town. Hassler, the only man who could have saved him, had refused to help
him. And old Schulz's friendship had been taken from him almost as soon as
it had been given.
He had written once on his return, and he had received two affectionate
letters, but from sheer laziness, and especially because of the difficulty
he had expressing himself in a letter, he delayed thanking him for his kind
words. He put off writing from day to day. And when at last he made up
his mind to write he had a word from 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
the tidings to Christophe and to tell him that he had thought of him up to
the last hour; that he thanked him for all the happiness he owed him, and
that his blessing would be on Christophe as long as he lived. Kunz did not
tell him that the day with Christophe had probably been the reason of his
relapse and the cause of his death.
Christophe wept in silence, and he felt them all the worth of the friend
he had lost, and how much he loved him, and he was grieved not to have
told him more of how he loved him. It was too late now. And what was left
to him? The good Schulz had only 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 worth.
He wrote to them once and their relation ended there. He tried also to
write to Modesta, but she answered with a commonplace letter in which she
spoke only of trivialities. He gave up the correspondence. He wrote to
nobody and nobody wrote to him.
Silence. Silence. From day to day the heavy cloak of silence descended upon
Christophe. It was like a rain of ashes falling on him. It seemed already
to be evening, and Christophe was losing his hold on life. He would not
resign himself to that. The hour of sleep was not yet come. He must live.
And he could not live in Germany. The sufferings of his genius cramped by
the narrowness of the little town lashed him into injustice. His nerves
were raw: everything drew blood. He was like one of those wretched wild
animals who perished of boredom 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 fierce and desperate fire.
Ah! How they would have loved the brutal bullet which sets free, or the
knife that strikes into their bleeding hearts! Anything rather than the
savage indifference of those men who prevented them from either living or
dying!
Not the hostility of the people was the hardest for Christophe to bear, but
their inconsistency, their formless, shallow natures. There was no knowing
how to take them. The pig-headed opposition of one of those stiff-necked,
bard races who refuse to understand any 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 no imprint of it? All thought and energy and
everything disappeared in the slough. When a stone fell there were hardly
more than a few ripples quivering on the surface of the gulf: the monster
opened and shut its maw, and there was left no trace of what had been.
They were not enemies. Dear God! if they only had been enemies! They
were people who had not the strength to love or hate, or believe or
disbelieve,--in religion, in art, in politics, in daily life; and all
their energies were expended in trying to reconcile the irreconcilable.
Especially since the German victories they had been striving to make a
compromise, a revolting intrigue between their new power and their old
principles. The old idealism had not been renounced. There should have been
a new effort of freedom of which they were incapable. They were content
with a forgery, with 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 themselves "_citizens of the world_." Now that they were in the
ascendant, they could not enough despise the Utopias "_à la Française_."
Universal peace, fraternity, pacific progress, the rights of man, natural
equality: they said that the strongest people had absolute rights against
the others, and that the others, being weaker, had no rights against
themselves. It was the living God and the Incarnate Idea, the progress of
which is accomplished by war, violence, and oppression. Force had become
holy now that it was on their side. Force had become the only idealism and
the only intelligence.
In truth, Germany had suffered so much for centuries from having idealism
and no fame that she had every excuse after so many trials for making
the sorrowful confession that 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 victory, what a degradation
of the German ideal! Alas! There were only too many facilities for such an
abdication in the deplorable tendency even of the best Germans to submit.
