Jean-Christophe, Vol. I

fore. This time forever. One evening in the summer of the last year a letter in large handwriting, bearing the address of a distant village, had informed Louisa that her bro

mother, who cared nothing for his ideas-could only love him and not understand him. About him was the immense plain of Germany, t

omises that Hassler had made him then. And he clung to this piece of wreckage in desperation. Hassler could save him! Hassler must save him! What was he asking? Not help, nor money, nor material assistance of any kind. Noth

uld be away for a week, and that very evening he took the train for the great town in the north

*

most detestable taste. Not only did he devote his prodigious talent to musical eccentricities which made the hair of the pontiffs stand on end, but he showed a perverse predilection for queer themes, bizarre subjects, and often for equivocal and scabrous situations; in a word, for everything which could offend ordinary good sense and decency. He was quite happy when the people howled, and the people did not fail him. Even the Emperor, who dabbled in art,

ed without examination every musical idea that came into his head, and he had a private conviction, however he might fall below his own level, he was still superior to that of all other musicians. And though that idea was only too true in the majority of cases, it did not follow that it was a very fit state of mind for the creation of great works. At heart Hassler had a supreme contempt for everybody, friends and enemies alike; and this bitter jeering contempt was extended to himself and life in general. He was all the more driven back into his ironic skepticism because he had once believed in a number of generous and simple things. As he had not been strong enough to ward off the slow destruction of the passing of the days, nor hypocritical enough to pretend to believe in the faith he had lost, he was forever gibing at the memory o

*

ependence in his art! He expected words of friendship and encouragement from him-words that he needed to help him to go on with the ungrateful, inevitable battle which every true artist has to w

n to the theater to find out Hassler's address. Hassler lived some way from the center of the town, in one of the

faces, with only one enormous eye; dungeon gates, ponderous gates, iron hoops, golden cryptograms on the panes of grated windows, belching monsters over the front door, blue porcelain tiles plastered on in most unexpected places; variegated mosaics representing Adam and Eve; roofs covered with tiles of jarring colors; houses like citadels with castellated walls, deformed animals on the roofs, no windows on one side, and then suddenly, close to each other, gaping holes, sq

ist show hi

was and yet

zeige der

war noch jem

nplace enough. On the staircase was the heavy atmosphere of hot air. There was a small lift which Christophe did not use, as he wanted to gain time to prepare himself for his call by going up the four flights of stairs slowly, with hi

not see him, as Herr Hassler was tired." Then the na?ve disappointment expressed in Christophe's face amused her; for after making an unabashed scrutiny of him from head to foot, s

f styles appeared in the furniture, and a very fine Louis XV bureau was surrounded by new art armchairs and an oriental divan with a mountain of multi-colored cushions. The doors were ornamented with mirrors, and Japanese bric-a-brac covered the shelves and the mantelpiece, on which stood a b

assler should appear; and she answered him with extreme familiarity and her shrill voice penetrated the walls. Christophe was rather upset at hearing some of the remarks she made to her master. But Hassler did not seem to mind. On the contra

lip drooped a little, his mouth looked bored and sulky. He hunched his shoulders, buried his hands in the pockets of his open waistcoat; old shoes flopped on his feet; his shirt was bagged above his trousers, which he had not finished buttoning. He looked a

honor.... You were kin

phe Kra

ossed, his lands clasped together on his right

't rem

torture for him. He bungled his sentences, could not find words, said absurd things which made him blush. Hassler let him flounder on and never ceased to look at him with his vague, ind

make us young again....

yawn h

leep.... Supper at the theater

, but Hassler, whom the story had not interested at all, said nothing about it, and

been in Be

s morning," sa

, without any surp

the reply, but got up lazily

me,"

ppeared with her

trying to make me go with

g to bring it here while y

a nod in Christophe's direction. "He

some one watching you eat-li

y, Hassler began to l

e went on. "But do bring it

eyes half closed, and let him go on talking without even seeming to listen; or he would raise his eyelids for a moment and pronounce a few coldly ironical words, some ponderous jest at the expense of provincial people, which cut short Christophe's attempts to talk more intimately. Kitty returned with the breakfast tray: coffee, butter, ham, etc. She put it down crossly on the desk i

stracted by the sight of Hassler with his plate under his chin, like a child, gorging pieces of bread and butter and slices of ham which he held in his

What?) h

repeated

d Hassler, dipping his bread and his

his long journey in vain, and summoning up all his courage he murmured a proposal that he

he said, with his chaffing and rather insu

t to leave until he had Hassler's opinion about his

o hear me. I came to see you for that from

s furious, blushing, and near tears. That amused him, and wearily shrugging his

n!... Ther

is outstretched arms, half closed his eyes, opened them for a moment to take stock of the size of the roll of m

t first he said nothing and lay still, but his eyes became less dim and his sulky lips moved. Then he suddenly woke up, growling his surprise and approbation. He only gave inarticulate interjections, but the form of them l

... Go

ing to use hu

mous!... Awfully famous! (Schrecklich famos!) But

unexpected modulation had such an effect on him that he got up suddenly with an exclamation, and came and sat at the piano by Christophe's side. He did not seem to notice that Christophe was there. He was only concerne

"Where did the littl

ittle morbidly aristocratic and out of keeping with the rest. Hassler stopped at certain chords and repeated them, winking, and clicking with his tongue. He hummed with his lips, imitating the sounds of the instruments,

t first Hassler seemed not to pay any attention to what the young man was saying, and went on thinking out loud; then something that Christophe said struck him and he was silent, with his eyes still fixed on the

rack of the piano and his hand on his forehead, he looked at Christophe, who was explaining; his work with youthful ardor and eagerness. And he s

sing a word that he said, and he thought he had broken the ice between them, and he was glad at heart. When he had finished he shyly raised his head-confidently, too-and looked

t his plans, his hopes of success, as though he were trying to chaff himself, now that he had recovered himself. He set himself coldly to destroy his

e want. Do you think there are ten people in t

phatically. Hassler looked at him, sh

have done. You will think of success, of amusing y

ing, the faults of taste or of expression which had escaped the young man, but he made absurd criticisms, criticisms which might have been made by the most narrow and antiquated of musicians, from which he himself, Hassler, ha

om he esteemed and loved? Besides, Hassler did not listen to him. He stopped at that, stopped dead, with the book in his hands, shut; no

is that there is not a single

th emotion. He turned su

ith love in his

is my

hat boyish cry, no light shone in his dull eyes, as they looked at Christophe. Irony and e

ed!" h

s thi

you think I have l

and what they have thought the people have to think.-But Hassler did not listen to him. He had fallen back into his apathy, caused by the weakening of the life slumbering in him. Christophe, too sane to understand the sudden change, felt that he had lost. But he could not resign himself to losing after seeming to be so ne

assler got up, too. Christophe was shy and ashamed, and murmured excuses. Hassler bowed slightly, with a certain haughty and bored distin

