Krafft; she was like neither his father nor his grandfather. She did not
want honors or reputation for her son. She would have liked him to be rich
and famous; but if those advantages could only be bought at the price of so
much unpleasantness she much preferred not to bother about them. She had
been more upset by Christophe's grief over his rupture with the Palace than
by the event itself; and she was heartily glad that he had quarreled with
the review and newspaper people. She had a peasant's distrust of blackened
paper; it was only a waste of time and made enemies. She had sometimes
heard his young friends of the Review talking to Christophe; she had been
horrified by their malevolence; they tore everything to pieces and said
horrible things about everybody; and the worse things they said the better
pleased they were. She did not like them. No doubt they were very clever
and very learned, but they were not kind, and she was very glad that
Christophe saw no more of them. She was full of common sense: what good
were they to him?
"They may say, write, and think what they like of me," said Christophe.
"They cannot prevent my being myself. What do their ideas or their art
matter to me? I deny them!"
* * * * *
It is all very fine to deny the world. But the world is not so easily
denied by a young man's boasting. Christophe was sincere, but he was under
illusion; he did not know himself. He was not a monk; he had not the
temperament for renouncing the world, and besides he was not old enough to
do so. At first he did not suffer much, he was plunged in composition; and
while his work lasted he did not feel the want of anything. But when he
came to the period of depression which follows the completion of a work and
lasts until a new work takes possession of the mind, he looked about him
and was horrified by his loneliness. He asked himself why he wrote. While
a man is writing he never asks himself that question; he must write, there
is no arguing about it. And then he finds himself with the work that he has
begotten: the great instinct which caused it to spring forth is silent; he
does not understand why it was born: he hardly recognizes it, it is almost
a stranger to him; he longs to forget it. And that is impossible as long as
it is not published or played, or living its own life in the world. Till
then it is like a new-born child attached to its mother, a living thing
bound fast to his living flesh; it must be amputated at all costs or it
will not live. The more Christophe composed the more he suffered under
the weight of these creatures who had sprung forth from himself and could
neither live nor die. He was haunted by them. Who could deliver him from
them? Some obscure impulse would stir in these children of his thoughts;
they longed desperately to break away from him to expand into other souls
like the quick and fruitful seed which the wind scatters over the universe.
Must he remain imprisoned in his sterility? He raged against it.
Since every outlet--theaters, concerts--was closed to him, and nothing
would induce him to approach those managers who had once failed him, there
was nothing left but for him to publish his writings, but he could not
flatter himself that it would be easier to find a publisher to produce his
work than an orchestra to play it. The two or three clumsy attempts that he
had made were enough; rather than expose himself to another rebuff, or to
bargain with one of these music merchants and put up with his patronizing
airs, he preferred to publish it at his own expense. It was an act of
madness; he had some small savings out of his Court salary and the proceeds
of a few concerts, but the source from which the money had come was dried
up and it would be a long time before he could find another; and he should
have been prudent enough to be careful with his scanty funds which had to
help him over the difficult period upon which he was entering. Not only did
he not do so; but, as his savings were not enough to cover the expenses of
publication, he did not shrink from getting into debt. Louisa dared not say
anything; she found him absolutely unreasonable, and did not understand how
anybody could spend money for the sake of seeing his name on a book; but
since it was a way of making him be patient and of keeping him with her,
she was only too happy for him to have that satisfaction.
Instead of offering the public compositions of a familiar and undisturbing
kind, in which it could feel at home, Christophe chose from among his
manuscripts a suite very individual in character, which he valued highly.
