Jean-Christophe Journey's End

t is dear to us in them. The echo of each word coming through space fr

ger in the dangerous period of trial of love, but, having passed it, feel sure of the road and march on hand i

desires against his will, showed him a new duty to fulfil in Paris. Colette, well informed as to society gossip, told Christophe that his young friend Jeannin was making a fool of himself. Jacquelin

hich she had rejected. She was not at all ashamed of what she had done as far as these people were concerned: she thought she had no reason to account to them for it, for they were more worthless than she: what she had done openly, half the women she

lf that she was bringing him up badly, and she would torment herself with the admission; but she made no change. When, as she rarely did, she tried to model her principles of conduct on Olivier's way of thinking, the result was deplorable. At heart she wished to have no authority over her son save that of her affection. And she was not wrong: for between these two, however similar they might be, there were no bonds save those of the heart. Georges Jeannin was sensible of his mother's physical charm: he loved her voice, her gestures, her movements, her grace, her love. But in mind he was conscious of strangerhood to her. She only saw

take after. You are not

tween them; and he took a secret pri

ies in its acuteness from one period to another. In the classic ages when, for a time, the balance of the forces of a civilization are realized,-those high plateaux ending on all sides with steep slopes-the difference in level is not so great f

egant mediocrity. And yet, without any effort on his part, he found himself at the outset of his career several g

, the masses of knowledge and ignorance, warring truths, contradictory errors, in which his father and the men of his father's generation

he would have set fire to it. He had only to glance at the books of wisdom or sacred folly which had intoxicated Olivier: the Nihilist pity of Tolstoi, the somber destructive pride of Ibsen, the frenzy of Nietzsche, the heroic, sensual pessimism of Wagner. He had turned away from them in anger and terror. He hated the realistic writers who, for half a century, had killed the joy of art. He could not, however, altogether blot out the shadows of the sorrowful dream in

ottles. The panacea of one was the Catholic Church: another's was legitimate monarchy: yet another's, the classic tradition. There were queer fellows who declared that the remedy for all evils lay in the return to Latin. Others seriously prognosticated, with an enormous word which imposed on the herd, the domination of the Mediterranean spirit. (They would have been just as ready at some other time to talk of the Atlantic spirit.) Against the barbarians of the North and the East they pompously set up the heirs of a new Roman Empire.... Words, words, all second-hand. The refuse of the libraries scattered to the winds.-Li

d action, so he gave himself up uncontrollably to sport. He tried everything, practised everything. He was always going to fencing and boxing matches: he was the French champion runner and high-jumper, and captain of a football team. He competed with a number of other crazy, reckless, rich young men like himself in ridiculous, wild motor races. Finally he threw up everything for the latest fad, and was drawn into the popular craze for flying machines. At the Rheims meetings he shouted and wept for joy with three hundred thousand other men; he felt that he was one with the whole people in a religious jubilation; the human birds flying over their heads bore them upwards in their flight: for the first time since the dawn of the great Revo

they have been unable to give forth in marriage-or out of it! And when they see how easily their sons do without them, when suddenly they understand that they are not necessary to them, they go through the same kind of crisis as befalls them upon the betrayal of a lover, or the disillusion of love.-Once

she dragged through a wretched, miserable year, without his paying her any heed. And then, poor creature, since her heart could neither live nor die without love, she was forced to find something to love. She fell victim to a strange passion, such as often takes possession of women

ss sense, and a southern imagination, which saw everything in exaggeration, though always exactly to scale when necessary: she was a strangely enticing mixture of lofty mysticism and lawyer's cunning. She was used to domination, and the exercise of it was a habit with her. Jacqueline was drawn to her at once. She became enthusiastic over her work, o

t admit a stranger to his place in a heart that he had regarded as his natural right. It never occurred to him that his place was taken because he had left it. Instead of trying patiently to win it back, he was clumsy and cruel. Quick words passed between mother and son, both of whom were hasty and passionate, and the rupture grew marked. Sister Angèle established her ascendancy over Jacqueline, and Georges rushed away and kicked over the traces. He plunged into a restless, dissipated life; gambled, lost large sums of money; he put a certain amount of exaggeratio

icuous representatives of that period of torment whose art and ideas rouse in them a feeling of suspicion and hostility. He was unmoved by the new Gospels and the charms of the minor prophets and the old cheapjacks who were offering the young men an infallible recipe for the salvation of the world, Rome and France. He was faithful