"_The chief characteristic of Germany_," said Moser, more than a century
ago, "_is obedience_." And Madame de Staël:
"_They have submitted doughtily. They find philosophic reasons for
explaining the least philosophic theory in the world: respect for power
and the chastening emotion of fear which changes that respect into
admiration._"
Christophe found that feeling everywhere in Germany, from the highest
to the lowest--from the William Tell of Schiller, that limited little
bourgeois with muscles like a porter, who, as the free Jew Börne says, "_to
reconcile honor and fear passes before the pillar of dear Herr Gessler,
with his eyes down so as to be able to say that he did not see the hat;
did not disobey_,"--to the aged and respectable Professor Weisse, a man of
seventy, and one of the most honored mea of learning in the town, who, when
he saw a _Herr Lieutenant_ coming, would make haste to give him the path
and would step down into the road. Christophe's blood boiled whenever he
saw one of these small acts of daily servility. They hurt him as much as
though he had demeaned himself. The arrogant manners of the officers whom
he met in the street, their haughty insolence, made him speechless with
anger. He never would make way for them. 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
their automatic duties, were only idle and spent their time in drinking,
gambling, getting into debt, living on their families, slandering one
another, and from top to bottom of the hierarchy they abused their
authority at the expense of their inferiors. The idea that he would one
day have to obey them stuck in Christophe's throat. He could not, no, he
could never bear it, and lose his own self-respect by submitting to their
humiliations and injustice.... He had no idea of the moral strength in some
of them, or of all that they might be suffering themselves: lost illusions,
so much strength and youth and honor and faith, and passionate desire for
sacrifice, turned to ill account and spoiled,--the pointlessness of a
career, which, if it is only a career, if it has not sacrifice as its end,
is only a grim activity, an inept display, a ritual which is recited
without belief in the words that are said....
His country was not enough for Christophe. He felt in himself that unknown
force which wakes suddenly, irresistibly, in certain species of birds, at
definite times, 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 found souls like his own, not "_sons of the soil_"
slavishly bound to the globe, but "_spirits, sons of the sun_" turning
invincibly to the light wheresoever it comes.
Whither should he go? He did not know. But instinctively his eyes turned to
the Latin South. And first to France--France, the eternal refuge of Germany
in distress. How often had German thought turned to France, without ceasing
to slander her! Even since seventy, what an attraction emanated from the
town which had been shattered 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's faces and some chance
reading. That was enough for him to imagine a country of light, of gaiety,
of courage, and even of a little Gallic boasting, which does not sort ill
with the bold youth of the heart. He believed it all, because he needed to
believe it all, because, with all his soul, he would have liked it to be
so.
* * * * *
He made up his mind to go. But he could not go because of his mother.
Louisa was growing old. She adored her son, who was her only joy, and she
was all that he most loved on earth. And yet they were always hurting each
other. She hardly understood Christophe, and did not try to understand him.
She was only concerned to love him. She had a narrow, timid, dull mind, and
a fine heart; an immense need of loving and being loved in which there was
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 for him soared no higher than seeing him married to some prosperous
citizen of the town, hearing him play the organ at church on Sundays, and
never having him leave her. She regarded her son as though he were still
twelve years old. She would have liked him never to be more than that.
Innocently she inflicted torture on the unhappy man who was suffocated in
that narrow world.
And yet there was much truth--moral greatness--in that unconscious
philosophy of the mother, who could not understand ambition and saw all the
happiness of life in the family affections and the accomplishment of humble
duties. She was a creature who wished to love and only to love. Sooner
renounce life, reason, 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 find at once what the
groping reasoning of an uncertain genius like Tolstoy, or the too refined
art of a dying civilization, discovers after a lifetime--ages--of bitter
struggle and exhausting effort! But the imperious world which was seething
in Christophe had very different laws and demanded another wisdom.
For a long time he had been wanting to announce his determination to his
mother. But he was fearful of the grief it would bring to her, and just
as he was about to speak he would lose his courage and put it off. Two or
three times he did timidly allude to his departure, but Louisa did not take
him seriously:--perhaps she preferred not to take him seriously, so as to
persuade him that he was talking in jest. Then he dared not go on; but he
would remain gloomy and thoughtful, 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 all costs she must
keep him from speaking. Generally her instinct made her find the best means
of imposing silence on him: she would complain about her health, about
the swelling of her hands and feet, and the cramps in her legs. She would
exaggerate her sickness: call herself an old, useless, bed-ridden woman. He
was not deceived by her simple tricks. He would look at her sadly in dumb
reproach, and after a moment he would get up, saying that he was tired, and
go to bed.
