Jean-Christophe, Vol. I

venturing forth into the fields: he was afraid of once more falling in with the soft, maddening breath that had blown upon him like a rushing wind during a calm in a storm. He thought that the wa

she had as well two rooms looking on to the yard, together with a little patch of garden, marked off from the Eulers' by a wire fence up which ivy climbed. They did not often see her: the child used to play down in the garden from morning to night making mud pies:

t her garden. Instead of doing her housework herself, as, according to Frau Vogel, every self-respecting woman ought to do-especially when she is in circumstances which do not permit much less excuse idl

tle and steal a glance at her bare arms, which were rather thin, as she drew them languidly around her flowing hair, and with her hands, clasped behind her head, lost herself in a dream, until they were numbed, and then she would let them fall. Christophe would pretend that he only saw these pleasant sights inadvertently as he happened to pass the window, and that they did not disturb him in his musical thoughts; but he liked it, and in the end he wasted as much time i

sometimes) if she had to take too much trouble to reach it, as for instance, taking the ladder from one end of the shop to the other,-she would say calmly that she did not have it in stock: and as she never bothered to put her stock in order, or to order more of the articles of which she had run out, her customers used to lose patience and go elsewhere. But she never minded. Ho

thick: the lower part of her face was rounded, and had the serious expression of the little virgins of Filippo Lippi. Her complexion was a little muddy, her hair was light brown, always untidy, and done up in a slovenly chignon. She was slight of figure, small-boned. And her movements were lazy. Dressed carelessly-a gaping bodice, buttons missing, ugly, worn shoes, always looking a little slovenly-she charmed by her gr

it gave her pleasure to please, her indifference wou

naught by her conduct the great traditions, the true principles, the savorless duty, the pleasureless labor, the restlessness, the noise, the quarrels, the mooning ways, the healthy pessimism which was the motive power of the Euler family, as it is that of all respectable persons, and made their life a foretaste of purgatory. That a woman who did nothing but dawdle about all the blessed day should take upon herself to defy them with her calm insolence, while they bore their suffering in silence like galley-slaves,-and that people should approve of her into the bargain-that was beyond the limit, that was enough to turn you against respectability!... Fortunately, thank God, there were still a few

*

ouisa spent the day in her room: and, In the evening, Christophe used to take pains to be with her, whenever he could, to make her take the air. If she were left alone she would never go out: the noise of the street frightened her. Children were always chasing each other with shrill cries. All the dogs of the neighborhood took it up and barked. The sound of a piano came up, a little farther off a clarinet, and in the next street a cornet à piston. Voices chattered. People came and went and stood in groups in front of their houses. Louisa would have lost her head if she had been left alone in all the uproar. But when her son was with her it gave her pleasure. The noise would gradually die down. The children and the dogs would go to bed first. The groups of people would break up. The air would become more pure. Silence would descend upon the street. Louisa would tell in her thin voice the little scraps of news that she had heard from Amalia or Rosa. She was not greatly interested in them. But she never knew what to talk about to her son, and she felt the need of keeping in touch

held their breath, they seemed not to be aware of each other. From the distant fields came the smell of the new-mown hay, and from a balcony in a house near by the scent of a pot of cloves. No wind stirred. Above their heads was the Milky Way. To their right red Jupiter. Above a chimney Char

y both bowed without speaking. Christophe went up to his room. He lighted his candle, and sat down by his des

o look down into Sabine's room. But the curtains were drawn.

*

a quick nod, which Louisa never noticed. Christophe would talk to his mother. Sabine would smile at her little girl, playing in the street: about nine she would go and put her to bed and would then return noiselessly. If she stayed a little Christophe would begin to be afraid that she would not come back. He would listen for sounds in the hous