They were piano pieces mixed with _Lieder_, some very short and popular in
style, others very elaborate and almost dramatic. The whole formed a series
of impressions, joyous or mild, linked together naturally and written
alternately for the piano and the voice, alone or accompanied. "For," said
Christophe, "when I dream, I do not always formulate what I feel. I suffer,
I am happy, and have no words to say; but then comes a moment when I must
say what I am feeling, and I sing without thinking of what I am doing;
sometimes I sing only vague words, a few disconnected phrases, sometimes
whole poems; then I begin to dream again. And so the day goes by; and I
have tried to give the impression of a day. Why these gathered impressions
composed only of songs or preludes? There is nothing more false or less
harmonious. One must try to give the free play of the soul." He had called
his suite: _A Day_. The different parts of the composition bore sub-titles,
shortly indicating the succession of his inward dreams. Christophe had
written mysterious dedications, initials, dates, which only he could
understand, as they reminded Mm of poetic moments or beloved faces: the gay
Corinne, the languishing Sabine, and the little unknown Frenchwoman.
Besides this work he selected thirty of his _Lieder_--those which
pleased him most, and consequently pleased the public least. He avoided
choosing the most "melodious" of his melodies, but he did choose the
most characteristic. (The public always has a horror of anything
"characteristic." Characterless things are more likely to please them.)
These _Lieder_ were written to poems of old Silesian poets of the
seventeenth century that Christophe had read by chance in a popular
collection, and whose loyalty he had loved. Two especially were dear to
him, dear as brothers, two creatures full of genius and both had died at
thirty: the charming Paul Fleming, the traveler to the Caucasus and to
Ispahan, who preserved his soul pure, loving and serene in the midst of
the savagery of war, the sorrows of life, and the corruption of his time,
and Johann Christian Günther, the unbalanced genius who wore himself out
in debauchery and despair, casting his life to the four winds. He had
translated Günther's cries of provocation and vengeful irony against the
hostile God who overwhelms His creatures, his furious curses like those of
a Titan overthrown hurling the thunder back against the heavens. He had
selected Fleming's love songs to Anemone and Basilene, soft and sweet as
flowers, and the rondo of the stars, the _Tanzlied_ (dancing song) of
hearts glad and limpid--and the calm heroic sonnet To Himself (_An Sich_),
which Christophe used to recite as a prayer every morning.
The smiling optimism of the pious Paul Gerhardt also had its charm for
Christophe. It was a rest for him on recovering from his own sorrows. He
loved that innocent vision of nature as God, the fresh meadows, where
the storks walk gravely among the tulips and white narcissus, by little
brooks singing on the sands, the transparent air wherein there pass the
wide-winged, swallows and flying doves, the gaiety of a sunbeam piercing
the rain, and the luminous sky smiling through the clouds, and the serene
majesty of the evening, the sweet peace of the forests, the cattle, the
bowers and the fields. He had had the impertinence to set to music several
of those mystic canticles which are still sung in Protestant communities.
And he had avoided preserving the choral character. Far from it: he had
a horror of it; he had given them a free and vivacious character. Old
Gerhardt would have shuddered at the devilish pride which was breathed
forth now in certain lines of his _Song of the Christian Traveler_, or
the pagan delight which made this peaceful stream of his _Song of Summer_
bubble over like a torrent.
The collection was published without any regard for common sense, of
course. The publisher whom Christophe paid for printing and storing his
_Lieder_ had no other claim to his choice than that of being his neighbor.
He was not equipped for such important work; the printing went on for
months; there were mistakes and expensive corrections. Christophe knew
nothing about it and the whole thing cost more by a third than it need have
done; the expenses far exceeded anything he had anticipated. Then when it
was done, Christophe found an enormous edition on his hands and did not
know what to do with it. The publisher had no customers; he took no steps
to circulate the work. And his apathy was quite in accord with Christophe's
attitude. When he asked him, to satisfy his conscience, to write him a
short advertisement of it, Christophe replied that "he did not want any
advertisement; if his music was good it would speak for itself." The
publisher religiously respected his wishes; he put the edition away in his
warehouse. It was well kept; for in six months not a copy was sold.
