Jean-Christophe Journey's End

hower of sparks it swept from one point to another, burning the dry brushwood. Already in the East there were skirmishes as the prelude to the great war of the nations. All Europe, Europ

e dogs of war. The world lay in wait. The feeling of inevitability weighed heavily even upon the most pacifically minded. An

ould have marked out a chosen, deliberate aim for this blind, onward rush. But nowhere in Europe was there any genius for action. It was as though the world had chosen the most mediocre to be its governors. The for

of mind was like that of Goethe in 1813. How could a man fight without hatred? And how could he hate without youth? He had passed through the zone of hatred. Which of the great rival nations was the dearest to him? He had learned to know all their merits, and what the world owed to the

nt, were now thinking of nothing but military glory, battle, conquests, Roman eagles flying over the sands of Libya: they believed they had returned to the time of the Emperors. The wonderful thing was that this madness was shared, with the best faith in the world, by the opposition parties, socialists and clericals, as well as by the monarchists, and they had not the least idea that they were being unfaithful to their cause. So little do politics and human reason count when the great epidemic passions sweep over the nations. Such passions do not even trouble to suppress individual passions; they use

universe which it dominated; crumbling ruins, "baroque" fa?ades, modern buildings, cypress and roses intertwined-every age, every style, merged i

ctual order that were no less powerful. For an artist accustomed to the full life of the mind, who generously shares in all the sufferings, all the hopes, and all the passions of the great human family, it was difficult to grow accustomed to life in Germany. There was no lack of artists there. But the artists lacked air. They were isolated from the rest of the nation, which took no interest in them: other preoccupations, social or practical, absorbed the attention of the public. The poets shut themselves up in disdainful irritation in their disdained art; it became a point of honor with them to sever the last ties

d it the road followed by past ages, and established the communion of a whole nation in its light. Many a German spirit-like birds strayed in the night-came winging towards the distant beacon. But who is there in France can dream of the power of the sympathy which drives so many generous hearts from the neighboring nation towards France! So many hands stretched out: hands that are not responsible for the aims of the politician

o civilizations mingle in one stream, from his childhood he had instinctively felt their inevitable union; all through his life the unconscious effort of his genius had been to maintain the balance and equilibrium of the two mighty wings. The greater

ealthy mind absorbs every kind of force, even that which is hostile to it, and makes it bone and flesh of its bone and flesh. Ther

ld have liked their music; but-(it was just his luck!)-he could not do it: he found it meaningless. He was a thousand times more pleased with the talent of musicians who were personally antipathetic to him, and in art represented tendencies hostile to his own.... Well! What did it matter? These men were at least alive! Life is, in itself, such a virtue, that, if a man b

That is how you would expre

, ma

You have not

e better for them! Christophe had no desire to make them understand. He did not ask others to confirm his ideas by thinking as he did: he was sure of his own thoughts. He asked them to let him know their thoughts, and to love their souls. He asked always to know and to love more, to see and to learn how to see. He had reached the point not only of admitting in others tendencies of mind that he had once combated, but also of rejoicing in them, for they seemed to him to contribute to the fecundity of the universe. He loved Georges the more because he did not take life tragically, as he did. Humanity would be too poor and too

h delight. The inexhaustible riches that he who has eyes to see can find in a drop of light, a second of life! Against such sovereign delights of the mind what matters the vain tumult of dispute and war?... But dispute and war also are a part of the marvelous spectacle. We must embrace everything, and, valiantly, joyously, fling into the crucible of our burning hearts both the forces of denial and the forces of affirmation, enemies and friends, the whol

d disappeared in the old days, but, instead, the white clouds of summer, mountains of snow and gold, great bi

e fruit. A buzzing like the sound of an organ; the hive all alive with the hum of the bees.... Such somber, golden music, like an aut

red forces and fixes the path they shall take, the goal towards which they shall move. The symphony of reason and instinct is organized. The darkness grows bright. On the long ribbon of the wi

rs, the outline of the figures. To bring the work to its close all the resources of his being are brought into requisition. The scent-box of memory is opened

he senses, the work planned by the mind. A great architect must have good journey

his work. And He saw t

whole of His creation, and His

*

is ended.