The little girl would give piercing shrieks, and look behind her as though she were being pursued; she would throw herself into Louisa's lap, and Louisa would smile fondly. She would keep the child and question her: and so she would enter into conversation with Sabine. Christophe never joined in. He never spoke to Sabine. Sabin

ngle word to each other, they did know each other, thanks to Louisa. He tried to begin several times: but the words stuck in his throat. Once more the little girl extricated them from their difficulty. She played hide-and-seek, and went round Christophe's chair. He caught her as she passed and kissed her. He was not very fond of children: but it was curiously pleasant to him to kiss the

a fine

a very fin

to breathe i

yard was

ered that it was time to take the little girl in,

than for pleasure: she was obviously taking a great deal of trouble to find subjects of conversation, and bored with the questions she put: questions and answers came between heartbreaking silences. Christophe remembered his first interviews with Otto: but with Sabine

istophe began to talk to himself, and in a low voice cried out with pleasure in the delicious scent brought by the soft wind that came from a cart of strawberries. Sabine said a word or two in reply. Again they were silent. They

heir sweet silence. At long intervals a word or two le

began t

, "not to try to talk! One thinks

h conviction, "if only ev

. They were think

d Sabine; "how ex

usted," replied Ch

d by his manne

e asked. "That is easy fo

ft laugh that hardly sounded. Christophe heard it with delight

e silent!" he said,

g is no use

tophe, "we understand

ce. In the darkness they

re both

that they did-in reality they knew nothing of each other. Sabine did not

u like

y. "It bores me, I d

were mad about music, and were bored to death when they heard it: and it seeme

e had n

d to lend

ks?" she ask

s if she did not

are serio

ls, t

po

n't inte

ever had the patience to finish them. She forgot the beginning: skippe

terest y

s not true. She kept her intere

theater

...

e go to th

re were too many people.

er eyes. And the a

there were other things in the

absently. "But

you do

sm

s so muc

he. "There

mly. "That does no

irl takes up y

She is very good an

he

his indiscretion. But

e so many

t th

, cooking dinner, eating dinner, thinking of supper, cleaning her room.... And th

are not

ev

you are doi

nothing. It is much worse do

at each othe

" said Christophe. "

o me that y

en learnin

l, you'l

vous trouble that made him sick at heart. When he was talking to her he was beyond care: and so when he thought of her. He dared not admit it to himself: but a

*

see Sabine. They bowed and smiled. Sometimes she was at the door and then they would exchange a

em: but she could not find them. All the buttons were mixed up: it was impossible to pick them out. She w

e drawers with her hands. "Don't

mbarrassed her. She was cross, and as

next street. She is sure to have them.

her way of d

your customers

ot the first," s

was a litt

aid. "I put off doing it from day to day..

p you?" aske

epted: but she dared not, for fear of

nt on t

to Christophe a moment late

he. "I shall wait unti

dy forgotten what she had just s

ss delighte

to the drawer th

me

prevent h

e. I am sure I

t you

ed others. He wanted to go on rummaging; but she snatched the box

retended to listen to her chatter and answered her absently. He was looking at Sabine and she knew that he was looking at her. She b

she was doing, he was sure she was doing nothing: she was not even looking at the box in her hand

t you say

ed with glee and ran on hands and knees after the buttons rolling under the furniture. Sabine went to t

ill at ease. She did not turn h

d-ni

*

he saw her sitting at her door in the little garden, while the lovely bells were bawling themselves hoarse summoning her. She replied in the same tone that only Mass was

in your own image

I were in His place," rep

uch about the world if

t would be that it should n

none the worse for th

bine, "we are be

eligious in saying that G

flat

f angry. She was beginning to be afraid that God woul

only time in the week when one

. "They are gone." The

bine. "We are not used to it. O

ristophe sudde

to strangle her!" There was no n

ers?" asked

ophe, a little abas

ild!" sa

were

ways as it is now!"

to his, and then dropped them

you doing?

separated the two gar

asin that she was holding in

si

unpleasant," he

s disgusting, always hav

d, "you would go without your dinner rat

true," c

l come and

r the fence an

he poured the little round peas into the basin that Sabine held between her knees. He looked down. He saw Sabine's black st

: There was no wind. No leaf stirred. The garden was in

o on. They sat still, not looking at each other: she leaned back in her chair with her lips half-open and her arms hanging: he sat at her feet leaning against her: along his shoulder and arm he could feel the warmth of Sabine's leg. They were breathless. Christophe laid his hands against the stones to cool them:

e shells in her lap and went in. In the yard he turned. She was at her door. They looked at each other. Drops of rain were beg

rresistible impulse: he ran to his window and held out his arms to the opposite window. At the same moment through

when he looked at the window at which she had appeared, he saw that the shutters were closed. The house seemed to be asleep. He s

what jealousy was. She was ready to give wholly and to ask nothing in return. But if she was sorrowfully res

ck was turned and then slipped from the room. She crept from the house like a truant. She wanted to go and confound Christophe, who had vowed scornfully that she would never finish her work. She thought it would be a good joke to go and t

irrational idea that was in her: and she chaffed Christophe warmly. The sound of her shrill voice in the silence of the night struck on Christophe li

ed-finished!"