* * * * *
While he was waiting for the public to make up its mind Christophe had to
find some way of repairing the hole he had made in his means; and he could
not be nice about it, for he had to live and pay his debts. Not only were
his debts larger than he had imagined but he saw that the moneys on which
he had counted were less than he had thought. Had he lost money without
knowing it or--what was infinitely more probable--had he reckoned up
wrongly? (He had never been able to add correctly.) It did not matter much
why the money was missing; it was missing without a doubt. Louisa had to
give her all to help her son. He was bitterly remorseful and tried to pay
her back as soon as possible and at all costs. He tried to get lessons,
though it was painful to him to ask and to put up with refusals. He was out
of favor altogether; he found it very difficult to obtain pupils again. And
so when it was suggested that he should teach at a school he was only too
glad.
It was a semi-religious institution. The director, an astute gentleman, had
seen, though he was no musician, how useful Christophe might be, and how
cheaply in his present position. He was pleasant and paid very little. When
Christophe ventured to make a timid remark the director told him with a
kindly smile that as he no longer held an official position he could not
very well expect more.
It was a sad task! It was not so much a matter of teaching the pupils music
as of making their parents and themselves believe that they had learned it.
The chief thing was to make them able to sing at the ceremonies to which
the public were admitted. It did not matter how it was done, Christophe
was in despair; he had not even the consolation of telling himself as he
fulfilled his task that he was doing useful work; his conscience reproached
him with it as hypocrisy. He tried to give the children more solid
instruction and to make them acquainted with and love serious music; but
they did not care for it a bit. Christophe could not succeed in making them
listen to it; he had no authority over them; in truth he was not made for
teaching children. He took no interest in their floundering; he tried to
explain to them all at once the theory of music. When he had to give a
piano lesson he would set his pupil a symphony of Beethoven which he would
play as a duet with her. Naturally that could not succeed; he would explode
angrily, drive the pupil from the piano and go on playing alone for a long
time. He was just the same with his private pupils outside the school. He
had not an ounce of patience; for instance he would tell a young lady who
prided herself on her aristocratic appearance and position, that she played
like a kitchen maid; or he would even write to her mother and say that he
gave it up, that it would kill him if he went on long bothering about a
girl so devoid of talent. All of which did not improve his position. His
few pupils left him; he could not keep any of them more than a few months.
His mother argued with him; he would argue with himself. Louisa made him
promise that at least he would not break with the school he had joined;
for if he lost that position he did not know what he should do for a
living. And so he restrained himself in spite of his disgust; he was most
exemplarily punctual. But how could he conceal his thoughts when a donkey
of a pupil blundered for the tenth time in some passages, or when he had to
coach his class for the next concert in some foolish chorus!--(For he was
not even allowed to choose his programme: his taste was not trusted)--He
was not exactly zealous about it all. And yet he went stubbornly on,
silent, frowning, only betraying his secret wrath by occasionally thumping
on his desk and making his pupils jump in their seats. But sometimes the
pill was too bitter; he could not bear it any longer. In the middle of the
chorus he would interrupt the singers:
"Oh! Stop! Stop! I'll play you some Wagner instead."
They asked nothing better. They played cards behind his back. There was
always someone who reported the matter to the director; and Christophe
would be reminded that he was not there to make his pupils like music
but to make them sing. He received his scoldings with a shudder; but he
accepted them; he did not want to lose his work. Who would have thought a
few years before, when his career looked so assured and brilliant (when he
had done nothing), that he would be reduced to such humiliation just as he
was beginning to be worth something?
Among the hurts to his vanity that he came by in his work at the school,
one of the most painful was having to call on his colleagues. He paid two
calls at random; and they bored him so that he had not the heart to go on.
The two privileged persons were not at all pleased about it, but the others
were personally affronted. They all regarded Christophe as their inferior
in position and intelligence; and they assumed a patronizing manner towards
him. Sometimes he was overwhelmed by it, for they seemed to be so sure of
themselves and the opinion they had of him that he began to share it; he
felt stupid with them; what could he have found to say to them? They were
full of their profession and saw nothing beyond it. They were not men. If
only they had been books! But they were only notes to books, philological
commentaries.
