Jean Christophe: In Paris The Market-Place, Antoinette, The House

or cuts short their flight. In that way it separates the mass of the people, who slumber or fall by the way, from the chosen few who go marching on. The chosen few know it and suffer: even in

at the sturdy saying means: O men, help yourselves! In all there is a want of confidence, they lack free-flowing sympathy, and do no

f men and women who could have understood them, in the house people

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g in a school is to be at all a noble thing it must be a matter of a sort of apostolic vocation, and that Olivier did not possess in the slightest degree: and lecturing for any of the Faculties means being perpetually in contact with the public, which is a grim fate for a man, like Olivier, with a desire for solitude. On several occasions he had had to speak in public: it gave him a singular feeling of humiliation. At first he loathed being exhibited on a platform. He saw the audience, felt it, as with antenn?, and knew that for the most part it was composed of idle people who were there only for the sake of having something to do: and the role of official entertainer was not at all to his liking. Worst of all, speaking from a platform is almost bound to distort ideas: if the speaker does not take care there is a danger of his passing gradually from a certain theatricality in gesture, dic

had not, nor could he have, a single friend among them. He was repelled by the hardness, the dryness, the egoism of the intellectuals-(except for the very few who were following a real vocation, or were absorbed by a passionate enthusiasm for scientific research). That man is a sorry creature who has let his heart atrophy for the sake of his mind-when his mind is small. In such a man there is no kindness, only a brain like a dagg

his life. He just sent his manuscripts by post, or left them at the offices of the theaters or the reviews, where they lay for months unread. However, one day by chance he met one of his old schoolfellows, an amiable loafer, who had still a sort of grateful admiration for him for the ease and readiness with which Olivier 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 in society, something

were never answered. He would lose heart, and be unable to work. It was quite absurd, but there was nothing to be done. He would wait for post after post, sitting at his desk, with his mind blanketed by all sorts of vague injuries: then he would get up and go downstairs to the porter's room, and look hopefully in his letter-box, only to meet with disappointment: he would walk blindly about with no thought in his head but to go back and look again: and when the last post had gone, when the silence of his room was broken only by the heavy footsteps of the people in the room above, he wou

ew man, even if it was not very good. It always represents such an amount of work, and surely people would be grateful to a man who has tried to give others a little beauty, a little force, a little joy. But he only met with indifference or disparagement. And yet he knew that he could not be alone in feeling what he had written, and that it must be in the minds of other good men. He did not know that such good men did not read him, and had nothing to do with literary opinion, or with anything, or with anything. If here and the

read, he was delivered up to the hosts of the enemy, to the mercy of men of letters, who w

gues at the University, who, thanks to their profession, did preserve a certain sense of the intellectual traditions of France, and might have understood him. But for the most part these excellent young men, cramped by discipline, absorbed in their work, often

te only for himself. Olivier was incapable of the two first: he surrendered to the third. To make a living he went through the drudgery of teaching and w

dst of his dim crepuscular life. He was furious a

and such a life? You know your own superiority to these swine, a

y, but I should be afraid of hurting them. When I was a boy I used to let my schoolfellows beat me as much as they liked. They used to think me a coward, and that I was afraid of being hit. I was more afraid of hitting than of bei

is reduced to the Catechism: the emasculate Gospel, the tame, boneless New Testament.... Humanitarian clap-trap, always tearful.... And th

been in the library at home, where it was never read, and the children were even forbidden to open it. The prohibition was useless! Olivier could never keep the book open for long

with Patroclus, I have kissed the lovely feet of Achilles as he lay bleeding. But the God of the Bible is an old Jew, a maniac, a monomaniac, a raging madman, who spends his time in growling and hurling threats

rden of

en of Dam

den of B

den of E

f the desert

f the valley

ces sentence of death on the flowers and the pebbles. One is stupefied by the tenacity of his hatred, which fills the book with bloody cries ...-'a

e little children done to death, and the women outraged and butchered: and he

he lees, of fat things full of marrow, of wine on the lees well refined.... The sword of the L

sends his prophet to make men blind, so that in due

h their ears and understand with their heart, and convert, and be healed.-Lord, how long?-Until the cities be wasted without i

an't find one: even Shakespeare never begat such a hero of Hatred-saintly and virtuous Hatred). Such a book is a terrible thing. Madness is always contagious. And that particular madness is all the more dangerous inasmuch as it sets up its own murderous pride as an instrument of purificati

of a race of lions. Stout hearts are those which feed on it. Without the antidote of the Old Testament the Gospel is tastele

tred," sai

ou did!" retor

help seeing the arguments in favor of my enemies. And I say to myse

ike it or not, I'm going to make you leap the ditch you're shying

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ere not very successful. He lost his temper at the very outset, and did his friend much harm by plead

anybody else, and even than Christophe himself. He lost his head. Love makes a man irrational, and Olivier was no exception to the rule.-However, he was cleverer than Christophe. Though he was uncompromising and clumsy in handling his own affairs, when it came to promoting Ch

shed secretly, and not a single copy was sold. Olivier induced Christophe to give a concert, and hardly anybody came to it. Faced with the empty hall, Christophe consoled himself bravely with Handel's qu

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d in perfecting technical devices, and he would lose his head over new reproduction processes, which, in spite of their ingenuity, hardly ever succeeded, and always cost him a great deal of money. He was a voracious reader, and was always hard on the heels of every new idea in philosophy, art, science, and politics: he had an amazing knack of finding out men of originality and i

les: his face was hidden by a rough, black, scrubby beard: he had hairy hands, long arms, and short bandy legs: a little Syrian Baal. But he had such a kindly expression that Christophe was touched by it. Above all, he was very simple, 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

to some cause or person: to his poor co-religionists, to the Russian refugees, to the oppressed of every nation, to unfortunate artists, to the alleviation of every kind of misfortune, to every generous cause. His purse was always open: and however thinly lined it might be, he could always manage to squeeze a mite out of it: when it was empty h

aid an innocently cruel thing, though he said it with the air of a spoiled child

hat a pity it is t

had been leveled at himself. He was most unhappy,

th sad irony, an

greater misfort

le he had a distorted mind: when he gave way to it he was forced to complicate simple things and to endow his most genuine feelings with a deliberately ironical character. Though he was apparently modest and, if anything, too humble, at heart he was proud, and knew it, and strove desperately to whip it out of himself. His smiling optimism, his incessant activity, his perpetual business in helpin

e believes

mself. He had terrible moments when he felt his nothingness: sometimes he would wake suddenly in the middle of the