list, imperialist-(he did not exactly know)-in his heart reflected only one man: Christophe. His precocious experience and the delicate tact he had inherited from his mother made him see (without being in the least disturbed by it) how little worth was the world that he could not live without, and how superior to it was Christ

and never gave any sign of impatience. Only sometimes he would be rather absent-minded when Georges had interrupted him in his work, but never for more than a few minutes, when his mind would be away putting the finishing touches to its work

are not l

rgiveness by redoubled attention. The stories were often very funny: and Christophe could not help

all that was necessary for an honest man. He was not troubled with Christophe's scruples. Christophe would wax wrath. In vain did he try not to impose his way of feeling upon others: he could not be tolerant, and his old violence was only half tamed. Every now and then he would explode. He could not help seeing how dirty were some of Georges's intrigues, and he used bluntly to tell him so. Georges was no more patient than he, and they used to have angry scenes, after which they would not see each other for weeks. Christophe would realize that his outbursts were not likely to change Georges's conduct, and that it was perhaps unjust to subject the morality of a

elf?).-He only told him about things when they were done.-And then?... Then, what could he do but look in dumb

which seemed to be gazing at him from far away. And he would feel like a little boy in his presence. He would see

, passing through vagaries similar to his own. Christophe never added any commentary. The extraordinary kindliness of the story-teller would produce far more effect than the story. He would speak of himself just as he spoke of others, with the same detachment, the same jovial, serene humor. Georges was impressed by his tranquillity. It was for this that he came. When he had unburdened himself of his light-hearted confession, he was like a man stretching out his limbs and lying

his soul's solitude, and dispense with being bound to any artistic, political, or religious party,

ugh. "It is much too good outside. And you, a

to think with others, to adhere to the principles admitted by all the men of the time. I envy the men of ol

"What have I to do with su

protested Georges indigna

ou need order and cannot create it for yourselves? You must always be cl

eorges, proudly echoing one

to take root? The earth is there for all of us. Plunge y

time," sa

aid," insist

r examining his inmost soul: he could not understand what pleasure there could

r hand," sai

alistic, tragic vision of life. Georges would draw away f

e like that?" Ge

I am happy," Chri

re forced to see thin

ld slap him on

t do you need a master to brand your shoulder, like a sheep? What is the word of command you are waiting for? The signal was given long ago.

to?" aske

quer the air, master the elements, dig the last entre

acuum Dadal

champion of Latin? Can you

t Achero

ot, you happy c

action that had devolved upon the new gene

that, why don't y

both recovering our breath, and, with no rancor nor fear, we are looking at each other, satisfied with the struggles in which we have been engaged, waiting for the agreed armistice to expire. You are profiting by the armistice to gather your strength and cull the world's beauty. Be happy. Enjoy the lull. But remember that one day, you or your children, on your return from your conquests, will have to come back to the place where I stand and resume the combat, with

*

f the stairs. But all the same, he had a feeling of well-being, which endured when the memory of the words that had produced it had long been wiped out. He had a real veneration for Christophe. He b

l of him in his presence, otherw

*

reason the more for Christophe to sympathize with it, its exponents had no sympathy with him. His vogue with the public was not likely to reconcile the most

" he would say. "These boys

his success-those people of whom D'Aubigné writes, who "when a mastiff plunges

attack Christophe learned that a certain young composer's piece had been postponed for it. The wri

to see the man

t not do it. You must put on the

er, work, genius, with flattery, and said that the other man's work was bene

you accep

loyal Frenchman because you happen to have the misfortune to be unable to go into ecstasies over the younger school. The younger school! Let's look at it!... Shall I tell you what I think of it? I'm sick of it! So is the public. They bore us with their Oremus!... There's no blood in their ve

on with his

him short, an

suppress the young men. When I was a young man you would have suppressed me in

hrew up his h

you want, it would look as if we were

care?" said

You will be thei

three acts, the other in two: it was arranged to include them both in one program. Christophe went to see the young

present at a few rehearsals of the young man's opera: he thought it very mediocre, as he had been told: he ventured to give a little advice which was ill-received: he gave it up then, and did not interfere again. On the oth

istophe: they spoke of a trick, a plot to suppress a great young French artist: they said that his work had been mutilated to please the Ge

ill r

ophe sent him one of the p

ou read

her re

so well disposed towards me! Really, I am very s

d thought: "He is rig

ed to forget

would meet him, found him, struck him, fought a duel with him, and gave him a nasty scratch on the shoulder with his rapier. Next day, at breakfast, Christophe had a letter from a friend telling him of the affair. He was overcome.