Christophe avoided meeting them. But sometimes he was forced to do so. The
director was at home once a month in the afternoon; and he insisted on
all his people being there. Christophe, who had cut the first afternoon,
without excuse, in the vain hope that his absence would not be noticed, was
ever afterwards the object of sour attention. Next time he was lectured by
his mother and decided to go; he was as solemn about it as though he were
going to a funeral.
He found himself at a gathering of the teachers of the school and other
institutions of the town, and their wives and daughters. They were all
huddled together in a room too small for them, and grouped hierarchically.
They paid no attention to him. The group nearest him was talking of
pedagogy and cooking. All the wives of the teachers had culinary recipes
which they set out with pedantic exuberance and insistence. The men were no
less interested in these matters and hardly less competent. They were as
proud of the domestic talents of their wives as they of their husbands'
learning. Christophe stood by a window leaning against the wall, not
knowing how to look, now trying to smile stupidly, now gloomy with a fixed
stare and unmoved features, and he was bored to death. A little away from
him, sitting in the recess of the window, was a young woman to whom nobody
was talking and she was as bored as he. They both looked at the room and
not at each other. It was only after some time that they noticed each
other just as they both turned away to yawn, both being at the limit of
endurance. Just at that moment their eyes met. They exchanged a look of
friendly understanding. He moved towards her. She said in a low voice:
"Are you amused?"
He turned his back on the room, and, looking out of the window, put out his
tongue. She burst out laughing, and suddenly waking up she signed to him
to sit down by her side. They introduced themselves; she was the wife of
Professor Reinhart, who lectured on natural history at the school, and was
newly come to the town, where they knew nobody. She was not beautiful; she
had a large nose, ugly teeth, and she lacked freshness; but she had keen,
clever eyes and a kindly smile. She chattered like a magpie; he answered
her solemnly; she had an amusing frankness and a droll wit; they laughingly
exchanged impressions out loud without bothering about the people round
them. Their neighbors, who had not deigned to notice their existence when
it would have been charitable to help them out of their loneliness, now
threw angry looks at them; it was in bad taste to be so much amused. But
they did not care what the others might think of them; they were taking
their revenge in their chatter.
In the end Frau Reinhart introduced her husband to Christophe. He was
extremely ugly; he had a pale, greasy, pockmarked, rather sinister face,
but he looked very kind. He spoke low down in his throat and pronounced his
words sententiously, stammeringly, pausing between each syllable.
They had been married a few months only and these two plain people were
in love with each other; they had an affectionate way of looking at each
other, talking to each other, taking each other's hands in the presence of
everybody--which was comic and touching. If one wanted anything the other
would want it too. And so they invited Christophe to go and sup with them
after the reception. Christophe began jokingly to beg to be excused; he
said that the best thing to do that evening would be to go to bed; he was
quite worn out with boredom, as tired as though he had walked ten miles.
But Frau Reinhart said that he could not be left in that condition; it
would be dangerous to spend the night with such gloomy thoughts. Christophe
let them drag him off. In his loneliness he was glad to have met these good
people, who were not very distinguished in their manners but were simple
and _gemütlich_.
* * * * *
The Reinharts' little house was _gemütlich_ like themselves. It was a
rather chattering _Gemüt_, a _Gemüt_ with inscriptions. The furniture, the
utensils, the china all talked, and went on repeating their joy in seeing
their "charming guest," asked after his health, and gave him pleasant and
virtuous advice. On the sofas--which was very hard--was a little cushion
which murmured amiably:
"Only a quarter of an hour!" (_Nur ein Viertelstündchen_.)
The cup of coffee which was handed to Christophe insisted on his taking
more:
"Just a drop!" (_Noch ein Schlückchen_.)
The plates seasoned the cooking with morality and otherwise the cooking was
quite excellent. One plate said:
"Think of everything: otherwise no good will come to you!"
