more than practise Christophe's theories of duty. The word was upon her
lips at every turn. She worked unceasingly, and wanted everybody to work as
she did. Her work was never directed towards making herself and others
happier; on the contrary. It almost seemed as though it Was mainly intended
to incommode everybody and to make life as disagreeable as possible so as
to sanctify it. Nothing would induce her for a moment to relinquish her
holy duties in the household, that sacro-sanct institution which in so many
women takes the place of all other duties, social and moral. She would have
thought herself lost had she not on the same day, at the same time,
polished the wooden floors, washed the tiles, cleaned the door-handles,
beaten the carpets, moved the chairs, the cupboards, the tables. She was
ostentatious about it. It was as though it was a point of honor with her.
And after all, is it not in much the same spirit that many women conceive
and defend their honor? It is a sort of piece of furniture which they have
to keep polished, a well waxed floor, cold, hard--and slippery.
The accomplishment of her task did not make Frau Vogel more amicable. She
sacrificed herself to the trivialities of the household, as to a duty
imposed by God. And she despised those who did not do as she did, those who
rested, and were able to enjoy life a little in the intervals of work. She
would go and rouse Louisa in her room when from time to time she sat down
in the middle of her work to dream. Louisa would sigh, but she submitted to
it with a half-shamed smile. Fortunately, Christophe knew nothing about it;
Amalia used to wait until he had gone out before she made these irruptions
into their rooms, and so far she had not directly attacked him; he would
not have put up with it. When he was with her he was conscious of a latent
hostility within himself. What he could least forgive her was the noise she
made. He was maddened by it. When he was locked in his room--a little low
room looking out on the yard--with the window hermetically sealed, in spite
of the want of air, so as not to hear the clatter in the house, he could
not escape from it. Involuntarily he was forced to listen attentively for
the least sound coming up from below, and when the terrible voice which
penetrated all the walls broke out again after a moment of silence he was
filled with rage; he would shout, stamp with his foot, and roar insults at
her through the wall. In the general uproars no one ever noticed it; they
thought he was composing. He would consign Frau Vogel to the depths of
hell. He had no respect for her, nor esteem to check him. At such times it
seemed to him that he would have preferred the loosest and most stupid of
women, if only she did not talk, to cleverness, honesty, all the virtues,
when they make too much noise.
His hatred of noise brought him in touch with Leonard. In the midst of the
general excitement the boy was the only one to keep calm, and never to
raise his voice more at one moment than another. He always expressed
himself correctly and deliberately, choosing his words, and never hurrying.
Amalia, simmering, never had patience to wait until he had finished; the
whole family cried out upon his slowness. He did not worry about it.
Nothing could upset his calm, respectful deference. Christophe was the more
attracted to him when he learned that Leonard intended to devote his life
to the Church, and his curiosity was roused.
With regard to religion, Christophe was in a queer position; he did not
know himself how he stood towards it. He had never had time to think
seriously about it. He was not well enough educated, and he was too much
absorbed by the difficulties of existence to be able to analyze himself and
to set his ideas in order. His violence led him from one extreme to the
other, from absolute facts to complete negation, without troubling to find
out whether in either case he agreed with himself. When he was happy he
hardly thought of God at all, but he was quite ready to believe in Him.
When he was unhappy he thought of Him, but did not believe; it seemed to
him impossible that a God could authorize unhappiness and, injustice. But
these difficulties did not greatly exercise him. He was too fundamentally
religious to think much about God. He lived in God; he had no need to
believe in Him. That is well enough for the weak and worn, for those whose
lives are anæmic. They aspire to God, as a plant does to the sun. The dying
cling to life. But he who bears in his soul the sun and life, what need has
he to seek them outside himself?
Christophe would probably never have bothered about these questions had he
lived alone. But the obligations of social life forced him to bring his
thoughts to bear on these puerile and useless problems, which occupy a
place out of all proportion in the world; it is impossible not to take them
into account since at every step they are in the way. As if a healthy,
generous creature, overflowing with strength and love, had not a thousand
more worthy things to do than to worry as to whether God exists or no!...
