more the old house on the banks of the Rhine. . . . Aholiday. . . . A superb summer day. The window was open: the white road laygleaming under the sun. They could hear the birds singing. Melchior and theold grandfather were sitting by the front-door smoking, and chatting andlaughing uproariously. Louisa could not see them: but she was glad thather husband was at home that day, and that grandfather was in such a goodtemper. She was in the basement, cooking the dinner: an excellent dinner:she watched over it as the apple of her eye: there was a surprise: achestnut cake: already she could hear the boy's shout of delight. . . . Theboy, where was he? Upstairs: she could hear him practising at the piano. She could not make out what he was playing, but she was glad to hear thefamiliar tinkling sounds, and to know that he was sitting there with hisgrave face. . . . What a lovely day! The merry jingling bells of a carriagewent by on the road. . . . Oh! good heavens! The joint! Perhaps it hadbeen burned while she was looking out of the window! She trembled lestgrandfather, of whom she was so fond, though she was afraid of him, should be dissatisfied, and scold her. . . . Thank Heaven! there was no harmdone. There, everything was ready, and the table was laid. She calledMelchior and grandfather. They replied eagerly. And the boy?. . . He hadstopped playing. His music had ceased a moment ago without her noticingit. . . . --"Christophe!". . . What was he doing? There was not a sound to beheard. He was always forgetting to come down to dinner: father was goingto scold him. She ran upstairs. . . . --"Christophe!". . . He made no sound. She opened the door of the room where he was practising. No one there. The room was empty, and the piano was closed. . . . Louisa was seized witha sudden panic. What had become of him? The window was open. Oh, Heaven!Perhaps he had fallen out! Louisa's heart stops. She leans out and looksdown. . . . --"Christophe!". . . He is nowhere to be found. She rushes all overthe house. Downstairs grandfather shouts to her: "Come along; don't worry;he'll come back. " She will not go down: she knows that he is there: thathe is hiding for fun, to tease her. Oh, naughty, naughty boy!. . . Yes, sheis sure of it now: she heard the floor creak: he is behind the door. Shetries to open the door. But the key is gone. The key! She rummages througha drawer, looking for it in a heap of keys. This one, that. . . . No, notthat. . . . Ah, that's it!. . . She cannot fit it into the lock, her hand istrembling so. She is in such haste: she must be quick. Why? She does notknow, but she knows that she must be quick, and that if she doesn't hurryshe will be too late. She hears Christophe breathing on the other side ofthe door. . . . Oh, bother the key!. . . At last! The door is opened. A cry ofjoy. It is he. He flings his arms round her neck. . . . Oh, naughty, naughty, good, darling boy!. . . 

She has opened her eyes. He is there, standing by her. 

For some time he had been standing looking at her; so changed she was, withher face both drawn and swollen, and her mute suffering made her smile ofrecognition so infinitely touching: and the silence, and her utterloneliness. . . . It rent his heart. . . . 

She saw him. She was not surprised. She smiled all that she could not say, a smile of boundless tenderness. She could not hold out her arms to him, nor utter a single word. He flung his arms round her neck and kissed her, and she kissed him: great tears were trickling down her cheeks. She said ina whisper:

"Wait. . . . "

He saw that she could not breathe. 

Neither stirred. She stroked his head with her hands, and her tears went ontrickling down her cheeks. He kissed her hands and sobbed, with his facehidden in the coverlet. 

When her attack had passed she tried to speak. But she could not findwords: she floundered, and he could hardly understand her. But what didit matter? They loved each other, and were together, and could touch eachother: that was the main thing. --He asked indignantly why she was leftalone. She made excuses for her nurse:

"She cannot always be here: she has her work to do. . . . "

In a faint, broken voice, --she could hardly pronounce her words, --she madea little hurried request about her burial. She told Christophe to give herlove to her two other sons who had forgotten her. And she seat a messageto Olivier, knowing his love for Christophe. She begged Christophe to tellhim that she sent him her blessing--(and then, timidly, she recollectedherself, and made use of a more humble expression), --"her affectionaterespects. . . . "

Once more she choked. He helped her to sit up in her bed. The sweat drippeddown her face. She forced herself to smile. She told herself that she hadnothing more to wish for in the world, now that she had her son's handclasped in hers. 

And suddenly Christophe felt her hand stiffen in his. Louisa opened herlips. She looked at her son with infinite tenderness:--so the end came. 