*

king of what he was doing. He sank down on the seat with his arms and legs limp. It was impossible to think or to collect his ideas; he thought of nothing, he did not try to think. He was afraid to envisage himself. He was utterly empty. It seemed to him that there was empt

. It was two hours since he had entered it,-with

hat the train he wanted to go by did not leave for hours, and that he had much better wait in the hotel. He insisted on going to the station at once. He was like a child. He wanted to go by the first train, no matter which, and not to stay another ho

ll unknown to him, not one friendly face. The misty day died down. The electric lamps, enveloped in fog, flushed the night and made it darker than ever. Christophe grew more and more depressed as time went on, waiting in agony for the time to go. Ten times an hour he went to look at the train indicators to make sure that he had not made a mistake. As he was reading them once more from end to end to pass the time, the name of a place caught his eye. He thought he knew it. It was only after a moment that he remembered that it was where old Schulz lived, who had written him such kind and enthusiastic letters. In his wretchedness the idea

ish that he only began to breathe again when the train shook, and through the carriage window he could see the outlines of the t

for the poor boy who had come to him with such eager affection to be received so coldly. He was sorry for that reception and a little angry with himself. In truth, it had been only one of those fits of sulky whimsies to which h

So much the

oulders and did no

eternity would not have been enough to bring them

*

sweat in the effort to force a breath of air into his stifling lungs-were in the sorrowful lines on his long, thin, clean-shaven face. His nose was long and a little swollen at the top. Deep lines came from under his eyes and crossed his cheeks, that were hollow from his toothlessness. Age and infirmity had not been the only sculptors of that poor wreck of a man: the sorrows

her to his sons. He had found very little return. An old heart can feel very near to a young heart and almost of the same age; knowing how brief are the years that lie between them. But the young man never has any idea of that. To him an old man is a man of another age, and besides, he is absorbed by his immediate anxieties and instinctively turns away from the melancholy end of all his efforts. Old Schulz had sometimes found gratitude in his pupils who were touched by the keen and lively interest he took in everything good or ill that happened to them.

ed very far away. They came from the depths of the ages. But they were not the least sweet and mysterious of all.-Others were familiar and intimate to him, dear companions; their every phrase reminded him of the joys and sorrows of his past life, conscious or unconscious:-(for under every day lit by the light of the sun there are unfolded other days lit by a light unknown)-And there were some songs that he had never yet heard, s

the completest fool," and, with Schiller, that "it is a poor ideal only to write for one nation." And he was timid of mind, but his heart was large, and ready to welcome lovingly everything beautiful in the world. Perhaps he was too indulgent with mediocrity; but his instinct never doubted as to what was the best; and if he was not strong enough to condemn the sham artists admired by public opinion, he was always strong enough to defend the artists of originality and power whom public opinion disregarded. His kindness often led him astray. He was fearful of committing any injustice, and when he did not like what others liked, he never doubted but that it

*

t in very good health either, and when the weather was bad they too stayed indoors and missed their visits. It was winter then and the streets were covered with melting snow. Schulz had not seen anybody all day. It was dark in the room. A yellow fog was drawn over the windows like a screen, making it impossible to see out. The heat of the stove was thick and oppressive. From the church hard by an old peal of bells of the seventeenth century chimed every quarter of an hour, haltingly and horribly out of tune, scraps of monotonous chants, which seemed grim in their heartiness to Schul

ich Christophe had taken from a simple, pious poet of the seventeenth century, and had mod

O du ar

d sei un

nur de

du schon

der sch?ns

thou wre

pe and b

*

it then

ly thou

of lov

oothing and lulling the soul by its monotony. It was a soul like his own. It was his own soul, but younger and stronger, suffe

gieb deine

gen gut

ren was

und trau

nd give t

hy cares

at grieves

be put t

valiant ardor, and the heroic laughter in it sho

och nicht

es führ

zt im Re

ret all

thyself

things

is Lord

lows in

outhful barbarian insolence he had calmly plucked from their or

leich al

lten wie

doch ohn

ht zurüc

ihm vor

er hab

doch endl

m Zweck

though

opposed

no cause fo

be steadf

has un

divine

as He

hall all

delight, the intoxication of war

the impetuous music like a child dragged along by a comp

d!... Oh!

ble fit of coughing. Salome, the old servant, ran to him, and she thought the old m

od!... My

ite between the fits of coughing

at last she understood the cause of

r a piece of foolery!... Give it me! I sha

was aghast and surrendered her prize. But she did not mince her words with him. She told him he was an old fool and said that hitherto she had thought she had to do with a gentleman, but that now she saw her mistake; that he said things which

declaring that he might call her as much as he liked, only she wou

alm evening. A little ashamed of his anger, old Schulz was lying on his back, motionless, waiting, breathless, fo

*

of the winter, of the gray light, or of his loneliness. Everything was bright and filled with lov

at night he would sigh as he thought of a thousand little things which had happened during the day to contradict his idealism. He knew quite well that old Salome used to laugh at him behind his back with her gossips, and that she used to rob him regularly every week. He knew that his pupils were obsequious with him while they had need of him, and that after they had received all the services they could expect from him they deserted him. He knew that his former colleagues at the university had forgotten him altogether since he had retired, and that his successor attacked him in his articles, not by name, but by some treacherous all

God! My

would try to be confident, and optimistic, and to believe in human truth; and he would believe. How often had his ill

gave him a childish joy. He was so modest and asked so little of men that the little he received from them was enough to feed his need of loving and being grateful to them. To see Christophe was

is excitement his spectacles would not stay on his nose. The lamp gave a very bad light, and the letters danced before his eyes. When he did understand he was so overwhelmed that he forgot to eat. In vain did Salome shout at him. He could not swallow a morsel.