egin another," sai

her delight vanished. Ch

very old, you will at least be able to say to

s near

are, Christop

At first he answered her with a few irritated monosyllables: then he said nothing at all, turned his back on her, fidgeted in his chair, and ground his teeth as she rattled on. Rosa saw that he was losing his temper and knew that she ought to stop: but she went on louder than ever. Sabine, a few y

have to talk to her mother, undressed hurriedly, and when she was in her bed, buried under the clothes, sobbed and sobbed. She made no attempt to think over what had passed: she did not ask h

im? How could he, so clever as he was, love a little creature whose insignificance and mediocrity were patent? She was reassured,-but for that she did not watch Christophe any the less closely. She saw nothing all day, because there was nothing to see: but Christophe seeing her prowling about him all day long without any sort of explanation was peculiarly irritated by it. She set the crown on her efforts in the evening when she appeared again and sat with

y his side Christophe waited

nt from Christophe, who was furious at being robbed of his beloved evenings, his only happiness. He was

self was in love: but she said nothing about it: and, with the natural cruelty of a pretty woman, who

*

e done would have been not to persist, and to leave Christophe alone, at least for the time being: but that was not wha

was odious to her. And to think that nothing but death could ever free her from it!... She was at once too proud and too humble to complain that she was not loved: she had no right to do so: and she tried even more to humble herself. But her instinct revolted.... No. It was not just!... Why should she have such a body, she, and not Sabine?... And why should Sabine be loved? What had she done to be loved?... Rosa saw her with no kindly eye, lazy, careless, egoistic, indifferent towards everybody, not looking after her house, or her child, or anybody, loving only herself, living only for sleeping, dawdling, and doing nothing.... And it was such a woman who pleased ... who pleased Christophe.... Christophe who was so severe, Christophe who was so discerning, Christophe wh

ret projects of one day marrying Rosa to Christophe were set at naught by it: and that seemed to them a personal affront of Christophe, although he was not supposed to know that they had disposed of him without cons

her point of view and language she had no difficulty in finding them. The ferocious instinct of a woman, so superior to that of a man in the art of doing evil, as well as of doing good, made her insist less on Sabine's laziness and moral failings than on her un

ould quiver. Rosa, foreseeing what must happen, would implore her mother to have done: she

sfortunes; only an evil mind could so persecute a creature who was good, charming, quiet, keeping herself to herself, and doing no harm to anybody, and speaking no ill of any

d say that it was only too easy to talk of kindness: that the word was called in as an excuse for everything. Heaven

meant only ugliness, unpleasantness, tiresomeness, and everything that interferes with the liberty of others and annoys and injures their

ually with Sabine. He would go and knock at her door. He would talk gaily and laugh with her. He would choose moments when Amalia and Rosa could see him. Amalia would avenge hersel

*

d so much from injustice, learn

ate the christening of a child. Sabine was to be godmother. She invited Christophe. He had no liking for

sometimes she longed to tell her so and to throw her arms about her neck. But there was her mother and her mother's example. She stiffened herself in her pride and refused. Then, when they had gone, and she thought of them together, happy together, driving in the country on the

try to talk to each other: they talked to their neighbors without caring to whom or of what: they were glad to hear each other's voices: they were glad to be driving in the same carriage. They looked at each other in childish glee as they pointed out to each other a house, a tree, a passerby. Sabine loved the country: but she hardly ever went into it: her incurable laziness made excursions impos

all as Sabine was slight, took his little sister in his arms and put her down gently as though he were afraid of breaking her. It was not long before Christophe saw that the little sister, as usual, did just as she liked with the giant, and that while he made heavy fun of her w

Instead of telling himself that he was an ass to have forgotten this privilege, and more than an ass to be huffy about it, he was cross with Sabine, as though she had deliberately drawn him into the snare. His crossness grew worse when he found himself separated from her during the ceremony. Sabine turned round every now and then as the procession wound across the fields and threw him a friendly gl