III

In the evening of the same day Olivier arrived. He had been unable to bearthe thought of leaving Christophe alone in those tragic hours of which hehad had only too much experience. He was fearful also of the risks hisfriend was running in returning to Germany. He wanted to be with him, tolook after him. But he had no money for the journey. When he returned fromseeing Christophe off he made up his mind to sell the few family jewelsthat he had left: and as the pawnshop was closed at that hour, and hewanted to go by the next train, he was just going out to look for abroker's shop in the neighborhood when he met Mooch on the stairs. When thelittle Jew heard what he was about he was genuinely sorry that Olivier hadnot come to him: he would not let Olivier go to the broker's, and made himaccept the necessary money from himself. He was really hurt to think thatOlivier had pawned his watch and sold his books to pay Christophe's fare, when he would have been only too glad to help them. In his zeal for doingthem a service he even proposed to accompany Olivier to Christophe's home, and Olivier had great difficulty in dissuading him. 

Olivier's arrival was a great boon to Christophe. He had spent the day, prostrated with grief, alone by his mother's body. The nurse had come, performed certain offices, and then had gone away and had never come back. The hours had passed in the stillness of death. Christophe sat there, as still as the body: he never took his eyes from his mother's face: hedid not weep, he did not think, he was himself as one dead. --Olivier'swonderful act of friendship brought him back to tears and life. 

 "_Getrost! Es ist der Schmerzen werth dies haben, So lang . . . Mit uns ein treues Auge weint. _"

("Courage! Life; is worth all its suffering as long as there are faithfulfriends to weep with us. ")

 * * * * *

They clasped each other in a long embrace, and then sat by the dead woman'sside and talked in whispers. Night had fallen. Christophe, with his arms onthe foot of the bed, told random tales of his childhood's memories, inwhich his mother's image ever recurred. He would pause every now and thenfor a few minutes, and then go on again, until there came a pause when hestopped altogether, and his face dropped into his hands: he was utterlyworn out: and when Olivier went up to him, he saw that he was asleep. Thenhe kept watch alone. And presently he, too, was overcome by sleep, with hishead leaning against the back of the bed. There was a soft smile onLouisa's face, and she seemed happy to be watching over her two children. 

 * * * * *

In the early hours of the morning they were awakened by a knocking at thedoor. Christophe opened it. It was a neighbor, a joiner, who had come towarn Christophe that his presence in the town had been denounced, andthat he must go, if he did not wish to be arrested. Christophe refused tofly: he would not leave his mother before he had taken her to her lastresting-place. But Olivier begged him to go, and promised that he wouldfaithfully watch over her in his stead: he induced him to leave the house:and, to make sure of his not going back on his decision, went with him tothe station. Christophe refused point-blank to go without having a sightof the great river, by which he had spent his childhood, the mighty echoof which was preserved for ever within his soul as in a sea-shell. Thoughit was dangerous for him to be seen in the town, yet for his whim hedisregarded it. They walked along the steep bank of the Rhine, whichwas rushing along in its mighty peace, between its low banks, on to itsmysterious death in the sands of the North. A great iron bridge, loomingin the mist, plunged its two arches, like the halves of the wheels of acolossal chariot, into the gray waters. In the distance, fading into themist, were ships sailing through the meadows along the river's windings. Itwas like a dream, and Christophe was lost in it. Olivier brought him backto his senses, and, taking his arm, led him back to the station. Christophesubmitted: he was like a man walking in his sleep. Olivier put him into thetrain as it was just starting, and they arranged to meet next day at thefirst French station, so that Christophe should not have to go back toParis alone. 

The train went, and Olivier returned to the house, where he found twopolicemen stationed at the door, waiting for Christophe to come back. Theytook Olivier for him, and Olivier did not hurry to explain a mistake sofavorable to Christophe's chances of escape. On the other hand, the policewere not in the least discomfited by their blunder, and showed no greatzest in pursuing the fugitive, and Olivier had an inkling that at bottomthey were not at all sorry that Christophe had gone. 

Olivier stayed until the next morning, when Louisa was buried. Christophe'sbrother, Rodolphe, the business man, came by one train and left by thenext. That important personage followed the funeral very correctly, andwent immediately it was over, without addressing a single word to Olivier, either to ask him for news of his brother or to thank him for what he haddone for their mother. Olivier spent a few hours more in the town, where hedid not know a soul, though it was peopled for him with so many familiarshadows: the boy Christophe, those whom he had loved, and those who hadmade him suffer;--and dear Antoinette. . . . What was there left of all thosehuman beings, who had lived in the town, the family of the Kraffts, thatnow had ceased to be? Only the love for them that lived in the heart of astranger. 