self? What good have you done? You have done this rascal the honor of fighting him. He asked no more. You have made him a hero. Idiot! And if it had chanced ... (I a

his last threat, and was so overc

! Here are you insulting me for having defended you! Next

orges, and kissed him on both ch

n I heard the news. What made you think of fighting? You don't fight

the kind," said Georges

r? If you do it again, I

sown you in the new

isinherit m

Please. What's

ely more: but I know these people better than you do. Make yourself easy. It will do some

ots do to me? I laugh a

you must mind yo

en to trickery) if he found an insulting article, to prevent it reaching Georges. After a week he recovered his equanimity. The boy was right. His action had given the yelping curs food for a moment's reflection.-And, though Christophe went on grumbling at the young lu

I am giving you bac

*

ightly, there was one other man who was very fa

stock of prejudices and hopes which in old days were enough to feed humanity for twenty years was now exhausted in five years. The generations of t

rsting for delight, its wings like the wings of a bird of prey hovering over the plains, waiting to swoop down and try its talons. The prowess of the race, the mad flights over the Alps and the sea, the new crusades, not much less mystic, not much less interested than those of Philip Augustus and Villehardouin, had turned the nation's head. The children of the nation who had never seen war except in books had no difficulty in endowing it with beauty. They became aggressive. Weary of peace and ideas, they hymned the anvil of battle, on which, with bloody fists, action would one day new-forge the power of France. In reaction against the disgusting abuse of systems of ideas, they raised contempt of the idea to the level of a profession of fait

visits. He was too proud to show his regret by seeking him out. But he contrived to meet him, as if by chance, and forced Christophe to make the first advances. There

of the newspaper appreciations of himself. Christophe was accused of not knowing the grammar of his work, of being ignorant of harmony, of having stolen from other musicians, a

was vastly

re we called him an old man. They are going faster, nowadays.... Wireless telegraphy, aeroplanes.... A generation

is diseased nerves; with his ardent soul in his rickety body, he was driven on to the

hey do artists by the unjust words they throw out s

at is the justification of their

d brotherly helping us to mend them, they stand there with their hands in their pockets and watch you dragging your burden up the slope, and say: 'You can't do it!' And when you reach the top, some of

evil but it may be of good service. The worst of the critics is useful to us; he is a trainer: he does not let us loiter by the way. Whenever we think we have reached the goal, the pack hound us on. Get on! Onward! Upward! They are more likely to weary of running after me than I am of marching ahead of them. Remember the Arabian proverb: 'It is no use

not help smilin

eteran like you to be taken to task by recruit

young! They have profited by us, and are ungrateful: that is in the order of things. But, being enriched by our efforts, they will go farther than we, and will realize what we attempted. If we still have some youth left, let us learn in our turn, and try to rejuvenate ourselves. If we

of our tears. Their proud force is the flower of the

it in a wretched hovel open to all the winds of Heaven: we had to strain every nerve to keep the doors closed against death. Our arms carved out the triumphal way along whic

he sacred fire, the gods of our race, and them, those children, who

u regr

a mighty epoch like ours to the epoch that it has brought into being. The men of

tries that we shall never enter. But we enjoy them more than those who will enter them. Wh

*

rces might be that rekindled the earth, he was always with them, even when they were against him: he had no fear for the immediate future of the democracies, that future which caused such an outcry against the egoism of a handful of privileged men: he did not cling desperately to

to which he attuned his soul. Christophe had only to hear her voice echoing his thought to think nothing that was not just, pure, and worthy of repetition. The sound of a beautiful instrument is to a musician like a beautiful body in which his dream at once becomes incarnate. Mysterious is the fusion of two loving spirits: each takes the best

ing those who loved him on tenterhooks: his idle mind was most fertile in inventing ways of rousing interest in himself and tormenting others: it had become a mania with him. And the tragedy of it was, that, while he aped the ravages of disease, the disease did make real inroads upon him, and death peeped forth. Then the expected happened: Grazia, havi