Christophe amusing himself. From the other end of the table she gave him her most charming smile. Christophe was disgruntled: there was no doubt then that Sabine was indifferent to him: and he relapsed into his sulky mood from which nothing could draw him, neither the soft eyes of his neighbor, nor the wine that he drank. Finally, when he was half asleep, he asked himself angrily what on earth he was doing at such an interminable orgy, and did not hear the miller propose a trip on the water to take certain of the guests home. Nor did he see Sabine beckoning him to

ughing insults at each other. When the boats bumped Christophe saw Sabine's smiling face: and he could

each other. The notes skimmed over the water like birds. From time to time a boat would go in to the bank: a few peasants would climb out: they would stand there and wave to the

to her brother and looked at Christophe. Talking so, they were able to look at each other undisturbedly. They could never have done so had the words ceased to flow. The dec

the boat, hugging the bank, passed under the spreading branches of the willows, she closed her eyes: her thin face was pale: her lips were sorrowful: she did not stir, she seemed to suffer,-to have suffered,-to

you

her head

m co

hem with her eyes. A fine, cold rain was beginning to fall. They took the oars and went quietly home. Heavy clouds hung in the sky. The river was inky b

t Sabine go in such weather: and he proposed that they should both spend the night in the farmhouse. Christophe was reluctant to accept: he looked at Sabine for counsel: but her eyes were fixed on the fire on the hearth

er hands. The child laughed and was not altogether at her ease. Sabine leaned over the fire and poked it mechanically with a heavy pair of tongs: she was a little weary, and smiled dreamily, while, without listening, she nodded to her sister-in-law's

*

inking that he was under the same roof, near her. A wall only divided them. He heard no sound in Sabine's room. But he thought he could see her. He sat up in his bed and called to her in a low voice through the wall: tender, passionate words he said: he held out his arms to her. And it seemed to him that she was holding out her arms to him. In his heart he heard the beloved voice answering him, repeating his wo

of the power to see or hear or move: his whole body shook. He was in terror of this unknown joy for which for months he had been craving, which was with him now, near him, so that nothing could keep it from him. Suddenly the violent boy filled with love was afraid of these desires newly reali

ith love and fear, with his hand on the la

standing barefooted on the tiled fl

r arms to each other,-he was overwhelmed by a love so great that he had not the courage to enter,-she called to him, waited for him,

ed against the door with all his strength.

pe

e stayed motionless near the door: she was frozen: her teeth were chatter

to their beds, worn out, sad and sick at heart. The cocks crowed huskily. The first light of

hurry to be gone and was afraid of being left alone with Sabine again. He was almost relieved when the miller

the yellow mist that covered the earth, the trees, the houses, with a shroud. Like the light,

*

orbed again. They did not take stock of what they were feeling: they were angry with each other, with themselves, with things generally. The night at the farmhouse had been thrust aside in their memories: they were ashamed of it, and did not know whether they were more ashamed of their folly or of not having yielded to it. It was painful to them to see each other: for that made them remember things from which they wished to escape: and by joint agreement they retired into the depths of their rooms so as utterly to forget each other. But tha

position of a new work that he wished to play at them took up all his time and he succeeded in forgetting his obstinate memories. They disappeared from Sabine's mind too, and she fell back into the torpor o

was passing: was it Sabine's paleness, or some indefinable feeling: remorse, fear, tenderness?... He stopped, turned to Sabine, and, leaning over the fence, he bade her good-evening. Without replying she held out her hand. Her smile was all kindness,-such kindness as he had never seen in her. Her gesture seemed to say: "Peace between us...." He took her hand over the fence, bent over it, and kissed it. She made no attempt to withdraw it. He longed to go down on

are

wering. They went on looking at each other and were happy. It wa

roke the sil

ng away t

larm in Sab

away?"

ded q

or two or t

weeks," she

r the concerts, but that when he ca

id. "That is a l

t will soo

and did not

et again?" she as

the question: he had

ck: in a fortnight, o

dismayed. He tr

for you," he said.