when those causes cease to exist: for in most cases it is only the result of regret that we cannot have what we want. But in some of the Jews the very source of joy and life is tainted with a deadly poison. They have no desire, no interest in anything: no ambition, no love, no pleasure. Only one thing continues to exist, not intact, but morbid and fine-drawn, in these men uprooted from the East, worn out by the amount of energy they have had to give out for centuries, longing for quietude, without

happiness of others. His devotion to Christophe was both touching and a bore. Christophe would snub him and then immediately be sorry for it. But Mooch never bore him any ill-will. Nothing ab

appreciated Christophe's talent, but he was in no hurry to reveal it to the world. It was not until he saw that Mooch was

mper, his distinguished manners and conservative mind. They had only one thing in common: they were both equally lacking in any profound interest in action: and if they did indulge in action, it was not from faith, but from their tenacious and mechanical vitality. But neither was prepared to admit it: they preferred to give their minds to the parts they were playing, and their different parts had very little in common. And so Mooch was quite coldly received by Weil:

, burning with intelligence and generous ardor, who suffer from the hardness of their surroundings, and set themselves to uplift their race, and, through their race, the world, and burn hotly into flame, and, like a torch of resin, flare for a few hours and 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 had marched by his side in the shining light of his stoical faith,-faith in science, in the power of the spirit, in a future happiness,-the rays of which were shed upon everything with which that messianic soul came in contact

fruits sweeter than the waters of the fountain

ier's volume of poems, which had just been published: and, without the two friends having anything to do with it, without their having even the smalle

hings he had said or thought of him: he gulped down his dislike of calling, and went and thanked him. His good intentions met with no reward. Ol

me fresh act of service, and also a review containing a disparaging article on his music by Lucien Lévy-Coeur;-it was not written in a vein of frank criticism

ith Jews, nothing but Jews! Perhaps we're Jews ourselves? Do tell me that we're not. W

ck fast in the past among dead things. Unfortunately the past does not exist for the Jews, or at least it is not the same for them as for us. With them we can only talk about the things of to-d

lk about art,"

at least they are alive, and can understand men who are alive. It is all very well for us

ristophe jokingly. "I could

, but hostile: they condemn them to silence, and abandon them to the mercy of the common enemy. If a man of independent spirit, be he never so great and Christian at heart, is not a Christian as a matter of obedience, it is nothing to the Catholics that in him is incarnate all that is 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 the enemy, and crying for help to those who are his brothers, for whose faith he is done to

r the struggle, by showing me that I was understood. No doubt very few of my friends have remained faithful to me: their friendsh

lp to aggravate, because it suits them, and because it is natural to them to do so. The best of them, like our friend Mooch, make the mistake, in all sincerity, of identifying the destiny of France with their Jewish dreams, which are often more dangerous than useful. But you can't blame them for wanting to build France in their own image: it means that they love the country. If their love becomes a public danger, all we have to do is to defend ourselves and keep them in their place, which, in France, is the second. Not that I think their race inferior to ours:-(all these questions of the supremacy of races are idiotic and disgusting).-But we cannot admit that a foreign race which has not yet been fused into our own, can possibly

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when each tried instinctively only to suffer the existence of those qualities in himself which were most like the qualities of his friend, they never remarked them. It was only gradually that the different aspects of their two nationalities ap

a mixture of faith, liberty, passion, irony, and universal d

and single mind, which had no power of self-analysis, and was always being taken in by others and by itself. Christophe's sentimentality, his noisy outbursts, his facile emotions, used sometimes to exasperate Olivier

g as the opposite thesis was put forward: and so amid such contradictions he lost his way. He would leave Christophe hopelessly perplexed. It was not that he had any desire to contradict or any taste for paradox: it was an imperious need in him for justice and common sense: he was exasperated by the stupidity of any assumption, and he had to react against it. The crudeness with which Christophe judged immoral men and actions, by seeing everything as much coarser and more brutal than it really was, distressed Olivier, who was just as moral, but was not of the same unbending steel; he allowed himself to be tempted, colored, and molded by outside influences. He would pro

us,-(Scribe and Capus, your Parisian great men, artists of whom your pleasure-seeking, vulgar society is worthy, childish hypocrites, too cowardly to face their own ugliness).-It is quite possible 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 the courage to face the fact that Nature does not care a rap about good a

vier's: but, by a secret instinct for balance and proportion, he wa

nds in the 'Decameron,' let us breathe in peace the balmy air of the gardens of thought, while under the c

a sort of Pyrrhonism, in which everything that was became only a figment of the mind, a castle in the air, which had not even the

s because nothingness creeps in upon us from every side that we fight. Nothing exists? I exist. There's no reason for doing anything? I'm doing what I can. If people li

: a harsh word, especially if it came from some one he loved, hurt him terribly. He was too proud to say anything, and would retire into himself. And he would see in his friend those sudden flashes of unconscious egoism which appear in every great

w and then reached bursting-point. His friend's calmness maddened him: then he would long to hurt him, to hurt some one. He would have to rush away, and wear himself out. He would go striding through the streets of Paris and the outskirts in the vague quest of adventure, which sometimes he found: and he would not have been sorry to meet with some rough encounter which would have given him the opportunity of expending some of his superfluous energy in a brawl.... It was hard for Olivier, with his poor health and weakness of body, to understand. Christophe was not much nearer understanding it. He would wake up from his aberrations as

door: and next day as soon as he woke up he would beg his pardon. Sometimes, even, he would knock at his door in the middle of the night: he could not bear to wait for the day to come before he humbled himself. As a rule, Olivier would be just as unable to sleep. He

. "How difficult it is t

d each other?" Christophe would ask. "I

in Olivier's eyes. The two friends would pay each other womanish attentions. Christophe never let Olivier's birthday go by without celebrating it by dedicating a composition to him, or by the gift of

es not come between them.-But that was bound to happen: there are too many people in