of light, slowly soar and hover; and the he

le love which the spirit of an artist sheds on all things in the world, but a love that knows preference: he must always b

e which was the best part of his joy, a twofold love, for Grazia's daughter a

*

ng and laughing, only half awake. Christophe called her Dornr?schen-the Sleeping Beauty. She reminded him of his old love, Sabine. She used to sing as she went to bed, and when she got up, and laugh for no reason at all, with merry childish laughter, and then gulp it down with a sort of hiccough. It were impossible to tell how she spent the time. All Colette's efforts to equip her with the brilliant artificiality which is so easily imposed on the mind of a young girl, like a kind of lacquered varnish, had been wasted: the varnish would not hold. She learned nothing: she would take months to read a book, and would like it immensely, though in a week she would forget both its title and its sub

she had instinctively drawn near to Christophe. She divined that he had a similar sorrow; he saw her grief: and though they never exchanged confidences, they shared each other's feelings. Later, when she discovered the feeling that united her mother and Christophe, it seemed to her that she was in the secret, though they had never told her. She knew the meaning of the message with which Grazia had charged her as she lay dying, and of the ring which was now on Christophe's hand. So there existed hidden t

an extraordinary interes

and precious way of speaking. And while they laughed at each other, they both took pleasure ... in laughing, or in entertaining each other? They used to entertain Christophe too, and, far from gainsaying them, he would maliciously transpose these little poisoned darts from one to the other. They pretended not to care: but they soon discovered that they cared only too much; and both, especially Georges, being incapable of concealing their annoyance, as soon as they met they would begin sparring. Their woun

l Christophe that he was coming on Sunday afternoon. On Sunday morning Christophe waited in vain for Aurora. At the hour mentioned by Georges she appeared, and asked him to forgive

orges: he came and lunched with me; b

from being cross with him. Came a ring at the bell. It was Georges. Aurora was amazed. Christophe looked at her and laughed. She saw that he had

ladroncella,

hand on his lip

and laughter. His expression of astonishme

ardly: he knew his weakness: he idolized Aurora, and thought himself responsible for her happiness even more than for Georges's; for it seemed to him that Georg

showed him that Aurora was far more at home than himself with Georges's moral ideas. Though they were very much in love with each other it was clear that they did not regard themselves as bound forever; into their discussions of questions relating to love and marriage, they brought a spirit of liberty, which might have a

been caught up by the new current of Catholicism which was conquering many people of fashion and many intellectuals. Nothing could be more curious than the way in which Georges, who was naturally critical and perfectly irreligious, skepticism being to him as easy as breathing, Georges, who had never cared for God or devil-a true Frenchman, laughing at everything-suddenly declared that there lay the truth. He needed truth of some sort, and this sorted well with his need of action, his atavistic French bourgeois characteristics, and his weariness of liberty. The young fool had wandered long enough, and he return

it was saying its prayers. The gate of dreams had reopened; in the train of religion came little puffs of theosophy, mysticism, esoteric faiths, occultism to visit the chambers of the Western mind. Even philosophy was wavering. Their gods of thought, Bergson and William James, were tottering. Even science was attainted, even science was showing the signs of the fatigue of reason. We have a moment's respite. Let us breathe. To-morrow the mind will awake again, mor

that these two might attain joy.... The joy, Antoinette, for which thou wast made, the joy that was refused thee!... Ah! If

to make others happy in our way, but in their own. At most he only asked Georges and

ouble to argue with him. They

ot under

often to talk innocently of the things they would do when Christophe "was no longer with them."...-However, they loved him well.... How

thyself! It is

ing their thoughts,

m quite happy here. Please reg

by their naive

ay when they had crushed him with their disdainful ma

ughing heartily. "You are the best of men, bu

know, my girl? Yo

I know nothing much.