If it were only a question of believing in God! But it is needful to
believe in _a_ God, of whatever shape or size and color and race. So far
Christophe never gave a thought to the matter. Jesus hardly occupied his
thoughts at all. It was not that he did not love him: he loved him when
he thought of him: but he never thought of him. Sometimes he reproached
himself for it, was angry with himself, could not understand why he did not
take more interest in him. And yet he professed, all his family professed;
his grandfather was forever reading the Bible; he went regularly to Mass;
he served it in a sort of way, for he was an organist; and he set about
his task conscientiously and in an exemplary manner. But when he left the
church he would have been hard put to it to say what he had been thinking
about. He set himself to read the Holy Books in order to fix his ideas,
and he found amusement and even pleasure in them, just as in any beautiful
strange books, not essentially different from other books, which no
one ever thinks of calling sacred. In truth, if Jesus appealed to him,
Beethoven did no less. And at his organ in Saint Florian's Church, where
he accompanied on Sundays, he was more taken up with his organ than with
Mass, and he was more religious when he played Bach than when he played
Mendelssohn, Some of the ritual brought him to a fervor of exaltation. But
did he then love God, or was it only the music, as an impudent priest said
to him one day in jest, without thinking of the unhappiness which his quip
might cause in him? Anybody else would not have paid any attention to it,
and would not have changed his mode of living--(so many people put up with
not knowing what they think!) But Christophe was cursed with an awkward
need for sincerity, which filled him with scruples at every turn. And when
scruples came to him they possessed him forever. He tortured himself; he
thought that he had acted with duplicity. Did he believe or did he not?...
He had no means, material or intellectual--(knowledge and leisure are
necessary)--of solving the problem by himself. And yet it had to be solved,
or he was either indifferent or a hypocrite. Now, he was incapable of being
either one or the other.
He tried timidly to sound those about him. They all seemed to be sure
of themselves. Christophe burned to know their reasons. He could not
discover them. Hardly did he receive a definite answer; they always talked
obliquely. Some thought him arrogant, and said that there is no arguing
these things, that thousands of men cleverer and better than himself had
believed without argument, and that he needed only to do as they had done.
There were some who were a little hurt, as though it were a personal
affront to ask them such a question, and yet they were of all perhaps the
least certain of their facts. Others shrugged their shoulders and said with
a smile: "Bah! it can't do any harm." And their smile said: "And it is so
useful!..." Christophe despised them with all his heart.
He had tried to lay his uncertainties before a priest, but he was
discouraged by the experiment. He could not discuss the matter seriously
with him. Though his interlocution was quite pleasant, he made Christophe
feel, quite politely, that there was no real equality between them; he
seemed to assume in advance that his superiority was beyond dispute, and
that the discussion could not exceed the limits which he laid down for
it, without a kind of impropriety; it was just a fencing bout, and was
quite inoffensive. When Christophe wished to exceed the limits and to ask
questions which the worthy man was pleased not to answer, he stepped back
with a patronizing smile, and a few Latin quotations, and a fatherly
objurgation to pray, pray that God would enlighten him. Christophe
issued from the interview humiliated and wounded by his love of polite
superiority. Wrong or right, he would never again for anything in the world
have recourse to a priest. He admitted that these men were his superiors in
intelligence or by reason of their sacred calling; but in argument there is
neither superiority, nor inferiority, nor title, nor age, nor name; nothing
is of worth but truth, before which all men are equal.
So he was glad to find a boy of his own age who believed. He asked no
more than belief, and he hoped that Leonard would give him good reason
for believing. He made advances to him. Leonard replied with his usual
gentleness, but without eagerness; he was never eager about anything. As
they could not carry on a long conversation in the house without being
interrupted every moment by Amalia or the old man, Christophe proposed that
they should go for a walk one evening after dinner. Leonard was too polite
to refuse, although he would gladly have got out of it, for his indolent
nature disliked walking, talking, and anything that cost him an effort.
Christophe had some difficulty in opening up the conversation. After two or
three awkward sentences about trivialities he plunged with a brusqueness
that was almost brutal. He asked Leonard if he were really going to be a
priest, and if he liked the idea. Leonard was nonplussed, and looked at him
uneasily, but when he saw that Christophe was not hostilely disposed he was
reassured.
"Yes," he replied. "How could it be otherwise?"
"Ah!" said Christophe. "You are very happy." Leonard was conscious of a
shade of envy in Christophe's voice and was agreeably flattered by it. He
altered his manner, became expansive, his face brightened.
"Yes," he said, "I am happy." He beamed.
"What do you do to be so?" asked Christophe.
Before replying Leonard proposed that they should sit down, on a quiet seat
in the cloisters of St. Martin's. From there they could see a corner of the
little square, planted with acacias, and beyond it the town, the country,
bathed in the evening mists. The Rhine flowed at the foot of the hill. An
old deserted cemetery, with graves lost under the rich grass, lay in
slumber beside them behind the closed gates.
Leonard began to talk. He said, with his eyes shining with contentment, how
happy he was to escape from life, to have found a refuge, where a man is,
and forever will be, in shelter. Christophe, still sore from his wounds,
felt passionately the desire for rest and forgetfulness; but it was mingled
with regret. He asked with a sigh:
"And yet, does it cost you nothing to renounce life altogether?"