Oscar Pottpetschmidt, who was an excellent singer. The three old friends had often talked about Christophe, and they had played all his music that they could fi

ly Krafft

e nightingales were singing. Old Schulz's heart was overflowing with happiness. He breathed without difficulty, he walked like a boy. He strode along gleefully, without heeding the stones against which he kicked in the dark

in a little garden. He drummed on the door and shouted at the top of his voice. A

here? Wha

of breath, but

row...." Kunz did not understan

this hour? What is

is coming to-mo

d Kunz, stil

!" crie

oment; then a loud exclamation

ng down!"

ray head, a red beard, red hair on his face and hands. He took little steps and he was smoking a porcelain pipe. This good natured, rather sleepy li

him? Is he re

aid Schulz, triumphant

ulz read it again aloud over his shoulder. Kunz went on looking at the paper, the marks on the telegram, the time when it had been sent, the time when i

... Ah!

in and expelling a cloud of tobacco smoke

ell Pottpe

g to him,"

with you,

tpetschmidt lived at the other end of the village. Schulz and Kunz exchanged a few absent words, bu

he said....

to spend the night and stay a day or two. Schulz was distressed. Kunz was equally put out. They were proud of Pottpetschmi

o? What shall we

must hear Pottpetsc

for a momen

ent him a

long and excited telegram of which it was very difficult t

morrow morning if he

nd that the telegram would not be sent unti

nfortu

udence of accompanying Schulz outside the village, and even to the end of the road by which he would have had to come bac

t is fine

owledge of meteorology, looked gravely at the sky-(for he was no less anxious than Sc

be fine t

*

ting up to go and tell Salome to cook a stewed carp for dinner; for she was marvelously successful with that dish. He did not tell her; and it was as well, no doubt. But he did get up to arrange all sorts of things in the room he meant to give Christophe; he took a thousand precautions so that Salome should not hear him, for he was afraid of being scolded. All night long he was afraid of missing the train although Christophe could not arrive before eight o'clock. He was up very early. He first looked at the sky; Kunz had not made a mistake; it was glorious weather. On tiptoe Schulz went down to the cellar; he had not been there for a long time, fearing the cold and the steep stairs

brought him; and besides it had never occurred to him that Christophe would get out of a fourth-class carriage. He stayed on for more than half an hour waiting at the station, when Christophe, who had long since arrived, had gone straight to his house. As a crowning misfortune Salome had just gone out to do her shopping; Christophe found the door shut. The woman next door whom Salome had

while he was away and not having even given instructions that Christophe was to be kept waiting. Salome replied in the same way that she could not imagine that he would be so foolish as to miss a man whom he had

red between gently sloping hills; there were gardens round the houses, cherry-trees and flowers, green lawns, beautiful shady trees, pseudo-antique ruins, white busts of bygone princesses on marble columns in the midst of the trees, with gentle a

keen, far-sighted eyes, he saw some distance away a man lying in a meadow in the shade of a thorn. He did not know Christophe; he had no means of being sure that it wa

.. No, it i

a struck him; he began to sing t

!..." (Up

r. Schulz strode across the ditch by the road; Christophe leaped the fence. They shook hands warmly and went back to the house laughing and talking loudly. The old man told how he had missed him. Christophe, who a moment bef

ted at an inn. The old man was upset; it was a real grief to him that Christophe's first meal in the place should not have been in his house; such small things were of vast importance to his fond heart

to recover. He told them about his journey and his rebuffs in a humorous way; he looked lik

enever he went near the open piano; and he prayed inwardly that he might stop at it. The same thought was in Kunz. Their hearts beat when they saw him sit down mechanically on the piano stool, without stopping talking, and then without looking at the instrument run his fingers over the keys

sked Christophe, play

ghtedly. Christophe said without

ur piano!" The old man was ve

und and looked at the old man, who seemed to be asking pardon for his

I." Schulz laughed aloud and spoke

ophe, "I don't mean that;

e, isn't

eady suppress

eed emph

ence for his piano. "It has still so

ctave in the middle register of the instrument, Christophe understood t

ill has bea

hristophe sang them softly. With tears in his eyes Schulz followed his every movement. With his hands folded on his stomach Kunz closed his eyes the better to enjoy it. Fr

s?... And this again!... This is the most beautiful of all....

he calling bird and shouting to someone in the name of Heaven to take the idiot and throw it away, the ventriloquist specter, he too discovered for the first time in his life that the noise was intolerable; and he took a chair and tried to mount it to take d

o do with it

n't let us see it again!" said Schul

ould have borne such

hat they were su

nutes later, then once again, ten minutes after that; this time she was beside herself and boiling with rage while she tried to loo

dinner cold or burned? It does not m

wed his example and at length Schulz laughed too. Salome, satisfied with the effect she had produced,

om the piano. "She is right. There is nothing so intoler

st he knew why. Like Kunz he had recipes of his own handed down from father to son for generations. Salome was accustomed therefore to work for connoisseurs. But on this occasion, she had contrived to include all her masterpieces in one menu; it was like an exhibition of the unforgettable cooking of Germany, honest and unsophisticated, with all the scents of all the herbs, and thick sauces, substantial soups, perfect stews, wonderful carp, sauerkraut, geese, plain cakes, aniseed and caraway seed bread. Christophe was in raptures with his mouth full, and he ate like an ogre; he had the form

Is th

she stayed by the door to watch Christophe, who was saying all sorts of absurd things without missing a bite, and with her hands on her hips she ro

he would eat! How he would

of him were

he would be able to. Perhaps Pottpetschmidt would

gone to-night,"

d over Schulz'

in a trembling voice.

ophe gaily. "I must ca

Christophe spending the night, perhaps

You can

rep

tpetschm

m; he was touched by the dismay on

If you like I will g

ok him by

ow glad I am! Tha

. Christophe was not going to-day; to-day was theirs; they would spend the whole evening toge

ch with all his heart he wished him. And then he proposed another toast "to noble music,"-another to his old friend Kunz,-another to spring,-and he did not forget Pottpetschmidt. Kunz in his turn drank to Schulz and the others, and Christophe, to bring the toasts to an end, proposed the health of dame Salome, who bl

no again and go on playing for hours. But the terrible boy, who was in fine form, first struck two or three chords on the piano, shut it abruptly, looked out of the window, and asked if they could not go for a walk until supper. The country attracted him. Kunz showed little enthus