ophe s

my dear. The man yo

ce between Georges's playing and Christophe's. Perhaps she preferred Georges's style, and Georges, in spite of his ironic subtlety, was never far from being convinced by his sweetheart's belief in him. Christophe never contradicted them: maliciously he would concur in the girl's opinion (except when, as sometimes happened, he could bear it no longer, and would rush away, banging the doors). With an affectionate, pitying smile he woul

bout "his children"-(fo

was fond of Georges, u

d him aver to him. He h

s grabbing

stophe was not deceived. He knew how deeply attached to him Emmanuel was, and he knew the worth of his affection. No week went by but they met two or three times. When they were prevented by ill-health from going out, they used to write to each other. Their letters might have been written from places far

to recover his breath. They were both incapable of taking care of themselves. In defiance of their weak throats and their fits of despondency, they were inveterate smokers. That was one of the reasons why Christophe preferred that they should meet in Emmanuel's rooms rather than in his own, for Aurora used to declare war on his habit of smoking, and he used to hide

ed, and ate very little, and hardly ever played, and never made any noise: it was very gentle, and used to follow its master about with its intelligent eyes, and be unhappy when he was absent, and quite content to sit on the table by his side, only breaking off its musing ecstatically, for hours together, to watch the cage where the inaccessible birds fluttered about, purring politely at the least mark of attention, patien

cause he saw a certain similarity between its lot and his own. Christophe used t

Emmanuel

will become good or bad, frank or sly, sensitive or stupid, not only according to what its master teaches it, but also according to what its master is. And this is true not only of the influence of men. Places

to his rooms, and did his best to heal the wound he had dealt her, and to win her back to the confidence in his affection she so sorely needed. He suppressed his feeling of revolt, and resigned himself to her absorbing love, and devoted to her the remainder of his life. The whole sap of his genius had rushed back to his heart. The apostle of action had come to the belief that there was only one course of action that was really good-not to do evil. His part was played. It seemed that the Force which raises the great human tides had used him only as an instrument, to let loose action. Once his orders were carried out, he was nothing: action pursued its way without him. He watched it moving on, almost resigned to the injustice which touched him personally, though not altogether to that which concerned his faith. For although, as a free-thinker, he claimed to be free of all religion and used humorously to call Christophe a clerical in disgu

om Spain to China blows the same keen wind. There is not a corner anywhere for a man to find shelte

that com

, and see no farther than the next milestone, and you imagine that it marks the end of the road. You see the wave that bears you along, but you do not see the sea! The wave of to-day is the wave of yesterday; it is the wave of our souls that prepared the way for it. The wave of to-day will plow the ground for the wave of to-morrow, which wi

the table, and woke the

ew morality, new knowledge, new faith. Every man must examine his conscience, and know exactly what he is and what he has, before he can enter with the rest into the new age. A new age is coming. Humanity is on the point of signing a new lease of life. Society is on the point of

the passing vision. He was silent for some time afte

ristophe! You do n

Christophe. "I have lived in

ardly listened to what was said to him. He had an absorbed, smiling expression. When his absent-mindedness

l do that f

r

will laugh

did not kno

rdinary self

iful, because, when a man has done his work, he is inclined to believe that others will do theirs, and that, when all is told, as Rodin says, "the beautiful will a

s in his heart. Sometimes he would think of his old friend Schulz. He never told anybody what he was feeling. It was no good. It was useless to upset his fr

iment and a desire to se

from year to year, alwa

d postpone

le of the past was dead, even death itself.... So be it! Life was going on: perhaps other little Christophes were dreaming, suffering, struggling, in the shabby houses in the street that was called after him.-At a concert in the gigantic Tonhalle he heard some of his music played, all topsy-turvy: he hardly recognized it.... So be it! Though it were misunderstood it might perhaps arouse new energy. We sowed the seed. Do what you will with it: feed on us.-At nightfall Christophe walked through the fields outside the city; great mists were ro

n the Rhine, the familiar song of the bells ringing in the morrow's festival awoke the images of the past. From the river there ascended the faint odor of distant danger, which he found it hard to understand. He spent the whole night in recollection. He felt that he was free of the terrible Lord, and found sweet sadnes

d to attend: he stood behind a pillar from which he could see the seat where in old days she