said

e tried to smile: b

he said suddenly,

distress in her voic

Don't

he importance she attached to his fortnight's absence

ll st

ared. Sabine withdrew her hand from Christophe's and went hurriedly into he

*

Vogels, and followed everywhere by his mother: as usual, he was behindhand with his

be asleep and would be cross with him if he woke her up. And then, what could he say to her? It was too late now to abandon his journey: and what if she were to ask him to do so?... He did not admit to himself that he was not averse to exe

forgotten. There was youth in his heart. Gaily he saluted the old town with its roofs and towers rosy under the sun: and w

her had wakened him up: but he could not remember how he had been thinking of her. He was unhappy and feverish. It was not surprising: he had been playing at a concert that evening, and when he left the hall he had been dragged off to a supper at which he had drunk several glasses of champagne. He could not sleep and got up. He was obsessed by a musical idea. He pretended that it was that which had broken in upon his sleep and he wrote it down. As he

n written to him. He took a secret delight in his silence: he knew that at home he was expected, that he was loved.... Loved? She had never told him so: he had never told her so. No doubt they knew it and had no need to tell it. And yet there was nothing so precious as the certainty of such an avowal. Why had they waited so long to make it? When they had been on the point of speaking alwa

*

s room. His mother was asleep. He washed and brushed his hair without making any noise. He was hungry: but he was afraid of waking Louisa by rummaging in the pantry. He heard footsteps in the yard: he opened his window softly and saw Rosa, fi

ily, "give me something

ing of

t although he was quite ready to answer them,-(in the happiness of his return he was almost glad to hear Rosa's chatter once more)-Rosa stopped suddenly in the middle of her cross-examination, her face f

ter, Rosa? Are y

and turning towards him with her usual

tophe!..."

et his piece of brea

s the matter?

aid a

. Such an awful th

from the tabl

her

house on the othe

cri

bin

we

is

clung to the table, upset the things on it: he wished

e: she was frightened: s

he could sp

s not

ed to pretend that it could not be. When he saw Rosa's face

ised he

ophe!"

n his hands. She

... Mamma is

ophe g

said. "She mu

deadened and distant. There he could weep without fear of being heard. He let himself go and sobbed furiously. Rosa had never seen him weep: she had even thought that he could not weep: she knew only her own girlish tears and such despair in a man filled her wi

he," she said,

e turned

sh to

asped h

y that, C

... cannot live now.... W

stophe! You are not al

hing to me whether everything else live or die. I

e's passion stabbed her to the heart. Now when she thought herself most near to him, she felt more isolated and more

hristophe stopped

... H

under

on the evening you left. An

gro

Why did you no

sa

ss: you did not give us any. I went and

s, and how much it must

id she tell yo

ook he

t I tho

ith a look. Rosa

poor Christop

stophe felt the worth of such pure tenderness. H

e," he said. "Yo

ew him a passionate look, did no

a revelation t

she whom I

t known-what for months he had not wi

y are calling me." The

a a

to go back

s

ould not bear to talk to

sa

I will com

lained. He was surprised to find himself thinking of it; he was ashamed to be turned aside even for a moment from his misery. But that misery was so frightful, so irrepressible that the mistrust of self-preservation, stronger than his will, than his courage, than his love, forced him to turn away from it, seized on this new idea, as the suicide drowning seizes in spite of himself on the first object which can help him, not to save himself, but to keep himself for a moment longer abov

tho

ho is dead, and the

tho

he other, the woman I love, she is dead and never told me that she loved me: I never ha

remembered that they were just going to talk when

oped towards him. She took his hand. He felt an aversion in her near prese

her for not breaking in upon his grief with useless words. And yet he wished to kno

did

d not sa

repl

aturday

remembere

ni

him in astoni

t. Between tw

y came back to him.

e suffe

suffered at all. She was so weak. She did not struggl

.. did she

know. I t

e say a

was sorry for hers

were

days I was there alone,

her hand in

nk y

blood rush

he murmured the questio

y anything

le to let him have the answer he expected: she was almost sor

not con

he did

t what she said. It wa

is the

her away with hi

d s

She was taken awa

an to we

gh those days of death. A week, already a week ago.... O God! What had become of he

d of the beloved creature. He had never dared to touch her, to take her in his arms, to hold her to his breast. She was gone forever, and he had never known her. He knew nothing of her, neither soul nor body. He had no memory of her body, of her life, of her love.... Her love?... What proof had he of that?... He had not even a letter, a token,-n

ngi resto in te vivo. C'or mi vedi e piang

ive still in thee who art faithful to me. The soul

ach one of us finds anew the agony, each one of us finds anew the desperate hope and folly of the ages. Each one of