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e him: she liked Olivier, but she did not like unhappy people: she used to declare that she was so sensitive that she could not bear the sight of sorrow: she waited until Olivier's sorrow was over before she remembered his existence. When she heard that he seemed to be himself again, and that there was no danger of infection, she made bold to beckon

oy, if it a

seemed to him that a woman was only in possession of all her senses when she was working and struggling for her own individual existence, by earning her daily bread and her independence. And it seemed to him that only then did she possess all her charm, her alert suppleness of movement, the awakening of all her senses, her integrity of life and will. He detested the idle, pleasure-seeking woman, who seemed to him to be only an overfed animal, perpetua

d so genuine an interest in his friendship with Christophe that he went so far as to tell her the whole story, and even about certain of their amicable misunderstandings, which, at a distance, seemed amusing, and he took the whole blame for them on himself. He also confided to Colette Christophe's artistic projects, and also some of his opinions-which were not altogether flattering-concerning France and the French. Nothing that he told her was of any great importance in itself, but Colette repeated it all at once, and adapted it partly to make the story more spicy, and partly to satisfy her secret feeling of malice against Christophe. And as the first person to receive her confidence was naturally her inseparable Lucien Lévy-Coeur, who had no reason for keeping it secret, the story went the ro

his secrets which he had confided to Olivier had been betrayed-betrayed to Lucien Lévy-Coeur. He could not stay to the end of the concert: he left the hall at

is bed in the dark, holding his head in his hands, and saying over and over again: "My friend has betrayed me!...": and he stayed like that half through the night. Then he felt how dearly he loved Olivier: for he was not angry with him for having betrayed him: he only suffered. Those wh

ld not find a single word to say to him. But his face said what he could not speak: his expression was icy and hostile. Olivier was struck dumb: he could not understand it. He tried timidly to discover what Christ

as as alive as anybody to the absurdities of the opera, and even to certain mistakes in the music. He had not always displayed an exaggerated respect for the acknowledged master himself. But he set no store by always agreeing with his own opinions, nor had he any desire to be Frenchily logical. He was one of those men who are quite ready to admit the faults of their friends, but cannot bear anybody else 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 may say)-from an uncompromising love for his fame and intolerance of anything mediocre in his work,-and another thing, as Lucien Lévy-Coeur did, only to use such criticism to flatter the baseness of the public, and to make the gallery 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 a ce

t, that very evening the

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n the music he was playing, until, glancing up, he saw Lucien Lévy-Coeur standing in a little group, watching him with an ironical stare. He stopped short, in the middle of a bar: he got up and turned away from

go on, Mons

hed," he re

n the originality of his music. Christophe bowed irritably, and growled out a few inarticulate sounds. The general went on talking with effusive politeness and a gentle, meaningless smile: and he wanted Christophe to explain how he could play such a long piece of music from memory. Christophe fidgeted impatiently, and thought wildly of knocking the old gentleman off the sofa. He wanted to hear what Lucien Lévy-Coeur was saying: he was waiti

inging his fist down o

cien Lévy-Coeur met Christophe's

u speaki

.. Yes," sai

ng to h

world," he went on furiously. "There's the door! Get

ve him a card: and he went on with his remarks as though nothing had happened: but his eyelids were twitching nervously, and his eyes blinked as he looked this way and that to see how people had taken it. Roussin had taken his stand in front of Christophe, and he took him

matter with you? Where are your manners? Control yours

ur house again!" said Christophe, br

's card. He took it without understanding what it meant, and read it aloud: then, suddenly, snorting with rage, he f

them on the salver so violently th

t the

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m he had met one night in a café; he had made friends with him, though they had little in common: but they could talk to each other about Germany. After conferring with Lucien Lévy-Coeur's witnesses, pistols were chosen. Christo

y wipe out my life.... So be it!...-Yes, to-morrow, in a day or two, I may be lying in the loathsome soil 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 waste the mighty world of ideas that I feel springing to life in me for a moment's folly.... What rot it is, these modern duels in which they try to equalize the chan

r laughter and so determined to succeed that, as always happens, his blundering patience roused interest, and one of the spectators gave him advice. In spite of his usual violence he listened to everything with childlike docility; he managed to control his nerves, which were making his hand tremble: he stiffened himself and knit his brows: the sweat was pouring down his cheeks: he said not a word: but every now and then he would give way to a gust of an

er's innocence of the treachery ascribed to him. He looked into the matter, and had no difficulty in finding out that the whole trouble arose from the scandal-mongering of Colette and Lucien Lévy-Coeur. He rushed back with his evidence to Christophe, thinking that he could in that way prevent the duel. But the result was exactly the opposite of what

attention either to Christophe or the other German, but discussed certain scabrous subjects in connection with the coarser branches of physiology with Dr. Jullien, a young physician from Toulouse, who had recently come to live next door to Christophe, and occasionally borrowed his spirit-lamp, or his umbrella, or his coffee-cups, which he invariably returned broken. In return he gave him free consultations, tried medicines on him, and laughed at his simplicity. Under his impassive manner, that would have well become a Castilian hidalgo, there was a perpe

irt on it became too apparent. The hedges were bright with the pure flowers of the eglantine. In the shade of the bronze-leaved oak-trees there were rows of little tables. At one of these tables were seated three b

ed that he would look after everything. Barth dragged Christophe into an arbor and ordered beer. The air was deliciously warm and soft

what I

k and w

ime: I'll go on to Versai

time: as he passed near the bicyclists he broke into noisy and ecstatic comment on the woman's bare legs: and ther

minded lot. Brother, I

reaming: scraps of music were floating in his mind, mingled

Christophe saw Lucien Lévy-Coeur's pale face, with its inevitable sm

s,-Léon Mouey, another man of fashion, who had reached his position as Deputy through literature, and was a writer from political ambition: he was young, bald, clean-shaven, with a lean bilious face: he had a long nose, round eyes, and a head like a bird's,-and Dr. Emmanuel, a fine typ

oujart knew Mouey, and they approached them obsequiously smiling. Mouey greeted them with cold politeness and Emmanuel jocularly and without ceremony. As for Count Bloch, he stayed by Lévy-Coeur, and with a rapid glanc

ery probable, that the seconds did not take good care that no harm came of the encounter: for he knew that nothing is so stupid as to let an enemy appear to be a victim, when a much surer and better method is to wipe him out of existence without any fuss being made. But Christophe stood waiting, stripped to his shirt, which was open to reve

repeat his performance at the range the evening before, and go on shooting until one or other of them had hit the target. When he heard Goujart proposing that he should shake hands with his adversary, who advanced chivalrously towards him with his pe

ly. He did not even notice that he had left his hat and coat on the dueling-ground. He plunged into the woods. He heard his seconds laughing and calling him: then they tired of it, and did not worry about him any more. Very

by the voice, and at last came upon him in a little clearing with his arms and legs in the air, rolling about like a young calf. When Christophe saw him he shouted merrily, called him "dear old Moloch," and told him how he had shot his adversary full of holes until he was like a sieve: he made him t

l the next day, when he saw the newspapers, that he knew that Christophe had fought a duel. It made him almost ill to think of the danger that Chr