Another:
"Affection and gratitude please everybody. Ingratitude pleases nobody."
Although Christophe did not smoke, the ash-tray on the mantelpiece insisted
on introducing itself to him:
"A little resting place for burning cigars." (_Ruheplätzchen für brennende
Cigarren._)
He wanted to wash his hands. The soap on the washstand said:
"For our charming guest." (_Für unseren lieben Gast._)
And the sententious towel, like a person who has nothing to say, but thinks
he must say something all the same, gave him this reflection, full of good
sense but not very apposite, that "to enjoy the morning you must rise
early."
"_Morgenstund hat Gold im Mund._"
At length Christophe dared not even turn in his chair for fear of hearing
himself addressed by other voices coming from every part of the room. He
wanted to say:
"Be silent, you little monsters! We don't understand each other."
And he burst out laughing crazily and then tried to explain to his host
and hostess that he was thinking of the gathering at the school. He would
not have hurt them for the world, And he was not very sensible of the
ridiculous. Very soon he grew accustomed to the loquacious cordiality of
these people and their belongings. He could have tolerated anything in
them! They were so kind! They were not tiresome either; if they had no
taste they were not lacking in intelligence.
They were a little lost in the place to which they had come. The
intolerable susceptibilities of the little provincial town did not allow
people to enter it as though it were a mill, without having properly asked
for the honor of becoming part of it. The Reinharts had not sufficiently
attended to the provincial code which regulated the duties of new arrivals
in the town towards those who had settled in it before them. Reinhart would
have submitted to it mechanically. But his wife, to whom such drudgery was
oppressive--she disliked being put out--postponed her duties from day to
day. She had selected those calls which bored her least, to be paid first,
or she had put the others off indefinitely. The distinguished persons who
were comprised in the last category choked with indignation at such a
want of respect. Angelica Reinhart--(her husband called her Lili)--was a
little free in her manners; she could not take on the official tone. She
would address her superiors in the hierarchy familiarly and make than go
red in the face with indignation; and if need be she was not afraid of
contradicting them. She had a quick tongue and always had to say whatever
was in her head; sometimes she made extraordinarily foolish remarks at
which people laughed behind her back; and also she could be malicious
whole-heartedly, and that made her mortal enemies. She would bite her
tongue as she was saying rash things and wish she had not said them, but it
was too late. Her husband, the gentlest and most respectful of men, would
chide her timidly about it. She would kiss him and say that she was a fool
and that he was right. But the next moment she would break out again; and
she would always say things at the least suitable moment; she would have
burst if she had not said them. She was exactly the sort of woman to get on
with Christophe.
Among the many ridiculous things which she ought not to have said, and
consequently was always saying, was her trick of perpetually comparing the
way things were done in Germany and the way they were done in France. She
was a German--(nobody more so)--but she had been brought up in Alsace among
French Alsatians, and she had felt the attraction of Latin civilization
which so many Germans in the annexed countries, even those who seem the
least likely to feel it, cannot resist. Perhaps, to tell the truth, the
attraction had become stronger out of a spirit of contradiction since
Angelica had married a North German and lived with him in purely German
society.
She opened up her usual subject of discussion on her first evening with
Christophe. She loved the pleasant freedom of conversation in France,
Christophe echoed her. France to him was Corinne; bright blue eyes, smiling
lips, frank free manners, a musical voice; he loved to know more about it.
Lili Reinhart clapped her hands on finding herself so thoroughly agreeing
with Christophe.
"It is a pity," she said, "that my little French friend has gone, but she
could not stand it; she has gone."
The image of Corinne was at once blotted out. As a match going out suddenly
makes the gentle glimmer of the stars shine out from the dark sky, another
image and other eyes appeared.
"Who?" asked Christophe with a start, "the little governess?"
"What?" said Frau Reinhart, "you knew her too?"
He described her; the two portraits were identical.
"You knew her?" repeated Christophe. "Oh! Tell me everything you know about
her!..."