?rike. Christophe loved poetry, but he could not remember any, and while he listened he stepped into a vague dream in which music replaced the words and made him forget them. He admired Schulz's memory. What a difference there was between the vivacity of mind of this poor rich old man, almost impotent, shut up in his room for a great part of the year, shut up in his little provincial town almost all his life,-and Hassler, young, famous, in the very thick of the artistic movement, and touring over all Europe for his concerts and yet interested in nothing and unwilling to know anything! Not only was

t once coldly angry; he dropped Schulz's arm and said harshly that anyone who loved Brahms could not be his friend. That threw cold wat

oug

se from him, tried to break the silence by talking to Schulz; but Schulz's throat was dry, he could not speak. Christophe watched him out of the corner of his eyes and he wanted to laugh; he had forgiven him already. He had never been seriously angry with him; he even thought it brutal to make the poor old man sad; but he abused his power

looking at him affectionately. "Isn'

ry and the fine day, but his

a brute. Forgive m

ok his arm and went on talking to him more amiably than ever; in his eagerness he went faster and faster without noticing the strain upon his two companio

row! When he is gone I shall

course Schulz acquiesced without a thought for the effect it might have on his bronchitis. Fortunately Kunz thought of it for him; or at least he made it an excuse for not running any risk from the moisture of the grass when he was in such

eir titles and qualities, and he waved his arms like a madman. Schulz and Kunz shouted in reply and also waved their arms; they rushed t

t is

ers shouted

Pottpet

an to shout again. Christophe was able to make out that he thanked God and his stars for the extraordinary meeting. That did not keep him from slapping his thigh a moment later and crying out upon the misfortune of having had to go away-he who never went away-just when the Herr Kapellmeister was coming. Schulz's telegram had only reached him that morning an hour after the train went; he was asleep when it arrived and they had not thought it worth while to wake him. He had stormed at the hotel people all morning. He was s

h, deformed by excess in eating and drinking; one of those human tobacco-jars that one sees sometimes rolling along the streets in the towns of Bavaria, which keep the secret of that race of men that is produced by a system of gorging similar to that of the Strasburg geese. He listened with joy and warmth like a pot of butter, and with his two hands on his outstretched knees, or on those of his neighbo

And what d

nothing; he th

onster sing

spite of Pottpetschmidt's hints. He was itching to be heard. But Schulz and Kunz were too intent oh s

t know what is in store for you; ha

hen he saw his face grow brighter and brighter as he went on playing. He was lit up by the reflection of Christophe's delight; and when the song was finished and Christophe turned round and declared that he had never heard any of his songs sung so well, Schulz found a joy in all sweeter and greater than Christophe's in his satisfaction, sweeter and greater than Pottpetschmidt's in his triumph; for they had only their own pl

really fe

olid flesh. The blind passion was like an army fighting without knowing against whom or why. The spirit of the Lieder to

and one man was scattered among five or six different men; his brain was with one, his heart with another, and the body belonging to his soul with yet another; the instrument was on one side, the performer on the other. Certain creatures remained like wonderful violins, forever shut up in their cases, for want of anyone with t

ds would not have allowed him of his own accord to set it down to Pottpetschmidt's bad taste. But his affection for Christophe made him perceptive of the young man's finest shades of thought; he was no longer in himself, he was in Christophe; and he too suffered from Pottpetschmidt's affectations. He tried hard to stop his

his valor was opened for him; he had no rival there; and Christophe, who was a

ied he would be in his strength. But he is rarely that; every one lives and dies alone, fearing to say what he feels the more he feels and the more he needs to express it. Vulgar flatterers have no difficulty in speaking. Those who love most have to force their lips open to say that they love. And so he must be grateful indeed to those who dare to speak; they are unconsciously collaborators with the artist.-Christophe was filled with gratitude for old Schulz. He did not confound him

away in the night. Christophe wa

l play for

compositions. The old man was in ecstasies. He sat near Christophe and never took his eyes from him and held his breath. I

pity Kunz

ted Christo

ned and saw that the old man was weeping; he got up and went and embraced him. They talked in whispers in the stillness of the night. The clock ticked dully in the next room. Schulz talked in a wh

ht to complain ... Everybody

so much a firm belief as a passionate desire to believe-an uncertain hope to which he clung as to a buoy. He sought the confirmation of it in Christophe's eyes. Christophe understood the appeal in the eyes of his friend, who clung to him with touching confidence, imploring him,-and dictating his answer. Then he spoke of the calm faith or st

ths. He had put a bowl of roses on the table and a branch of laurel. He had put fresh blotting paper on the bureau. During the morning he had had an upright piano carried up. On the shelf by the bed he had placed books

the words that had been spoken. He was thinking that his dear Christophe was sleeping near him on the other side of the wall against which his bed lay. He

to compose verses to the song of old Simeon: "Nunc dimittis ..." He got up in a sweat to write the verses down and sat at his desk until he had carefully cop

eeting then, and he tried not to waste any of it. He listened, eager for the least sound in the next room. But Christophe did not stir. He lay still just as he had gone to bed; he had not moved. Half-past six rang and he still

ill be enough to say nothing. And if he does not wa

wered

have no

did not hear at first; he had to knock again. That made the old man's heart thum

rested, and happy; he had no thought of the pain he was causing. In reality there was no hurry for him to go; it would have cost him nothing to stay a few days longer; and it would have given Schulz so much pleasure! But Christophe could not know that. Besides, although he was very fond of the old man, he was glad to go; he was worn out by the

h money to buy his ticket home. He knew that Schulz would gladly lead him the money, but he would not ask him for it.... Why? Why deny those who love you the opportunity-the happines

t into Christophe's hand. He stayed on the platform below the compartment. They had nothing more to say to each other, as usual w

his weariness, the cold, the melancholy of the rainy day. He was hardly able to reach home and to go upstairs again. Hardly had he rea

ve; only his breast was heaving and panting like a million billows. His head was heavy and feverish. He spent the whole day in living through the day before, minute by

*

dawdled like a school-boy. It was April. The country was not very far on. The leaves were unfolding like little wrinkled hands at the ends of the Hack branches; the apple trees were in flower, and along the hedges the frail eglantine smiled. Above the leafless forest, where a soft greenish down

wondered why the memory of him should so obstinately obsess him now; he was haunted by it as he walked along a path along a canal that

mong the clumps of trees. He hurried and took shelter under the projecting roof of the nearest house. The hail-stones came lashing down; they rang out on the tiles and fe

se grasses which are known in the country as "thiefs" or "sweeps." She began to talk to Christophe. It was only after a moment that he saw that she was blind. She was not pretty. She was a big girl, with red cheeks, white teeth, and strong arms, but her features were irregular; she had the smiling, rather expressionless air of many blind people, and also their mania for talking of things and people as though they could see them. At first Christophe was startled and wondered if she were making fun of him when she said that he looked well and that the country was looking very

them all, and watched the clearing sky, waiting for the moment to set out again. The blind girl hummed a

know that." (Gottfri

walking round the room, mechanically taking stock of every corner of it, when near the dresser he saw an object which made him start. It was a long twisted stick, the handle o