a certain queer little gesture as though to smooth out the folds of her skirt about her knees. In old days, she had made such a gesture,... As she went out she passed slowly by him, with her head erect and her hands holding her prayer-book, folded in front of her. For a moment her somber, tired eyes met Christophe's. And they look

in which she dwelt who

am I, myself? Where is

us and the cruel love

is the

d answered

n

for the last time in the crowd passi

*

ccess, glutted with honors, satiated, appeased, he had been clever enough secretly to recognize Christophe's superiority, and had made advances to him. Christophe pretended to notice neither attacks nor advances. L

smile. They used to go for walks together, and Christophe often met them in the Luxembourg Gardens; they seemed very intimate, and the girl would walk arm-in-arm

ky b

e would ad

o have a

ed him to create in his mind a sort of imaginary friendship between the two girls, though they

that "the lamb" was dead. In his fath

it had be

ashamed of them, and did not send either. But a few days later when he met Lévy-Coeur with a weary, miserable face, it was too much for him:

ve lost

divided them. They had fought: it was inevitable, no doubt: each man must fulfil the law of his nature! But when men see the end of the tragi-comedy coming, they put off the passions that masked them

and Aurora had been fi

s declining rapidly. H

. Once he heard them w

s was

ooks as though he might

rora r

oes not delay

ren! They might be sure that he

of Grazia as she lay dying, never telling him of her illness because of his approaching concert, for fear lest he should be distracted from his work and pleasure. Now he loved the idea of doing for her daughter-for her-what she had done for him. He concealed his condition, but he found it hard to keep himself going. However, the happiness of his children made him so happy that he managed to support the long ordeal of the religious ceremony without disaster. B

would do it: she thought she had a fine opportunity to do as she liked, now that he was confined to his bed. In the mirror of his wardrobe door he saw her from his bed turning the whole room upside down. He was so furious-(no, assuredly the old Adam was not dead in him!)-that he jumped out of bed, snatched a packet of papers out of her hands, and showed her the door. His anger cost him a bout of fever and the departure of the servant, who lost her temper and never returned, without even taking the t

s only too delighted to be of use, and went out at once to fetch it. The weather was cold and gusty. The winter had taken an unpleasant turn. Melting snow, and an icy wind. There were no carriages to be had. Christophe spent some time in a parcels' office. The rudeness of the clerks and their deliberate slowness made him irritable, which did not help his business on. His illness was partly responsible for his gusts of anger, which the tranquillity of his mind repudiated; they s

etfully, "that nothing is more involunta

scape both respect and love. He spoke of Christophe in insulting terms, and announced a series of a

rised! He won't

y, saying that he had lived alone so much that he thought he m

ould hold his peace and listen to them. He had always on his bed, or on the table, within reach of his hand, music-paper on which he used to take down their remarks and his own, and laugh at their rejoinders. It was a mechanical habit: the two actions, thinking and writing, had become almost simultaneous with him; writing was thinking out loud to him. Everything that took hi

most equally ill, and were under no illusion as to their condition. By different ways the free religious genius of Christophe and the free irreligious genius of Emmanuel had reached the same brotherly serenity. In

g hand, Christophe wrote the words of the King o

dich!" [FOOTNOTE: "I have had m

*

onflict to the isolated heart. The fullness of art, the zenith of life. His proud dominion over his conquered spirit. His belief that he had mastered his destiny. And then, suddenly at the turn of the road, his meeting with the knights of the Apocalypse, Grief, Passion, Shame, the vanguard of the Lord. Then laid low, trampled underfoot by the horses, dragging himself bleeding to the heights, where, in the midst of the clouds, flames the wild puri

reach your light, but very s

the soul of her lover. Together they had issued from the shadow of days, and they had reached the happy heights where, like the three Graces, in a noble round, the

ipped his panting bosom, and the tumultuous whirl of images beating against the walls of his