*

ing to reproach them with: they were too honest, and too pious not to have thrust back their feelings in the face of death. They knew Christophe's grief and respected it, whatever th

for Rosa. So he detested her. That they-(the Vogels, Louisa, and even Rosa)-should have tacitly disposed of him, without consulting him, was enough in any case to make him lose all affection for the person whom he was destined to love. He shied whenever he thought an attempt was made upon his umbrageous sense of liberty. But now it was not only a question of himself. The rights which these others had assumed over him did not only infringe upon his own rights but upon those of the dead woman to whom his heart was given. So he defended them doggedly, although no one was for attacking them. He suspected Rosa's goodness. She suffered i

that she was alive, that she was seeing Christophe every moment of the day, that she loved him, that she was no longer afraid of the other, that the other was gone, that her memory would also fade away in its turn, that she was left alone, that one day perhaps ...? In the midst of her sorrow, and the sorrow o

the door in the street the bed, the cupboard, the mattress, the linen, all that she had possessed, all that was lef

we were! And yet it was because of that day, because of that cursed row on the water, that she fell ill. Oh well. It is

row that his presence, the sudden calling to mind of the day at his farm, the happy memories that he recalled so blunderingly, the poor relics of Sabine, heaped upon the ground, which he kicked as he talked, set stirring in Christophe's soul. He made some excuse for stopping Bertold's tongue. He went up the steps: but the other clung to him, stopped him, and

curtly and icily.

without an

tion of his sister and Christophe. And that Christophe should now show

profound sorrow. When he saw them disappearing forever he all but ran down to the street to cry: "No! no! Leave them to me! Do not take them from me!" He longed to beg at least for some little thing, only one little thing, so that she should not be altogether taken from him. But how could he ask such a thing o

the wheels of his cart moved on, shaking the windows, when they were out of hearing, he threw himself o

orgotten to lock the door. Rosa came in. She cried out on seeing him st

do you wan

hesitating, leaning agains

stoph

of having been seen so. He dusted him

hat do y

said

ophe ... I came in ...

e had somethin

I asked Bertold to give me a little token

o look at herself for hours, not so much from coquetry as from want

sa!..."

ledge of his own injustice. On a passionate

. Forgive .

stood only too well: she blushed, she trembled,

o not love you.... Forgive me if I cannot ... if

. And with his cheek against Rosa's hand, he wept hot tears, knowing that she was reading th

h weeping, in the d

rew her hand. He

give

to his feet. They kissed in silence: they felt

said softly. She bowed her head

The lover who is loved is sooner or later torn from his love.... There is suffering. The

*

se. He could not bear it. He could not bear t

he ground floor. One day Christophe saw strange faces in Sabine's

he had seen the shadow of death pass across Sabine's face. From thence he could pick out the two windows of the rooms in which they had waited, side by side, so near, so far, separated by a door-the door to eternity. From thence he could survey the cemetery. He had never been able to bring himself to enter it: from childhood he had had a horror of those fields of decay and corruption, and refused to think of those whom he loved in connection with them. But from a distance and seen from above, the little graveyard never looked grim, it was calm, it slept with the su

u happy

It is

want to c

N

ut was not she: in that mysterious passage through her being the child had hardly retained more than the faintest perfume of the creature who was gone: inflections of her voice, a pursing of the

so full of the memory of her. He would go miles to it, climbing at a run, his heart beating as though he were going to a meeting with her: and so it was indeed. When he reached it he would lie on the ground-the same earth in which her body was laid: he would close his eyes: and she would come to him. He co

ngs. And from that time on Christophe tried in vain to bring it back to life. It was only then that he thought of evoking in himself the face and form of Sab

only I who love you, who keep your memory alive forever. Oh, my trea

o hours, he would begin to see that he had been thinking of nothing. The sounds of the valley, the roar of the wind, the little bells of the two goats browsing on the hill, the noise of the wind in the little slender trees under which he lay, were sucked up by his thoughts soft and porou

smile. He sought her by the river bank where her hands had dipped in the water. But the mirror and the water gave him only the reflection of

ne!..." h

ts, his chaste and ardent love, his baffled desires, heightened the fever that was in him. In spite of his sorrow, his heart beat in lively, sturdy rhythm: wild songs leaped forth in mad, intoxicated strains: everything in him hymned life and even sadness took on a festival shape. Christophe was too frank to persist in self-deception: and he despised himself. But life sw

away.... Each of us bears in his soul as it were a little graveyard of those whom he has loved. They sleep there, through the years, untroubled. But a day cometh,-this we know,-when the graves shal