. Where did you get it?" T

t here-an old fr

tophe

tfri

turned

you kn

y excited. The blind girl got up; her ball of wool rolled across the room; she s

e his n

d at once. Chr

you come to know h

ere that

ly)-he seemed very tired, and when he took off his pack it was some time before he could speak a word, but they did not take any notice of it because they were used to seeing him like that when he arrived and knew that he was short of breath. He did not complain either. He never u

ed the woman, "for if you axe not sorry for yours

He smiled in reply, for he could not speak. He sat on the seat by the door. Everybody went about their work, the men to the fields, the woman to her cooking. Modesta went near the seat, she stood leaning against the door with her knitting in her hands

talk presently.... How can people

a still talking and Gottfried motionless on the seat with his head flung back facing the sky; for some minutes Modesta had been talking to a dead man. She understood then that the poor

of an accident. One day when she had climbed to the great pear tree behind the house to pick the fruit the ladder slipped; as she fell a broken branch struck a blow near the eye. At first it was thought that she would escape with a scar, but later, she had had unceasing pains in her forehead; one eye lost its sight, then the other; and all their remedies had been useless. Of course the marriage was broken off; her betrothed had vanished without any explanation, and of all the young men who a month before had actually fought for a dance with her, not one had the courage-(it is quite comprehensible)-to take a blind girl to his arms. And so Modesta, who till then had been careless and gay, had fallen into such despair that she wanted to die. She refused to eat; she did nothing but weep from morning to evening, and during the night they used to hear her still moaning in her bed. They did not know what to do, they could only join her in her despair; and she only wept the more. At last they lost patience with her moaning; then they scolded her and she talked of throwing herself into the canal. The minister

king gravely or merrily of things which soothed and interested her. At last he persuaded her to go out of the house, which she had never left since her accident. He made her go a few yards round the garden at first, and then for a longer distance in the fields. And at last she learned to find her way everywhere and to make out everything as though she could see. She even notices things to which we never pay any attention, and she is interested in everything, whereas before she was neve

can go. I am not

keep him.

now. I cannot

house again; her brother married; she looks after the children; and now she never complains and always looks happy. I sometimes wonder if she would be so happy if she had her two eyes. Yes, indeed, sir, there are days, when I think that it would be better to be li

know, she was happy and a little jealous. She was a little unwilling to talk of Gottfried herself; it was apparent that she did not tell everything, and when she did tell everything she was sorry for it at once; her memories were her property, she did not like sharing them with another; in her affection she was as eager as a peasant woman in her attachment to her land; it hurt her to think that anybody could love Gottfried as much as she. It is true that she refused to believe it;

re lik

en afraid of a ray of light filtering through the gloom. With Christophe she recalled a number of rather silly trivialities in a smiling and disjointed conversation in which Christophe could not be at his ease. He was irritated by her chatter; he could not under

know itself, and all its wisdom lay in not desiring wisdom, or in not trying to impose its will on circumstance, but in abandoning itself to the force of circumstance, in accepting it and loving it. So he assimilated the mysterious essence of the world without even thinking of it. And if he had done so much good to the blind girl, to Christophe, and doubtless to many others who would be forever unknown, it was because, instead of bringing the customary words of the revolt of man against nature, he brought something of the indifferent peace of Nature, and reconciled the submissive soul with her. He did good like the fields, the woods, all Nature with which he was impregnated. Christo

e were in the fields, sand Modesta had gone to milk. They looked for her in vain. She was nowhere to be found. Christophe said he would not wait for he

girl sitting on a bank under a hawthorn hedge. She got up as she

om

owering field filled with tombstones, which looked d

is t

mbered another grave by which he had

will be

ace was ascending from the earth. Christophe leaned

into

and the flowers with her hands. She seemed to caress them, her quick fingers seemed to see. They gently plucked the dead stalks of the ivy and the faded

is sweet th

the moist warm earth. He did not loose her hand. Their locked fing

hout a word. In the fields the larks were singing. White butterflies danced about their heads. They sat down in a meadow a few yards away from each other. The smoke of the vill

n lips; she listened for the sounds of creatures and things. Christophe also knew the worth of such music. He said what she was thinking and cou

see tha

fried had taught him

she said a l

d to say

t be j

all about them: he looked at her b

"it was Gottfr

t than ever before.... She did not say before "wha

at he was looking at her. He would have liked to tell her how much he pitied

been ver

as though he were thinking aloud or talking to a sister. The blind girl's face lit up as he told his story, which she followed eagerly. Christophe watched her and saw that she was on the point of speaking. She made a movement to come near him and hold his hand. He moved, too-but already she had relapsed i

sked

are h

ted on the reasons she had for being so: she was trying to persuade herself and him th

She rose to go. He rose too. They said good-bye gaily and carele

e told him of a crossroads where he must not go wrong. It

turned. She was standing at the summit in the same place. She wa

esta was of pity and even of admiration,-and he could not have lived two days with her. As he went his way between flowering hedges he thought of dear ol

s idea of me! To him I am what he wants me to be. Everything is in his own ima

ho denied the darkness, and tried to pretend th

take refuge upon such an Island of the Dead. Life! Truth! He would not be a lying hero. Perhaps that optimistic lie which a German Emperor tried to make law for all his people was indeed necessary for weak creatures if they were to live. And Christophe would have thought it a crime to snatch from such poor wretches the illusion which

*

assler, the only man who could have saved him, had refused to help him. And old

Kunz announcing the death of his old friend. Schulz had had a relapse of his bronchitis which had developed into pneumonia. He had forbidden them to bother Christophe, of whom he was always talking. In spite of his extreme weakness and many years of illness, he was not spared a long and painful end. He had charged Kunz to convey

appeared enough to make the void seem more empty, the night more black after he ceased to be. As for Kunz and Pottpetschmidt, they had no value outside the friendship they had for Schulz and Schulz for them. Christophe valued them at their proper wo

e a rain of ashes falling on him. It seemed already to be evening, and Christophe was losing his h

dom in the holes and cages in which they were imprisoned in the Stadtgarten (town gardens). Christophe used often to go and look at them in sympathy. He used to look at their wonderful eyes, in which there burned-or every day grew fainter-a fierc

ny new thought were much better. Against force it is possible to oppose force-the pick and the mine which hew away and blow up the hard rock. But what can be done against an amorphous mass which gives like a jelly, collapses under the least pressure, and retains

ith making it subservient to German interests. Like the serene and subtle Schwabian, Hegel, who had waited until after Leipzig and Waterloo to assimilate the cause of his philosophy with the Prussian State-their interests having changed, their principles had changed too. When they were defeated they said that Germany's ideal was humanity. Now that they had defeated others, they said that Germany was the ideal of humanity. When other countries were more powerful, they said, with Lessing, that "patriotism is a heroic weakness which it is well to be without" and they called themsel

hat at all costs Force must be hers. But what bitterness was hidden in such a confession from the people of Herder and Goethe! And what an abdication was the German victo