"Oh!" said Leonard quietly. "What is there to regret? Isn't life sad and
ugly?"
"There are lovely things too," said Christophe, looking at the beautiful
evening.
"There are some beautiful things, but very few."
"The few that there are are yet many to me."
"Oh, well! it is simply a matter of common sense. On the one hand a little
good and much evil; on the other neither good nor evil on earth, and after,
infinite happiness--how can one hesitate?"
Christophe was not very pleased with this sort of arithmetic. So economic a
life seemed to him very poor. But he tried to persuade himself that it was
wisdom.
"So," he asked a little ironically, "there is no risk of your being seduced
by an hour's pleasure?"
"How foolish! When you know that it is only an hour, and that after it
there is all eternity!"
"You are quite certain of eternity?"
"Of course."
Christophe questioned him. He was thrilled with hope and desire. Perhaps
Leonard would at last give him impregnable reasons for believing. With what
a passion he would himself renounce all the world to follow him to God.
At first Leonard, proud of his rôle of apostle, and convinced that
Christophe's doubts were only a matter of form, and that they would of
course give way before his first arguments, relied upon the Holy Books, the
authority of the Gospel, the miracles, and traditions. But he began to grow
gloomy when, after Christophe had listened for a few minutes, he stopped
him and said that he was answering questions with questions, and that he
had not asked him to tell exactly what it was that he was doubting, but to
give some means of resolving his doubts. Leonard then had to realize that
Christophe was much more ill than he seemed, and that he would only allow
himself to be convinced by the light of reason. But he still thought that
Christophe was playing the free thinker--(it never occurred to him that
he might be so sincerely).--He was not discouraged, and, strong in his
recently acquired knowledge, he turned back to his school learning:
he unfolded higgledy, piggledy, with more authority than order, his
metaphysical proofs of the existence of God and the immortality of the
soul. Christophe, with his mind at stretch, and his brow knit in the
effort, labored in silence, and made him say it all over again; tried
hard to gather the meaning, and to take it to himself, and to follow the
reasoning. Then suddenly he burst out, vowed that Leonard was laughing at
him, that it was all tricks, jests of the fine talkers who forged words
and then amused themselves with pretending that these words were things.
Leonard was nettled, and guaranteed the good faith of his authors.
Christophe shrugged his shoulders, and said with an oath that they were
only humbugs, infernal writers; and he demanded fresh proof.
Leonard perceived to his horror that Christophe was incurably attainted,
and took no more interest in him. He remembered that he had been told not
to waste his time in arguing with skeptics,--at least when they stubbornly
refuse to believe. There was the risk of being shaken himself, without
profiting the other. It was better to leave the unfortunate fellow to the
will of God, who, if He so designs, would see to it that the skeptic was
enlightened: or if not, who would dare to go against the will of God?
Leonard did not insist then on carrying on the discussion. He only said
gently that for the time being there was nothing to be done, that no
reasoning could show the way to a man who was determined not to see it, and
that Jean-Christophe must pray and appeal to Grace: nothing is possible
without that: he must desire grace and the will to believe.
"The will," thought Christophe bitterly. "So then, God will exist because
I will Him to exist? So then, death will not exist, because it pleases me
to deny it!... Alas! How easy life is to those who have no need to see the
truth, to those who can see what they wish to see, and are forever forging
pleasant dreams in which softly to sleep!" In such a bed, Christophe knew
well that be would never sleep....
Leonard went on talking. He had fallen back on his favorite subject, the
sweets of the contemplative life, and once on this neutral ground, he was
inexhaustible. In his monotonous voice, that shook with the pleasure in
him, he told of the joys of the life in God, outside, above the world,
far from noise, of which he spoke in a sudden tone of hatred (he detested
it almost as much as Christophe), far from violence, far from frivolity,
far from the little miseries that one has to suffer every day, in the
warm, secure nest of faith, from which you can contemplate in peace the
wretchedness of a strange and distant world. And as Christophe listened,
he perceived the egoism of that faith. Leonard saw that. He hurriedly
explained: the contemplative life was not a lazy life. On the contrary,
a man is more active in prayer than in action. What would the world be
without prayer? You expiate the sins of others, you bear the burden of
their misdeeds, you offer up your talents, you intercede between the world
and God.