as fo

te, and begged Christophe to forgive his imprudence. Christophe was incorrigible, and quoted for his benefit an old Fr

t this teach you

dle chatte

dling, hypo

painted

famil

om fla

Nos,

anished: the very differences between them made them more attractive to each other. In his own soul Christophe embraced the souls of the two countrie

lest the lovely art, which made him love life, should stop short, and dry up, and disappear into the ground. Christophe would scoff at such pusillanimous ideas. In a spirit of contradiction he would pretend that nothing had been done before he appeared o

h fine things to do in the world! You can't really be musicians, or

the things that a Frenchm

uld write you Stendhal for a string quartet....-You are the greatest democracy in Europe, and you have no theater for the people, no music for the people. Ah! if I were a Frenchman, I would set your Revolution to music: the 14th July, the 10th August, Valmy, the Federation, I would express the people in music! Not in the false form of Wagnerian declamation. I want symphonies, choruses, dances. Not speeches! I'm sick of them. There's no reason why people should always be talking in a music drama! Bother the words! Paint in bold strokes, in vast symphonies with choruses, immense landscapes in music, Homeric and Biblical epics, fire, earth, water, and sky, all bright and shining, the fever which makes hearts burn, the stirring of the instincts and destinies of a race, the triumph of Rhythm, the emperor of the world, who enslaves thousands of men, and hurls armies down to death.... Music everywhere, music in everything! If you were musicians you would have music for every o

bout St

h uses!... A flaming, consuming meteor! An Isolde, who is a Jewish prostitute. Bestial and mournful lust. The frenzy of murder, pillage, incest, and untrammeled instincts which is stirring in the depths of German decadence.... And, on the other hand, the spasm of a voluptuous and melancholy suicide, the death-rattle which sounds through your French decadence.... On the one hand, the beast: on the other, the prey. Where is man?... Your Debussy is the genius of good ta

top or fall. Then we shall breathe again. Thank Heaven, the earth will not cease to flower, nor the sky to give light, with or without music! What have

rrah for joy! Hurrah for the courage which drives us on to struggle with our destiny! Hurrah for love which maketh the heart big! Hurrah for friendship which rekindles our faith,-friendshi

down everything that was in his head, withou

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form, nor with reasoned attempts to create a new form: he did not even have to cast about for subjects for translation into music. One thing was as good as another. The flood of music welled forth wi

y was communicated

night. Among the workmen he found his old friend the slater, whose acquaintance he had made on the roof. They made signs to each other, and once, when he met him in the street, he took the man to a wineshop, and they drank together, much to the surprise of Olivier, who was a little scandalized. He found the man's drollery and unfailing good-humor very entertaining, but did not curse him any the less, with his troop of workmen and stupid idiots who were raising a barricade in f

ly, "I should see nothing, love nothing,

matter with

well. I'

sigh. "I wish you could hand a l

ore 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 that had no body, no flesh and blood, no relation to reality. He was one of those literary men who, in quest of beauty, have to go outside time, into the days that are no more, or the days that have never been. As though the wine of life were not as intoxicating, and its vintages as rich nowadays as ever the

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rising enough to leave France and go and seek his fortune elsewhere. But he was shaken out of his apathy: he recovered his taste for research, and reading, and the scientific work which he had long n

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for his concert, for which they thanked him effusively. And after that he used to go and sit with them occasionally in the evening. He had never heard Madame Arnaud playing again: she was too shy to play in company: and even when she was alone, now that she knew she could be heard on the stairs, sh

, "is because you have on

sicians are the very people who care least for music: but you can

usands at

an epidemic, the

al voice, and is not moved by it, and does not tremble from head to foot with its sweet ravishment, and is not taken completely out of hims

Christophe. "It is m

fore him, Ronsard. That will show you that, if it is the

f the French composers. And in the end Christophe had begun to wonder whether a Frenchman could have the least understanding of German music, to judge by the way it was rendered in France. Only a short time before he had come away perfectly scandalized from a performance of an opera of Gluck's: the ingenious Parisians had taken it into their heads to deck the old fellow up, and cover him with ribbons, and pad out his rhythms, and bedizen his music with, impressionistic settings, and charming little dancing girls, forward

French-us, who are French of the old stock of France!... They come and tell us that our France is in Rameau,-or Racine,-and nowhere else. As though we did not know,-(and thousands like us in the provinces, and in Paris). How often Beethoven, Mozart, and Gluck, have sat with us by the fireside,

a French art or a German art: but there is certainly one art for the rich and another for the poor. Gluck was a great man of the middle-classes: he belongs to our class.

tween the honest men of France and the honest men of Germany. The Arnauds reminded him of dear old Schulz with his pur

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e absurdity of the frontiers that lay between the different ideas of honest men of the same nationality. Thanks to him, though without any del

borrowed from M. Watelet, and for different reasons had given great pleasure to all three of them, began the process of bringing them together. It chanced one evening that they met in Christophe's room. At first Christophe was afraid that they might be rude to each other: but, on the contrary, they were perfectly polite, They discussed various sage subjects: their travels, and their experience of men. And t

ceive the greatness of the religious and yet free ideas, the immense, serene, and unfevered mysticism which permeated the priest's whole mind, t

anging truth. Christianity was the living Christ. The history of the world was only the history of the perpetual advance of the idea of God. The fall of the Jewish Temple, the ruin of the pagan world, the repulse of the Crusades, the humiliation of Boniface VIII, Galileo flinging the world back into giddy space, the infinitely little becoming more mighty than the great, the downfall

f self-preservation, the stroke which preserves the quivering balance of the boat, and gives it a new drive onward,-his surfeit of doubts and his disgust with Parisian sensuality had for the last two years been slowly restoring God to his place in

on't see it then?"