 * * * * *

In the afternoon Olivier met Christophe at the frontier station as they hadarranged. It was a village nestling among wooded hills. Instead of waitingfor the next train to Paris, they decided to go part of the way on foot, asfar as the nearest town. They wanted to be alone. They set out through thesilent woods, through which from a distance there resounded the dull thudof an ax. They reached a clearing at the top of a hill. Below them, in anarrow valley, in German territory, there lay the red roof of a forester'shouse, and a little meadow like a green lake amid the trees. All aroundthere stretched the dark-blue sea of the forest wrapped in cloud. Mistshovered and drifted among the branches of the pines. A transparent veilsoftened the lines and blurred the colors of the trees. All was still. Neither footsteps nor voices were to be heard. A few drops of rain rangout on the golden copper leaves of the beeches, which had turned to autumntints. A little stream ran tinkling over the stones. Christophe and Olivierstood still and did not stir. Each was dreaming of those whom he had lost. Olivier was thinking:

"Antoinette, where are you?"

And Christophe:

"What is success to me, now that she is dead?"

But each heard the comforting words of the dead:

"Beloved, weep not for us. Think, not of us. Think of Him. . . . "

They looked at each other, and each ceased to feel his own sorrow, and wasconscious only of that of his friend. They clasped their hands. In boththere was sad serenity. Gently, while no wind stirred, the misty veil wasraised: the blue sky shone forth again. The melting sweetness of the earthafter rain. . . . So near to us, so tender!. . . The earth takes us in her arms, clasps us to her bosom with a lovely loving smile, and says to us:

"Rest. All is well. . . . "

The ache in Christophe's heart was gone. He was like a little child. For two days he had been living wholly in the memory of his mother, theatmosphere of her soul: he had lived over again her humble life, with itsdays one like unto another, solitary, all spent in the silence of thechildless house, in the thought of the children who had left her: the poorold woman, infirm but valiant in her tranquil faith, her sweetness oftemper, her smiling resignation, her complete lack of selfishness. . . . AndChristophe thought also of all the humble creatures he had known. How nearto them he felt in that moment! After all the years of exhausting strugglein the burning heat of Paris, where ideas and men jostle in the whirlof confusion, after those tragic days when there had passed over themthe wind of the madness which hurls the nations, cozened by their ownhallucinations, murderously against each other, Christophe felt utterlyweary of the fevered, sterile world, the conflict between egoisms andideas, the little groups of human beings deeming themselves above humanity, the ambitious, the thinkers, the artists who think themselves the brain ofthe world, and are no more than a haunting evil dream. And all his lovewent out to those thousands of simple souls, of every nation, whose livesburn away in silence, pure flames of kindness, faith, and sacrifice, --theheart of the world. 

"Yes, " he thought, "I know you; once more I have come to you; you are bloodof my blood; you are mine. Like the prodigal son, I left you to pursue theshadows that passed by the wayside. But I have come back to you; give mewelcome. We are one; one life is ours, both the living and the dead; whereI am there are you also. Now I bear you in my soul, O mother, who bore me. You, too, Gottfried, and you Schulz, and Sabine, and Antoinette, you areall in me, part of me, mine. You are my riches, my joy. We will take theroad together. I will never more leave you. I will be your voice. We willjoin forces: so we shall attain the goal. "

A ray of sunlight shot through the dripping branches of the trees. From thelittle field down below there came up the voices of children singing an OldGerman folk-song, frank and moving: the singers were three little girlsdancing round the house: and from afar the west wind brought the chiming ofthe bells of France, like a perfume of roses. . . . 

"O peace, Divine harmony, serene music of the soul set free, wherein aremingled joy and sorrow, death and life, the nations at war, and the nationsin brotherhood. I love you, I long for you, I shall win you. . . . "

 * * * * *

"The night drew down her veil. Starting from his dream, Christophe saw thefaithful face of his friend by his side. He smiled at him and embraced him. Then they walked on through the forest in silence: and Christophe showedOlivier the way. 

 "_Taciti, soli e senza compagnia, N'andavan I' un dinnanzi, e I' altro dopo, Come i frati minor vanno per via. . . . _"