. Already he had employed his usual weapon-his illness-to make Grazia swear that she would not marry again. He was not satisfied with her promise. He tried to force his mother to give up writing to Christophe. On this she rebelled; and, being delivered by such an attempted abuse of power, she spoke harshly and severely to Lionello about h

ved her. He had a suspicion that this time it was serious, but he refused to believe it; and his eyes watched his mother's eyes for the reproachful expression that had in

t to. At the end of two or three months, she resumed her old grave, serene tone with him. She would have thought it criminal to put upon him the burden of her weakness. She knew how the echo of all her feelings reverberated in him, and how great was his need to lean on her. She did not impose upon herself the restraint of sorrow. This discipline was her salvation. In her weariness of life only two things gave her life: Christophe's love, and the fatalism, which, in sorrow as in joy, lay at the heart of her Italian nature. There was nothing intellectual in her fatalism: it was the animal instinct, wh

h passionate moaning. That would prostrate him: but he dared not say anything: he hardly dared to notice it: he was like a man holding his breath, afraid to breathe, for fear of destro

*

stood by the window to read it. His friends went on with their discussion, and did not see Christophe, whose back was turned to them. He left the room without their noticing it. And when they realized that he had done so, they were not surprised. But as time passed and he did not return, Georges went and knocked at the door of the next room. There was no reply. Georges d

tte's, and found her in tears. As soon as sh

friend take the bl

and. And Colette told h

he news of G

he did not finish: she had an attack of giddiness, and her head swam: besides, she was reluctant to speak of her illness, and was afraid of troubling Christophe. He was busy at the time with rehearsals of a choral symphony set to a poem of Emmanuel's: the subject had roused them both to enthusiasm, for it was something symbolical of their own destiny: The Promised Land. Christophe had often mentioned it to Grazia. The first performance was to take place the following week.... She must not upset him. In her letter Grazia just spoke of a slight cold. Then that seemed too much to her. She tore up the let

f me will

mplet aures meas tantus et tam dulc

he felt the sorrow that Christophe must be feeling at such a loss; and he felt that he must go to him, embrace him, pity him. Knowing the violence of his passions,-the tranquillity that Christophe had shown made him anxious. He rang the bell. No answer. He rang once more and knocked, givin

Have you forgo

muttered

es

me

e glances at Christophe. His face was set: the beams of the setting sun lit up his cheek-bones and his forehead. Mechanically Georges went into the next room-the bedroom-as though he were still looking for something. It was in this room that Christophe had shut himself up w

Christophe, who had not budged. He longed to tell him how he pitied him. But Christophe was so radiant with light that

m go

g his head, Ch

by, my

and closed the doo

as like a tired man listening to some vague music without making any attempt to understand it. The night was far gone when

eloved.... She held out her ha

assed through t

the starry spaces, where the music of the spheres flu

ured, with the distant gleam of words falling upon his ears

o, tra Beatrice e t

es, the more does he escape from death. With every new blow that we have to bear, with every new work that we round and finish, we escape from ourselves, we escape into the work we have created, the soul we have loved, the so

d of heroic conflict, Dominus Deus Sabaoth, he looked down, and in the night saw the torch of the Burning Bush put out. How far away it was! When it had lit up his path he had thought himself almost at the summit. And since then, how far he had had to go! And yet the topmos

e because Christophe had not returned his visit. Christophe was not disturbed in his long colloquy with the woman whom he now bore in his soul, as a pregnant woman bears her precious burden. It was a moving intercourse, impossible to translate into words. Even music could hardly express it. When his heart w

s least expecting it. One evening, at Colette's, Christophe sat down at the piano and played for nearly an hour, absolutely surrendering himself, and forgetting that the room was full of strangers. They had no desire to laugh. His terrible improvisations ensla

inant force. His sorrow possessed him no more: he possessed his sor

nt and his happiest works: a scene fr

ia tulerunt Dominium meum,

t retrorsum, et vidit Jesum stant

f popular Spanish cantares, among others a

a ser el

te han de

erte en

a la et

, where thou art to be b

ms through al

hristophe Krafft, is realized the union of the most beautiful of the forces of the music of his time: the affectionate and wise thought of Germany

a sure foot. The wind of death had blown away the last mists of pessimism, the gray of the Stoic soul, and the phantasmagoria of the mystic chiaroscura. The rainbow had