ome He appears in their daily life, as He did to Saint Peter in Galilee,-to others (like your friend M. Watelet), as He did to Saint Tho

said Christophe. "I am f

ou live in God," repl

his every action spied upon by the Bishops, and watched by the free-thinkers, who were endeavoring to exploit his ideas, to use him as a weapon against his own faith, and to be misunderstood and attacked both by his co-religionists and the enemies of his religion. It was impossible for him to offer any resistance: for submission was enforced upon him. It was impossible for him to submit in his heart: for he knew that the authorities were wrong. It was agony for him to hold his peace. It was agony for him to speak and to be wrongly interpreted. Not to mention the soul for which he was responsible, he had to think of those, who looked to him for counsel and help, while he had to stand by and see them

iest who was a democrat, and a revolutionary who was an aristocrat: it upset all his preconceived ideas. He tried vainly to classify them in any social category: for he always had to classify people before he could begin to understand them. It was not easy to find a pigeon-hole for the peaceful freedom of mind of a priest who had read Anatole France and Renan, and was prepared to discuss them calmly, justly, and with some knowledge. In matters of science the Abbé Corneille's way was to accept the guidance of those who knew, rather than of those who laid down the law. He respected authority, but in his eyes it stood lower than

a pity! Such a pr

ght her deaf, or dumb,

nd in hearing himself speak. He paraded his generous 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 inexhaustib

ar so many

eas, or even to find out what they were, the three of them became very good friends without exactly knowing why. They we

et in the Luxembourg Gardens. Christophe was delighted with the success of his guile, and went to see them there the first time they were together: they were shy and embarrassed, and hardly knew what to make of their new happiness. He broke down their reserve in a moment, and invented games for them, and races, and played hide-and-seek: he joined in as keenly as though he were a child of ten: the passers-by cast amused and quizzical glances at

eheaded and disheveled, just as he was, without even taking the trouble to brush his hair. He thought he would only 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 smiled and

ician?" said the old so

stophe with his piano, the Commandant with his flute. Christophe tried to go, but the old man would

d see my

ch time for the development of his mania: but since his retirement he had thrown himself into it with enthusiasm: he expended on it all the energy and ingenuity which he had previously employed in pursuing the hordes of negro kings through the deserts of Africa, or avoiding their traps. Christophe found his puzzles quite amusing, and set him a more complicated one to solve. The old soldier was delighted: they vied with one another: they produced a perfect shower of musical riddles. After they had been playing the game for some time, Christophe went upstairs to his own room. But the very next morning his neighbor sent him a new problem, a regular teaser, at which the Commandant had been working half the night: he replied with another: and the duel went on unt

overnment, in spite of France, conquered for France an empire greater than France itself. There was the flavor of a mighty joy, a flavor of blood in the tale, from which, in Christophe's mind's eye, there sprang the figures of modern condottieri, heroic adventurers, unlooked for in the France of to-day, whom the France of to-day is ashamed to own, so that she modestly draws a veil over them. The Commandant's voice would ring out bravely as he recalled it all: and he would jovially recount, with learned descriptions-(oddly interpolated in his epic narrative)-of the geological structure of the country, in cold, precise terms, the story of the treme

don't even prepare for it: they prepare never to go to war again: they study the philosophy of war.... The philosophy of war! That's a game for beasts of burde

base police duty, taking inventories of the churches, putting down industrial strikes, at the bidding of capital and the spite of the party in power-the petty burgess radicals and anti-clericals-against the rest of the country. Not to speak of the old African's disgust with

duce apples, and that it was a strange perversion to graft on to it politicians, esthetes, and sociologists. And yet he could not understand how a man of such vigor could give way to his adversaries. It is to be his own worst enemy for a man

much of it in the old days),-never had anything to do with any polite charitable work,-(her father used to condemn all such things),-made no attempt to study,-(he used to make fun of blue stockings),-hardly ever left her little patch of garden inclosed by its four high walls, so that it was like being at the bottom of a deep well. And yet she was not really bored. She occupied her time as best she could, and was good-tempered and resigned. About her and about the setting which every woman unconsciously creates for herself wherever she may be, there was a Chardinesque atmosphere: the same soft silence, the same tranquil expression, the same attitude of absorption-(a little drowsy and languid)-in the commo

alk quite frankly: and he even went so far as to ask her certain questions, which she was surprised to find

d of me. There's no danger of our falling in love

te!" she would an

dship, that form of sentimentality dear to equivocal men and women, who are

knees, never touching it, and not stirring for hours together. She blushed, and protested that it was not a matter o

t st

am always tel

lf stories? Oh,

uld only go so far as to intimate that they

urprised

e that it would be more natural if you told your own stor

. "If I did that, I sh

vealed even so much of her inm

am happy. Then the garden becomes alive for me. And when the wind b

s not her father who was forcing her to stay, but she herself who could not bear to leave him.-And, up to a point, what she said was true. It seemed to have been accepted from time immemorial by herself, and her fatter, and all their friends that their life had to be thus and thus, and not otherwise. She had a married brother, who thought it quite natural that she should devote her life to their father in his stead. He was entirely wrapped up in his children. He loved them jealously, and left them no will of their own. His love for his children was to him, and especially to his wife, a voluntary bondage which weighed heavily on their life, and cramped all their movements: his idea seemed to be that as soon

and showed him the full extent of the suppression of the emotions of the Frenc

lly want: and as their position in life grows more assured, they submit and drift along, without any show of revolt or protest. They cannot be blamed if they become good citizens instead of bad artists. But their disappointment too often leaves behind it a secret discontent, a qualis artifex pereo, which as best it can assumes a crust of what is usually called philosophy, and spoils their lives, until the wear and tear of daily life and new anxieties have erased all trace of the old bitterness. Such was the case of André Elsberger. He would have liked to be a writer: but his brother, who was very self-willed, had made him follow in h

c tendency in his arguments)-"life is not good enough to make one worr

they did not get on well together. They had both been Dreyfus-mad. But André w

was not reluctant to admit that he knew Mademoiselle Chabran, and that she had something to do with his visits to Christophe. And, his tongue being, loosed, he confessed that he had long been attached to the girl, and perhaps something more than that: the Elsbergers had long ago been in close touch with the Chabrans: but, though they had been very intimate, politics and recent events had separated them: and thereafter they saw very little of each other. Christophe did not disguise his opinion that it was an idiotic state of things. Was it impossible for people to think differently, and yet to retain their mutual esteem? André said he thought it was, and protested that he was very broad-minded: but he wo

asked Christophe, "if you l

at he meant by that. André replied that he meant that she was relig

oes that a

o share my wife

ur wife's ideas? Why, you're more

to talk: would you take a wo

ve do

man live together if th

ic as much as I do? She herself is music to me! When a man has the luck, as you have, to find a dear girl whom he loves, and she loves him, she must believe what she

t is. I know only too many marriages which have

not love each other enough. Yo

verything in life. Eve

e Chabran,

ke to k

had the right to marry in such circumstances. It was a great responsibility. Was there not a great risk of bringing unhappines

shrugged hi

d when you are sure of turning them out with comfortable private means, so that they will have nothing to suffer and nothing to fear.... Good Lord! That's nothing to do with you: your busines

d from Christophe affected André, b

aps, that

l the rest, his will and power

*

he same sorrowful and proud consciousness of the betrayal of the genius of their race. And it was by no means the result of any personal rancor nor the bitterness of men and classes beaten and thrust out of power and active life, or discharged officials, or unemployed energy, nor that of an old aristocracy which has returned to its estates, there to die in

nothing to

y not to t

their thoughts and conversation: and

ance, should artists, and, in particular, the musicians with whom Christophe was most in touch, unprotestingly put up with the effrontery of the scaramouches of the Press, who laid down the law for them? There were absolute idiots among them, whose ignorance in omni re scibili was proverbial, though they were none the less invested with a sovereign authority in omni re scibili. Th

t!" he would say.