*

tion to her; every color, every kind of form was in them. And Christophe could understand her happiness, but she made him weep with exasperation. If only she would not hit the keys so hard! Noise was as odious to Christophe as vice.... In the end h

ot go on m

pulse of his human

ristophe become immortal and his work disappear, or to have his

ent's hesitat

fold: for only what is most true of me, the real tru

s doomed to destruction. More quickly than any other the language of music is consumed by its own heat; at the end of a century or two it is understood only by a few initiates. For how many do Monteverdi and Lully still exist? Already the oa

o love life les

stem to the moving infinite. The mind needs such a lie as this to understand the incomprehensible, and the mind has believed the lie, because it wished to believe it. But it is not true. It is not alive. And the delight which the mind takes in this order of its own creation has only been obtained by falsifying the direct intuition of what is. From time to time, a genius, in passing contact with the earth, suddenly perceives the torrent of reality, overflowing the continents of art. The dykes crack for a moment. Nature creeps in through a fiss

*

of paper that lay scattered on his bed, and he tried to write down a f

leave me: thou wilt not be repulsed at my caprice. Forgive me. Thou knowest these are but whimsies. I have never betrayed th

bei

ion: Music

ind himself. He seemed to himself to be "another." Another, dearer than himself.... Who?... It seemed to him that in his dreams another soul had taken possession of him.

ow lay in ambush for him, like a cat waiting for a mouse. He lay like one dead. Already.... The

nt have held out their hands to me, mysterious spirits sprung from my mind, living and dead-all living.-O all that I have loved, all that I have created! Ye surround me

e tree coming to new life, there was such an ecstasy of surrender to the new-born force of spring, that Christophe was no longer conscious of his weariness, his depression, his wretched, dying body, and lived again in the branch of the tree. He was steeped in the gentle radiance of its life. It was like a kiss. His heart, big with love, turned to the beautiful tree, smiling there upon his

answered him. Christo

ehearse it. If only they can go

tstretched. But the orchestra made no mistake; they were sure of themselves. What m

d fellow! I'll

ve the ship capriciously to left an

that?... And this? Caught

lves: they countered all his auda

y do now?... T

"bravo!" and roar

them beat me?... But, you know, this is not a game! I'm done, n

cy that there was nothing to be done but to sit and listen open-mouthed.

your peace! The instrument has given all that it c

nge. Violent fits of cough

hold you

. He saw himself again in the middle of a great throng. A crowd of men were shouting all around him. One man

... I will hear! Let me

against the wall, but the

ing? What is this body that I hold in

ust, murderous desires, the sting of carnal embraces, t

t pluck you off, you leeches clinging to my

.... He was free.... Yonder, the music was still playing, farther and farther aw

me! Wait

d run so fast that he could not breathe. Has heart beat, his blood ro

How ho

on without him.... At last! He came out of the tunn

ll me that Jean-Christophe Krafft wrote it? Oh! come! Nonsense! I knew him. He couldn't write ten bars of such music a

sted brain went on mechanically trying to discover the elements of the chords and their consequents. He could no

.... I can

girl who was looking after him, unknown to him, piously wiped them away. He lost all consciousness of what was happening. The o

o get out of it? I should like to f

t was no longer Anna. Eyes now so full of kindness.... "Grazia, is it thou?... Which

childhood.... The bells. Now it is dawn! The lovely waves of sound fill the light air. They come from far away, from the villages down yonder.... The murmuring of the river rises from behind the

.. Love.... Where are you? Where are you, my souls?

thee. Peace

u ever more. I have

We shall never

tream is bea

ears thee on, bea

r are w

ere we shall be

it be

ering the fields, moving on, august, slow, almost still. And, like a flash of steel, on the edge of the horizon there seemed to be

it

s of his love

is

n dying, sai

was seeking!... But it is not the end! There

to the sovereign peace of God, whom all

pleased with Thy servan

I have struggled, I hav

draw breath in Thy Fa

n again for

river and the roaring o

ht and the day entwined. Harmony, the august marriage of love and hate. I w

cunque tueris, Illa nempe d

Those who saw him set out vowed that he would never win through, and for a long time their mockery and their laughter followed him. Then the night fell and they grew weary. Now Christophe is too far away for the cries of those standing on the water's brink to reach him. Through the roar of t

It is the new dawn! Behind the sheer black cliff rises the golden glory of the invisi

heavy thou wert! C

Child

day soon t

E