" said Moser, more than a century ago

ning the least philosophic theory in the world: respect for power and th

. Whenever he passed them he returned their arrogant stare. More than once he was very near causing a scene. He seemed to be looking for trouble. However, he was the first to understand the futility of such bravado; but he had moments of aberration, the perpetual constraint which he imposed on himself and the accumulation of force in him that had no outlet made him furious. Then he was ready to go any length, and he had a feeling that if he stayed a year longer in the place he would be lost. He loathed the brutal militarism which he felt weighing down upon him, the sabers clanking on the pavement, the piles of arms, and the guns placed outside the barracks, their muzzles gaping down on the town, ready to fire. Scandalous novels, which were then making a great stir, denounced the corruption of the garrisons, great and small: the officers were represented as mischievous creatures, who, outside thei

mes, like the ebb and flow of the tides:-the instinct of the great migrations. As he read the volumes of Herder and Fichte which old Schulz had left him, he fou

ttered and smoking under the German guns! The most revolutionary and the most reactionary forms of thought and art had found alternately and sometimes at once example and inspiration there. Like so many other great German musicians in distress, Christophe turned towards Paris.... What did he know of the French? Two women'

*

go. But he could not go

something touching and sad. She respected her son because he seemed to her to be very learned; but she did all she could to stifle his genius. She thought he would stay all his life with her in their little town. They had lived together for years, and she could not imagine that he would not always be the same. She was happy: why should he not be happy, too? All her dreams f

n, logic, the material world, everything, rather than love! And that love was infinite, suppliant, exacting: it gave everything-it wished to be given everything; it renounced life for love, and it desired that renunciation from others, from the beloved. What a power is the love of a simple soul! It makes it

tful, or it was apparent that he had some secret burden upon his soul. And the poor woman, who had an intuition as to the nature of that secret, tried fearfully to delay the confession of it. Sometimes in the evening, when they were sitting, silent, in the light of the lamp, she would suddenly feel that he was going to speak, and then in terror she would begin to talk, very quickly, at random, about nothing in particular. She hardly knew what she was saying, but at al

ening, when she resorted to them once more, Christophe gat

to you." Louisa was horrified, but

s it, m

ly and so seriously that there was no possibility of doubt. Then she said nothing. Her pulse stopped, and she sat there dumb, frozen, looking at him with terror in her eyes.

ble.... It is

After some time he went to his room and shut himself up until the morrow. They made no reference to what had happened,

ered the idea of the suffering he would bring to her. He spoke. He went through with it, never looking at his mother, for fear of being too greatly moved. He f

Stop, s

her hands and tried to make her understand how it was absolutely necessary for his art

.. I will

change in her ideas. But when they met next day at breakfast he began once more to talk of his plan

u want to

uched, bu

other,

must not.... You want to hur

other. He saw that argument was wasted; it would only make her su

ht he could hear her weeping. He was racked by it. He could have cried out in his grief, as he lay all night twisting and turning in his bed, sleeplessly, a prey to his remorse. He loved her so. Wh

ing in shame and disgust with myself, how happy would I make you-you whom I love! Let me live first; do, fight, su

t others would feel it, too), Rodolphe was only too happy to crush Christophe beneath the weight of his superiority. He had never worried much about his mother, though he knew her straitened circumstances: although he was well able to afford to help her, he left it all to Christophe. But when he heard of Christophe's intention he discovered at once hidden treasures of affection. He was furious at his proposing to leave his mother and called it monstrous egoism. He was impudent enough to tell Christophe so. He lectured him loftily like a child who deserves smacking: he told him stiffly of his duty towards his mother and of all that she had sacrificed for him. Christophe almost burst with rage. He kicked Rodolphe out and called him a rascal and a hypocrite. Rod

to eat a few mouthfuls, not so much for the sake of eating as for the sake of appearances. Christophe would contrive to mumble a few words, but Louisa would not reply; and when she tried to talk he would be silent. This state of things was intolerable to both of them, and the longer it went on the more difficult it became to break it. Were they going to part like that? Louisa admitted that she had been unjust and awk

tting at his desk, with his head in his hands-he was incapable of working-he became lost in thought. The night was drawing late: it was nearly one o'clock in the morning. Suddenly he heard a noise, a chair upset

mplore you! My dear, don't go!... I sha

ssed her and said: "Dear mother

he we

come of me? I shall die if you go. I don't want to die away f

ch an outpouring of love and sorrow! He took her on his knees and tried to calm her with kisses and little affe

You will c

ated: "D

low voice: "I

ok his hand. "Truly

rrow," he answered, "I will tell you

peaking. There was a great struggle in him. He knew the result of it already, and was trying to delay the issue. Louisa dared not speak a word to him and provoke the answer which she expected and feared. She forced herself to take up her knitting again, but she could not see what she was doing, and she dropped her stitches. Outside it was raining. After a long silence Christophe came to her. She did not stir, but her heart was beating. Christophe stood still and looked at her, then, suddenly, he went down on his knees and hid his face in his mother's dress,

G

e coul

ve liked to

glad t

e cou

ther of them could alter it. Sh

er!" Her simple way filled him with tenderness;

all die

insi

ou will

got

us talk about it. There i

well the reason of his grief, insisted on his telling her what it was. She worried him with her affection, uneasy, vexing, argumentative, reminding him every moment that they were very different from each other-and that he was trying to forget. How often he had tried to open his heart to her! But just as he was about to spea

ill recall all the silly little things of the earliest years, and everything that is associated with the cradle. We have such difficulty in issuing from it and growing into men and women! And Juliet's nurse

rness-as though to a little child-which used to move him g

of the world. When two people suffer and cannot help each other's suffering, exasperation is fatal; each in the end holds

if chance had not come to break the cruel indecision, against which they we

noon. The weather was brilliant. Christophe had staye

tely to go out, to walk, to expend his energy

d hurt her the whole evening when she was left alone. He went back, making an excuse of having left something in his room. The door of his mother's room was aja

rail ladder stretched its tendrils which were caressed by a ray of sunlight. Louisa was sitting in a low chair bending over her great Bible which was open on her lap, but she was not reading. Her hands were laid flat on the book-her hands with their swollen veins, worker's nails, square and a little bent-and she was devouring with loving eyes the little plant and the patch of sky she could see through it. A sunbeam

to go out. I am going by Bu

tle. Then she turned her head towards him

aid. "You are right; make

each other for a moment, then they said good-night

e, which her son's smile had lit up with a bright ray of li

eft her

*

. Columns of smoke rise slowly in the midst of the plowed fields. A fine mist hovers in the distance. The white fogs are awaiting the coming of the