" Olivier would ask. "The

not put up with it, in silence, from shyness or fear of compromising themselves, or from some shameful anticipation of mutual service, a sort of secret pact made with the enemy so that they may be immune from their attacks,-if they did not let them preen themselves in their patronage and friendship, their upstart power would soon be killed by rid

o you want

of it! You sit with your arms folded. Not one of you has energy enough even to clean the pavement in front of his house. Nobody does his duty, neither the State nor the members of the State: each man thinks he has done as much as is expected of him by laying the blame on some one else. You have become so used, through centuries of monarchical training, to doing nothing for yourselves that you all seem

can only wait for li

nd your ideas are two-thirds adulterated. And you are so dispirited that it hardly occasions you any surprise, and rouses you to no sort of indignation. Some of these good people-(it is pitiful to see)-are so cowed that they actually persuade themselves that they are wrong and the charlatans are right. Why-even on your ésope review, in which

*

ng the slumbering trees. He made no attempt to force them to his way of thinking: h

ght to forswear them. 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 sturdy upright conscience which dares assert itse

cted, at the cost of centuries of labor, by our humanity, would crumble away. These are not idle words. The country is in danger, our European mother-country,-and more than any, yours, your own native country, France. Your apathy is killing her. Your silence is killing her. Each of your e

*

st obstinate, as Christophe found in dealing with the tenants in his own house: M. Félix Weil, Elsberger, the engineer, and Commandant Chabran, lived on terms of polit

of those chamber-strategists who swarm in the Academies and the Universities, who explain Austerlitz and declare how Waterloo should have been 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 splendid stories with the wild enthusiasm of a child playing a game: he would weep over certain episodes: and when he realized that he had been weak enough to shed tears, he would roar with laughter, and call himself an old fool. As a matter of fact, he was a Napoleonite not so much from patriotism as from a romantic interest and a platonic love of action. However, he was a good patriot, and much more attached to France than many an actual Frenchman. The French anti-Semites are stupid and actively mischievous in casting the

orce themselves to suspect and hate and revile them, and deny the brave destiny of the race, which is the conflux of all the races. Therefore, he thought it incumbent on him not to know the tenant of the first

. Weil. But he could not bear to hear ill spoken of anybody unjustly. And he

, was railing against the prevailing s

g, you submit to it and send in your resignation. One would think it was a point of honor with you to admit yourselves beaten. I've n

t against France. In such struggles as these we have to argue, and vote, a

d! I suppose you had to do with kna

ld always knock them down! Besides, if it's a question of fighting, you

there is any la

e are

re. All r

at are th

. Nothing. They say the

e an in

u like, in th

mmandant gave an exclamation),-and th

Those Dre

Christophe. "Well: w

who have rui

rance as muc

, mischievou

just to your

man. I can think well of the Germans, although some day I hope to give them back with interest the thrashing we got from them. But it is n

he Middle Ages, when, for the first time, they found themselves fac

let us be frank, and

threaten Europe, wouldn't you th

so, in

h those of your adversaries who are of some worth and moral vigor? 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! An ideal is a force, you cannot deny it: in the struggle in which you were recently engaged, it was your

know where one is. To make

er you were fighting for the King or the Republic. I fancy

dn't car

These things are utterly futile. What does it matter whether your nation is the eldest daughter of the Church or the eldest daughter of Reason? The only thing that does matter is that it should live! Everything that exalts life is good. There is o

out the first bars of the march i

y Aux armes, citoyens!, l'Internationale, Vive Henri IV, and Dieu Protège la France!,-(You see, something like this.)-I would make you a soup so hot that it would burn yo

ared with

ndant lau

onsieur Krafft. What a p

ight is the same everywhere

back to M. Weil and the Elsbergers. And the old soldier no less obstinately went back to his eternal arguments

despondent. Oliv

hange the whole state of mind of a nation. That's too much

done?" said

e Chris

s that to ot

g what you are, my dear Christ

ok no part in the argument: but it seemed to make her more lively: and quite a different expression would come into her eyes: it was as though it gave her more breathing-space. She began to read, and went out a littl

M. Krafft

t was taken a

ng, we are what we are. And there's no reason why

replied. "I would

feelings. He loved Christophe, he loved his frankness and his moral soundness, and he used often bitterly to regret that Christophe was a German. Although he always lost his temper in these discussions, he was always eager for more, and Christophe's arguments

e was reading? One

he was d

s he say

!'... But he can

to the fact with the Comma

ed hurling that ble

need to," said Christophe. "Why?"

no reply, and we

*

irradiated life. Softly, softly, like the moist air of spring, it penetrated the walls and the closed windows of the somnolent old house: it gave new life to the hearts of men and women, whom sorrow, weakness, and isolation had for years been consuming, so that they we

of 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 saw a

y dint of staring at them she had ceased to see her as she was: the photographs and dead presentments had killed the living image of the child. She had ceased to see her as she was, but she clung 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 her heart turned to stone, with no tears to shed, with her life withered. Religion was no aid to her. She went through the formalities

they not

she saw that it was not she, she would long to strangle her. She used to complain that the Elsberger children made a noise below her, though they were very quiet, and even very subdued by their up-bringing: and when the unhappy children

ting impatiently and irritably for the music to begin: and when it was later than usual her irritation was only the more acute. In spite of herself, she had to follow the music through to the end, and when it was over she found it hard to sink back into her usual apathy.-And one evening, when she was curled up in a corner of her dark room, and, through the walls and the closed window, the distant music reached her, that light-giving music ... she felt a thrill run through her, and once more tears came to her eyes. She went and opened the window, and stood there listening and weepi

o hear him go by on the stairs with the children: and she would stand in hidin

footsteps coming down the stairs, rather more noisily than usu

tte. Christophe says you mustn'

t restrain herself: she opened the door, and took the children in her arms, and hugged them fiercely.