Christophe listened in silence with increasing hostility. He was conscious
of the hypocrisy of such renunciation in Leonard. He was not unjust enough
to assume hypocrisy in all those who believe. He knew well that with a
few, such abdication of life comes from the impossibility of living, from
a bitter despair, an appeal to death,--that with still fewer, it is an
ecstasy of passion.... (How long does it last?).... But with the majority
of men is it not too often the cold reasoning of souls more busied with
their own ease and peace than with the happiness of others, or with truth?
And if sincere men are conscious of it, how much they must suffer by such
profanation of their ideal!...
Leonard was quite happy, and now set forth the beauty and harmony of the
world, seen from the loftiness of the divine roost: below all was dark,
unjust, sorrowful; seen from on high, it all became clear, luminous,
ordered: the world was like the works of a clock, perfectly ordered....
Now Christophe only listened absently. He was asking himself: "Does he
believe, or does he believe that he believes?" And yet his own faith, his
own passionate desire for faith was not shaken. Not the mediocrity of soul,
and the poverty of argument of a fool like Leonard could touch that....
Night came down over the town. The seat on which they were sitting was in
darkness: the stars shone out, a white mist came up from the river, the
crickets chirped under the trees in the cemetery. The bells began to ring:
first the highest of them, alone, like a plaintive bird, challenging the
sky: then the second, a third lower, joined in its plaint: at last came
the, deepest, on the fifth, and seemed to answer them. The three voices
were merged in each other. At the bottom of the towers there was a buzzing,
as of a gigantic hive of bees. The air and the boy's heart quivered.
Christophe held his breath, and thought how poor was the music of musicians
compared with such an ocean of music, with all the sounds of thousands of
creatures: the former, the free world of sounds, compared with the world
tamed, catalogued, coldly labeled by human intelligence. He sank and sank
into that sonorous and immense world without continents or bounds....
And when the great murmuring had died away, when the air had ceased at last
to quiver, Christophe woke up. He looked about him startled.... He knew
nothing. Around him and in him everything was changed. There was no God....
As with faith, so the loss of faith is often equally a flood of grace, a
sudden light. Reason counts for nothing: the smallest thing is enough--a
word, silence, the sound of bells. A man walks, dreams, expects nothing.
Suddenly the world crumbles away. All about him is in ruins. He is alone.
He no longer believes.
Christophe was terrified, and could not understand how it had come about.
It was like the flooding of a river in the spring....
Leonard's voice was still sounding, more monotonous than the voice of a
cricket. Christophe did not hear it: he heard nothing. Night was fully
come. Leonard stopped. Surprised to find Christophe motionless, uneasy
because of the lateness of the hour, he suggested that they should go home.
Christophe did not reply. Leonard took his arm. Christophe trembled, and
looked at Leonard with wild eyes.
"Christophe, we must go home," said Leonard.
"Go to hell!" cried Christophe furiously.
"Oh! Christophe! What have I done?" asked Leonard tremulously. He was
dumfounded.
Christophe came to himself.
"Yes. You are right," he said more gently. "I do not know what I'm saying.
Go to God! Go to God!"
He was alone. He was in bitter distress.
"Ah! my God! my God!" he cried, wringing his hands, passionately raising
his face to the dark sky. "Why do I no longer believe? Why can I believe no
more? What has happened to me?..."
The disproportion between the wreck of his faith and the conversation that
he had just had with Leonard was too great: it was obvious that the
conversation had no more brought it about than that the boisterousness of
Amalia's gabble and the pettiness of the people with whom he lived were not
the cause of the upheaval which for some days had been taking place in his
moral resolutions. These were only pretexts. The uneasiness had not come
from without. It was within himself. He felt stirring in his heart
monstrous and unknown things, and he dared not rely on his thoughts to face
the evil. The evil? Was it evil? A languor, an intoxication, a voluptuous
agony filled all his being. He was no longer master of himself. In vain he
sought to fortify himself with his former stoicism. His whole being crashed
down. He had a sudden consciousness of the vast world, burning, wild, a
world immeasurable.... How it swallows up God!
Only for a moment. But the whole balance of his old life was in that moment
destroyed.
* * * * *
There was only one person in the family to whom Christophe paid no
attention: this was little Rosa. She was not beautiful: and Christophe, who
was far from beautiful himself, was very exacting of beauty in others. He
had that calm, cruelty of youth, for which a woman does not exist if she be
ugly,--unless she has passed the age for inspiring tenderness, and there is
then no need to feel for her anything but grave, peaceful, and
quasi-religious sentiments. Rosa also was not distinguished by any especial
gift, although she was not without intelligence: and she was cursed with a
chattering tongue which drove Christophe from her. And he had never taken
the trouble to know her, thinking that there was in her nothing to know;
and the most he ever did was to glance at her.