lage where he was sure to meet a pretty girl who attracted him. It was only an attraction, but it was very vivid and rather disturbing. Christophe could hardly do without loving some one; and his heart was rarely left e

oices, mingling with the noise of their washing pots, and with the distant lowing of the cows in the meadows, and he was dreaming, never taking his eyes off the beautiful washerwoman. A bright young face would make him glad for a whole day. It was not long before the girls made out which of them he was looking at; and they made caustic remarks to each other; the girl he preferred was not the least cutting in the observations she threw at him. As he did not budge, she got up, took a bundle of linen washed and wrung, and began to lay it out on the bushes near him so as to have an excuse for looking at him. As she passed him she continued to splash him with her wet clothes and she looked at him boldly and laughed. She was thin and strong: she had a fine chin, a little underhung, a short nose,

d with the noise of their chains; the big dogs harnessed to the little carts barked loudly, proud of their importance. In the midst of the rabble Christophe saw Rebecca.-Her real name was Lorchen (Eleanor).-On her fair hair she had placed a large cabbage leaf, green and white, which made a dainty lace cap for her. She was sitting on a basket by a heap of golden onions, little pink turnips, haricot beans, and ruddy apples, and she was munching her own apples one after another without trying to sell them. She never stopped eating. From time to time she would dry her chin and wipe it with her apron, brush back her hair with her arm, rub her cheek against her shoulder, or her nose with the back o

ion of some work he would be rather like a somnambulist: while his conscious soul was following its musical ideas the rest of him would be delivered up to the other unconscious soul which is forever watching for the smallest distraction of the mind to take the freedom of the fields. He was often bewildered by

had discovered who Christophe was. But they left him in peace; for he was qui

*

barn and the men drinking at the inn were to be heard. Kites with long tails like comets dipped and swung in the air above the fields. The fowls were scratching frantic

e dancers undisturbed. But in spite of all this care to pass unnoticed Lorchen spied him out in his corner. While she waltzed indefatigably she threw quick glances at him over her partner's shoulder to make sure that he was still looking at her; and it amused her to excite him; she coquetted with the young men of the village, laughing the while with her wide mouth. She talked a great deal and said silly things and was not very different from the girls of the polite world who think they must laugh and move about and play to the gallery when any

him; he met the cunning look of the old man, who addressed Christophe familiarly without taking his pipe from his lips. Christophe knew him; he knew him for a common old man; but his weakness for his daughter made him indulgent towards the father and even gave him a queer pleasure in being with him; the old rascal saw that. After talking about rain and fine weather and some chaffing reference to the pretty girls in the room, and a remark on Christophe's not dancing he concluded that Christophe was right not to put himself out and that it was much better to sit at table with a mug in his hand; without ceremony he invited himself to have a drink. While he

id he know?... H

man. "Everything is kn

ke the trouble t

ad dealings; for he had informed himself of them at the market, and there was no danger of his forgetting any detail that might be useful to him. Christophe would have been furious at such spying upon him had he not rather wanted to laugh at the thought that the old man would be robbed in spite of all his cunning (for he had no doubt of the value of the recommendation he was asking-a recommendation more likely to make him lose his customers than to procure him fresh ones). So he let him empty all his bag of clumsy tricks and answered neither "Yes" nor "No." But the peasant persisted and finally he

atch each other. Christophe forgot himself and prayed for the triumph of Lorchen. But when her triumph was won he felt a little downcast. He was enraged by it. He did not love Lorchen; he did not want to be loved by her; it was natural that she should love anybody she liked.-No doubt. But it was not pleasant to receive so little sympathy himself when he had so much need

emselves; but without seeming to do so they presently contrived to leave room for them to pass. For some time past the whole neighborhood had been at loggerheads with the garrisons of the fortresses round it. The soldiers were bored to death and wreaked their vengeance on the peasants. They made coarse fun of them, maltreat

ristophe felt the blood rushing to his head; he got up indignantly; but, as he was on the point of interfering, he saw the old man painfully pick himself up and instead of complaining humbly crave pardon. Two of the soldiers came to Christophe's table; he watched them come and clenched his fists. But he did not have to defend himself. They were two tall, strong, good-humored louts, who had followed

ing at the table next to Christophe. He was drunk already and stared at the people and threw insulting sarcasms at them which they pretended not to hear. He attacked especially the couples dancing, describing their physical advantages or defects with a coarseness of expression which made his companions laugh. The girls blushed and tears

p; and then if I escape they will put me in prison; the game

insult him. Christophe gathered himself together and was just about to fling his mug at him.... Once more chance saved him. Just as the drunken man was about to speak an awkward couple of dancers bumped into him and made him drop his glass. He turned furiously and let loose a flood of insults. His attention was distracted; he forgot Christophe. Christophe waited

over the table, smiled wickedly, and his eyes glittered with rage. Suddenly he pounced and jumped over the table. He caught hold of her. She struggled with feet and fists like the cow-woman she was. He was not too steady on his legs and almost lost his balance. In his fury he flung her against the wall and slapped her face. He had no time to do it again; some one had jumped on his back, and was cuffing him and kicking him back into the crowd. It was Christophe who had flung himself on him, overturning tables and people without stopping to think of what he was doing. Mad with rage, the officer turned and drew his saber. Before he could make use of it Christophe felled him with a stool. The whole thing had been So sudden that none of the spectators had time to think of interfering. The other soldiers ran to Christophe drawing their sabers. The peasants flung themselves at them. The uproar became general. Mugs flew across the room; the tables were overturned. The peasants woke up; they had old scores to pay off. The men rolled about on the ground and bit each other savagely. Lorchen's partner, a stolid farm-hand, had caught hold of the head o

et no thought of the consequences of the affray. They all talked at once and boasted of their prowess. They fraternized with Christophe, who was delighted to feel i

had been pierced was dying; and there was the officer who had been knocked down by Christophe. They were laid out by the hearth. The officer, who was the least injured of the three, had just opened his eyes. He took a long look at the ring of peasants leaning over him, a look filled with hatred. Hardly had he regained co

gab or I'll

e glared at the man who had just s

"Kill me! They'll

. Lorchen and some women carried the wounded men to another room. The shouts of the officer and the screams of the dying man died away. The peasants were silent; they st

ne a fine pi

oon they raised their voices and became more vehement; they accused each other; they blamed each other for the blows they had struck. The dispute became acrid; they see

what business had

rabble was turn

He began it! But for him no

s amazed. He

hat what I did was fo

replied f

ntleman from the town to tell us what we should do? Who asked your a

s shoulders and turned

er barred the

would like to cut away now after getti

asants

e cause of it all. He

aces closing in upon him; fear had infuriated them. He said nothing, made a face of disgust,