ful lady, more afraid than ever: and now, whenever they passed the door, they used to run lest she should come out and catch them. She used to hide to catch sight of them as they passed. She would have been ashamed to be seen talking to the children. She was ashamed in her own eyes.

tophe raced upstairs, and went into the flat on the third floor, the door of which was open. He found the Abbé Corneille with the body, and the child in tears, crying to her father: the housekeeper was making clumsy efforts to console her. Christophe took the child in his arms and spoke to her tenderly. She clung to him desperately: he could not think of leaving her: he wanted to take her away, but she would not let him. He stayed with her. He sat near the window in the dying light

you ... will you

dame Germain was in tears. Then she sat by

stay wit

or coming up. He hoped, he said, humbly, that the dead man would have nothing to reproach him with: he had gone, not as

hose who have won their affection. She was glad to go with her new friend.... Alas! she had soon forgotten her adopted father. She showed just the same affection for her new m

er saw them off. The woman had an expression of contentment and secret joy which they had never known in her before. Sh

you who

ked Christophe in amazement, as they w

ot know, sitting on a stool, with her little hands sagely folded in her lap, whil

from my dear,

*

the attic on the fifth floor was a great and mighty flame of humanity

t not. To him the pr

ple together, all these people of all classes and every kind

r, which would be above party. Now, there is no power above party save that which finds its strength in itself-not in the multitude, that power which seeks not the support of anarchical majorities,-as it does nowadays when it is no more than a well-trained dog in the hands of second-rate men, and bends all to its will by service rendered: the victorious general, the dictatorship of Public Safety, the supremacy of the intelligence... what you will. It does not depend on us. You must have the opportunity and the men capable of seizing it: you must have happiness and genius. Let us wait and

unting too much on the work of ages. Make ready. Gird your loins. Always be prepared with your shoes on your f

*

night. His shadow fell upon

*

e to themselves a monopoly of patriotism, and speak in the nation's name, and dictate to the State, sometimes with the secret complicity of the State, the policy it should follow, launched forth insulting ultimatums to France. There was a dispute between Germany and England; and Germany did not admit the right of France not to interfere: the insolent newspapers called upon her to declare for Germany, or else threatened to make her pay the chief expenses of the war: they presumed that they could wrest alliance from her fears, and already regarded her as a conquered and contented vassal,-to be frank, like Austria. It

o be on good terms with everybody, and much more inclined to admire and emulate other nations than to go to war with them. But the honest men of a nation are not asked for their opinion: and they are not bold enough to give it. Those who are not virile enou

iance with Germany. The two countries seemed to him to have so many deep-seated reasons for being united, so many ideas in common, and such great tasks to accomplish together, that it annoyed him to see them persisting in their wasteful, sterile ill-feeling. Like all Germans, he regarded France as the most to blame for the misunderstanding: for, though he was quite ready to admit that it was painful for her to sit still under the memory of her defeat, yet that was, after all, only a matter of vanity, which should be set aside in the higher interests of civilization and of France herself. He had never taken the trouble to think out the problem of Alsace and Lorraine. At school he had been taught

rmans: and that was all that mattered. What nation has the right to say: "These people are mine: for they are my brothers"? If the brothers in question renounce that nation, though they be a thousand times in the wrong, the consequences of the breach must always be borne by the party who has failed to win the love of the other, and therefore has lost the right to presume to bind the other's fortunes up with his own. After forty years of strained relations, vexations, patent or disguised, and even of r

ort his argument by the citation of similar crimes perpetrated by all nations all through the history of the world. He was 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 a clearer light. But he knew also that if France w

ers who were dreaming of founding a European brotherhood, working all together to make the world more just and human. They appealed also to the selfish cowardice of the rabble, who were unwilling to endanger their skins for anything or anybody.-These ideas had been taken up by Olivier and many of his friends. Once or twice, in his rooms, Christophe had been present at discussions which had amazed him. His friend Mooch, who was stuffed full of humanitarian illusions, used to say, with eyes blazing, quite calmly, that war must be abolished, and that the best way of setting about it was to incite the soldiers to mutiny, and, if necessary, to shoot down their leaders: and he would insist that it was bound 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 the frontier before they had settled their account with

é Elsberger, "are you in touch with the

eople to do it. We have always been the

the others

y wi

treaties, and d

eaties? Our force is s

ntries. Arrange that on such and such a date in France and Germany your allied troops shall take such and such a step. But, if you go to work without a plan, how can you expe

uge in vague threats: a handful of sand, he said, was enough to smash

hen the great tide surges through the depths of the hearts of men! They thought they were free and masters of their thoughts! But now, in spite of themselves, they are conscious of being dragged onwards, o

ey had foreseen. Some of the most eager to abolish war suddenly felt a vigorous passionate pride in their country leap into being in their hearts. Christophe found Socialists, and even revolutionary syndicalists, absolutely bowled over by their passionate pride in a duty utterly foreign to their

e, you haven't even gu

e yoke, in spite of your

undred thousand member

it for you! Take us

fend it! He felt that he was infected by the moral epidemic which spreads among the people of a nation the collective insanity of their ideas, the terrible

ncestors. At the mere mention of the flag tears came to Hamilton's eyes. And they were all sincere: they were all victims of the contagion. André Elsberger and his syndicalist friends, just as much as the rest, and even more: for, being crushed by necessity and pledged to a party that they detested, they submitted with a grim fury and a stormy pessimism which made them crazy for action. Aubert, the artisan, torn between his cultivated humanitarianism and his instinctive chauvinism, was almost beside himself. After many sleepless nights he had at last found a formula which could accommodate everything: that France was synonymous with Humanity. Thereafter he never spoke to Christophe. Almost all the people

n in spite of everything, he knew the greatness of the two hostile faiths which sooner or later would come to grips: he knew also that it is the part of France to be the experimental ground in human progress, and that all new ideas need to be watered with her blood before they can come to flower. For his own part, he refused to take part in the skirmish. While the civilized nations were cutting each other's throats he was fain to repeat the device of Antigone: "I am made for love, and not for hate."-For l

er they would lead him. He did not tell Olivier, but he spent his days in agony, longing for news. Secretly he put his affairs in order and packed his trunk. He did not reason the thing out. It was too strong for him. Olivier watched him anxiously, and guessed the struggle which was going on in his friend's mind: and he dared not question him. They felt that they were impelled to draw closer

*

rough those days of gloom, with the rain beating down on them, the workmen were putting the f

e house is

*

of the Press were despatched to their kennels. In a few hours the tension was relieved. It was a summer evening, and Christophe had rushed in breathless to convey the good

united, all these people who c

em united. You're such humbugs! You all cry out upon e

glad of it," r

ugh for that ... Besides, it's a fine thing to feel the mighty torrent r

uld rather have eternal solitude than

roach the subject which was troubling them. At last Olivi

Christophe: you

ophe r

es

ould say it. And yet his h

phe: could you ..

is hand over his

of it. I don't lik

ent on so

have fought

. I never tho

r heart, you

tophe

es

inst

You are mine. Wher

inst my

my co

laws on the free Church of those spirits the very essence of whose being is to love and understand. Let C?sar be C?sar, but let him not assume the Godhead! Let him take our money and our lives: over our souls he has no rights: he shall not stain them with blood. We are in this world to give it light, not to darken it: let each man fulfil his duty! If C?sar desires war, then let C?sar have armies for that purpose,

f a cave. Truth is life. It is not to be found in your own head, but to be sought for in the hearts of others. Attach yourself to them, be one wi

shall or shall not think certain things, even though they be dangerous.

n climb without feeling an irresistible desire to fling itself down. Religion and instinct are weakened in you. Y

ry nation: it is a

rs. If you weren't such an infernally metaphysical lot, you'd never go shuffl

the torch away. You can't both live

must

t thing to ha

e are still men who are alive enoug

e Greeks, who are dead, than any of th

myself, Christophe,

answer. But it did not interest him. All through the discussio

e less than

his hand and pre

the covering of the same Buddhist Nirvana. Only action is living, even when it brings death. In this world we can only choose between the devouring flame and night. In spite of the sad sweetness of dreams in the hour of twilight, I have no desire for that

Olivier; "it comes from the

k of Hindoo poetry, and read the su

no store by pleasure or pain, or gain or loss, or

ed the book from

If I did not act, without a truce and without relief, setting an example for men to follow, all men would perish. If

ted Olivier,-

said Christop

*

And yet it was plain that it was still in their thoughts, from the joy with which they resumed their lives, the pleasant life from d

ning, sly, resigned, who was the butt of the others, putting up with it when he was thrashed and robbed,-putting up with it when they made love to his wife, and laid waste his fields,-tirelessly putting his house in 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 still putting up with it,-waiting, laughing at the exploits of his masters and the thra

me: you don't take me in: but I can't do without

nd the clean-souled folk-songs of Old France.-The friends worked away with boundless delight. The weakly Olivier, with his pale cheeks, found new health in Christophe's health. Gusts of wind blew through their garret. The very intoxication of Joy! To be working together, heart to heart with one's friend! The embrace of two lovers is not sweeter or more ardent

to help him, and was engaged in ardent propaganda in his cause. In Germany, the Iphigenia, which had originally been hissed, was unearthed, and it was hailed as a work of genius. Certain facts in Christophe's life, being of a romantic nature, 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 they had a great musician in their midst. One of the Parisian conductors asked Christophe for his Rabelaisian epic before it was finished: and Goujart, perceiving his a

e was distrustful of so rapid a triumph. He shrugged his shoulders, and said that he wanted to be left alone. He could have understood people applauding the David th

to conquer. It is like the open window and the first sweet scents of the spring coming into a house.-Christophe's contempt for his old work was of no avail, especially with regard to the Iphigenia: there was a certain amount of atonement for him in seeing that unhappy prod

*

years of struggling, at last opened up a calmer horizon, with

nder the door. His mother's writing.... He had been just on the point of writing to her, and was happy at the thought of being able to tel

not very well. If

to see you

THE

to thirty francs. It was September. Hecht, the Arnauds, all their friends, were out of Paris. They had no one to turn to. Christophe was beside himself, and talked of going part of the way on foot. Olivier begged him to wait for an hour, and promised to procure the money somehow. Christophe submitted: he was incapable of a single idea himself. Olivier ran to the pawnshop: it was the first time he had been there: for his own sake, he would much rather have been left with nothing than pledge any of his possessions, which were all associated with some precious memory: but it 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. He had to go home again and

ing Christophe sat wide-eyed, staring

I be in

e was impatient of the jolting speed of the express. He reproached himself bitterly for having left Louisa.

is tumultuous desires, his uneasy thoughts, his faults, mistakes, and headlong struggles, now seemed to him to be the eddy and swirl borne on by the great current of life towards its eternal goal. He discovered the profound meaning of those years of trial: each test was a barrier which was burst by the gathering waters of the river, a passage from a narrow to a wider valley, which the river would soon fill: always he came to a wider view and a freer air. Between the rising ground of France and the German plain the river had carved its way, not without many a struggle, floodi

re lit with the pale light of the east. A little servant-girl was taking down the shutters of a shop and singing an old German folk-song. Christophe almost choked with emotion. O Fatherland! Beloved!... He was fain to kiss the earth as he heard the humble song that set his heart aching in his breast; he felt how unhappy he had been away from his country, and how much he loved it.... He walked on, holding his breath. Whe

id his hand on the doorknob. And he

*

minutes, and then went about her business: she was not very punctual, and was often late in 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, and was as patient as an angel. She had heart disease and palpitations, during which she would think she was going t

ind to her, though it were never so little. On her coverlet, close to her eyes, she had pinned the last photograph of himself that Christophe had sent her: and his last letters were under her pillow. She had a love of neatness and scrupulous tidiness, and it hurt her to know that everything was not perfectly in order in her room. She listened for the little noises outside which marked the different moments of

good heavens! The joint! Perhaps it had been burned while she was looking out of the window! She trembled lest grandfather, of whom she was so fond, though she was afraid of him, should be dissatisfied, and scold her.... Thank Heaven! there was no harm done. There, everything was ready, and the table was laid. She called Melchior and grandfather. They replied eagerly. And the boy?... He had stopped playing. His music had ceased a moment ago without her noticing it....-"Christophe!"... What was he doing? There was not a sound to be heard. He was always forgetting to come down to dinner: father was going to 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 with a 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 looks dow

eyes. He is there

both drawn and swollen, and her mute suffering made her smile of recognition so inf

ness. She could not hold out her arms to him, nor utter a single word. He flung his arms round her nec

it.

she could

her tears went on trickling down her cheeks. He kissed h

rdly understand her. But what did it matter? They loved each other, and were together, and could touch each

be here: she has

ve to her two other sons who had forgotten her. And she seat a message to Olivier, knowing his love for Christophe. She begged Christophe to tell him

n her face. She forced herself to smile. She told herself that she had nothing

n his. Louisa opened her lips. She looked at he