. Her pretty face was red and scowling with rage. She p

not see you all! As if there was a single one of you who had not hit out his hand as he could!... If there had been a man w

ected outburst, stayed for a moment i

ing would have hap

ather make signs to his

bout. But for him you would have let them insult you. You

sed her

't you all ashamed? You are not men! You're as brave as sheep with your noses to the ground all the time! He had to give you an example!-And now you want to mak

t her arm. He was besi

!... Will you shu

n. The peasants yelled. She shouted loud

in the next room? And you, show me your hands!... There's blood on them. Do you think I did not see you with y

de as though to box her ears, but Lorchen's lover seized him by the scruff of the neck and

ndemned, you

he said, "I am not

burst ou

what to do. They t

make her

hem to be calm. Silence came. Lorchen went on talking alone; then as she found no respo

o you want? You don

sa

him to b

but he was touched by Lorchen's intervention. Lorchen seemed not to be aware of his presence; she was leaning against the table by which he was sitt

eant major recognized him; he won't spare him. There is only one thin

ld not be difficult to put upon him the burden of the affair. The others agreed. They understood each other perfectly.-Now that they had come to a decision they were all in a hurr

They will come back. Half an hour to go to the fortress. Half

the town and would still have time to go during the night and cross the frontier. But they protested loudly. They had barred the door just before to prevent his going; now they wanted to prevent

ur mother?... I wil

he

-ni

You will

ill

awl and put it

ke it to her. Come with me

room. At the door she turn

ust take him. You must not leave him unt

o see Christophe over into F

e too much for her. What would become of her without him?... But what would become of him if he stayed and were condemned and put in prison for years? Would not that even more certainly mean destitution and misery for her? If he were free, though far

e gave up trying to think. He sat down. She tore a shee

wro

to you. They will not let me. They say that I should be arrested. I am so unhappy that I have no will left. I am going over the frontier but I shall stay near it until you have written to me; the girl who brings you my letter will bring

be too late," said Lorchen's

ame hurriedly and gave

ive it to h

oing,"

lready re

ply; you must wait for me at Leiden,-(the first st

phe's letter over his

low and everything she says to you? You will not ke

ell you e

lk now, for the young man w

"I will go and see her sometimes and I wi

with him vigor

!" said th

o!" said

away across the plowed fields. They heard the soldiers go by on the road. In the darkness the peasant shook his fist at them. Christophe's heart stopped like a hunted animal that hears the baying of the hounds. They returned to the road again, avoiding the villages and isolated farms where the barking of the dogs betrayed them to the countryside. On the slope of a wooded hill they saw in the distance the red lights of the railway. They took the direction of the signals and decided to go to the first station. It was not easy. As they came down into the valley they plunged into the fog. They had to jump a few streams. Soon they found themselves in immense fields of beetroot an

y, that he was leaving, were no longer in his thoughts. In the egoism of his threatened liberty he thought only of that liberty of his life which he wished to save. Whatever it might cost! Even at the cost of crime. He was bitterly sorry that he had taken the train instead of continuing the journey to the frontier on foot. He had wanted to gain a few hours. A fine gain! He was throwing himself into the jaws of the wolf. Surely they were waiting for him at the frontier station; orders must have been given; he would be arrested.... He thought for a moment of leaving the train while it was moving, before it reached the station; he even opened the door of the carriage, but it was too

m lo

ed on again. Christophe repressed the throbbing of his heart. He did not stir. He dared hardly say to himself that he was saved. He would not say it until he had crossed the frontier.... Day was beginning to dawn. The silhouettes of the trees were starting out of the night. A carriage was passing on the road like a fanta

erwhelmed by the fatigue of that night of emotion. He sank down on the seat. He had hardly been in the station a minute. When a minute later an official opened the door of the carriage he found Christophe asleep. Christophe awoke, dazed, thinking he ha

*

The light was dim. The plaintive whistle of a train stopping was all that broke the melancholy silence. Christophe stopped a few yards away from the frontier in the deserted country. Before him was a little pond, a clear pool of water, in which the gloomy sky was reflected. It was inclosed by a

ho he was, in what age he lived, through how many ages he had been so. Christophe had a feeling that it had already been, that what was, now, was not, now, but in some other time. He was no longer himself. He was able to se

Thus ..

ness of the last hour on their native soil. A wandering race, banished everywhere for their independence and disturbing qualities. A race always th

part without emotion from the motherland. Happy or unhappy he had lived with her; she was his mother and his comrade; he had slept in her, he had slept on her bosom, he was impregnated with her; in her bosom she held the treasure of his dreams, all his past life, the sacred dust of those whom he had loved. Christophe saw now in review the days of his life, and the dear men and women whom he was leaving on that soi

hat if the answer Lorchen was to bring him from his mother betrayed too great grief he would return at all costs. But if

he was plunging through the stream of passengers coming from the opposite direction he saw a face which he seemed to know. It was the face of a little girl of thirteen or fourteen, chubby, dimpled, and ruddy as an apple, with a little turned-up nose and a large mouth, and a thick plait coiled around her head. As he looked more closely at her he saw that she had in he

mine, i

ot move and re

ere do you come f

ui

o sent

Come. Gi

irl held out

re i

she

I knew yo

you waiting

r you to tell me

ed Christophe. "Wh

y anything among all the people. They had first to pass through the custo

questioned everybody, and they arrested big Sami and Christian and old Kaspar. And also Mélanie and Gertrude, though they declared

laimed C

od as you had gone. Then they looked for you ev

Lor

came back afterwards after

see my

d she wanted to come herself

you manag

she saw the gendarmes coming she went up to her room and shouted that she would come down in a minute, that she was dressing. I was in the vineyard behind the house; she called to me fr

e say anyt

you this shawl to show y

hen had tied round her head when she left him on the night before. The na?ve improbabil

"here is the return

-nig

e. "And the fare, what

n gave

phe, pressing a few piece

ack as she wa

en...."

her cheeks. The girl

hristophe jokingly.

id the girl mockingly

e kissed as he kissed the little milkm

and waved her handkerchief to him until she was out of sight. He followed with his eyes the rusti

wl love-token. He pressed the shawl to his breast and tried to open the letter. But his hands trembled. What would he find in it? What suffer

as punished me. I must not be selfish and keep you here. Go to Paris. Perhaps it will be better for you. D

me when

down on his v

*

shouting the

with a terrific noise. Christophe

ust

. The sky, dark everywhere, was even darker there. It was li

ust

aning out of the window went on

Paris! Come to my aid! Sa

le patch of sky, pale blue, large, like two eyes-like the eyes of Sabine-smiled sorrowfully