But all her devices could not save Louisa for long. One evening, when she
resorted to them once more, Christophe gathered his courage and put his
hand on his mother's and said:
"No, mother. I have something to say to you." Louisa was horrified, but she
tried to smile and say chokingly:
"What is it, my dear?"
Christophe stammered out his intention of going. She tried to take it as a
joke and to turn the conversation as usual, but he was not to be put off,
and went on so deliberately 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. Such sorrow showed in her
eyes as he spoke that he too stopped, and they sat, both speechless. When
at last she was able to recover her breath, she said--(her lips
trembled)--:
"It is impossible.... It is impossible...."
Two large tears trickled down her cheeks. He turned his head away in
despair and hid his face in his hands. They wept. After some time he went
to his room and shut himself up until the morrow. They made no reference to
what had happened, and as he did not speak of it again she tried to pretend
that he had abandoned the project. But she lived on tenterhooks.
There came a time when he could hold himself in no longer. He had to speak
even if it broke his heart: he was suffering too much. The egoism of his
sorrow mastered 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 fixed the day for his departure so as to avoid a second
discussion--(he did not know if he could again win the sad courage that was
in him that day). Louisa cried:
"No, no! Stop, stop!..."
He set his teeth and went on implacably. When he had finished (she was
sobbing) he took her hands and tried to make her understand how it was
absolutely necessary for his art and his life for him to go away for some
time. She refused to listen. She wept and said:
"No, no!... I will not...."
After trying to reason with her, in vain, he left her, thinking that the
night would bring about a change in her ideas. But when they met next day
at breakfast he began once more to talk of his plans. She dropped the piece
of bread she was raising to her lips and said sorrowfully and
reproachfully:
"Why do you want to torture me?"
He was touched, but he said:
"Dear mother, I must."
"No, no!" she replied. "You must not.... You want to hurt me.... It is a
madness...."
They tried to convince each other, but they did not listen to each other.
He saw that argument was wasted; it would only make her suffer more, and he
began ostentatiously to prepare for his departure.
When she saw that no entreaty would stop him, Louisa relapsed into a gloomy
stupor. She spent her days locked up in her room and without a light, when
evening came. She did not speak or eat. At night 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. Why must he make her suffer?... Alas! She would not be the
only one: he saw that clearly.... Why had destiny given him the desire and
strength of a mission which must make those whom he loved suffer?
"Ah!" he thought. "If I were free, if I were not drawn on by the cruel need
of being what I must be, or else of dying in shame and disgust with myself,
how happy would I make you--you whom I love! Let me live first; do, fight,
suffer, and then I will come hack to you and love you more than ever. How I
would like only to love, love, love!..."
He never could have been strong enough to resist the perpetual reproach
of the grief-stricken soul had that reproach been strong enough to remain
silent. But Louisa, who was weak and rather talkative, could not keep the
sorrow that was stifling her to herself. She told her neighbors. She told
her two other sons. They could not miss such a fine opportunity of putting
Christophe in the wrong. Rodolphe especially, who had never ceased to be
jealous of his elder brother, although there was little enough reason for
it at the time--Rodolphe, who was cut to the quick by the least praise
of Christophe, and was secretly afraid of his future success, though he
never dared admit so base a thought--(for he was clever enough to feel
his brother's force, and to be afraid that 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.
Rodolphe avenged himself by feeding his mother's indignation. Excited by
him, Louisa began to persuade herself that Christophe was behaving like a
bad son. She tried to declare that he had mo right to go, and she was only
too willing to believe it. Instead of using only her tears, which were her
strongest weapon, she reproached Christophe bitterly and unjustly, and
disgusted him. They said cruel things to each other: the result was that
Christophe, who, till then, had been hesitating, only thought of hastening
his preparations for his departure. He knew that the charitable neighbors
were commiserating his mother and that in the opinion of the neighborhood
she was regarded as a victim and himself as a monster. He set his teeth and
would not go back on his resolve.
The days passed. Christophe and Louisa hardly spoke to each other. Instead
of enjoying to the last drop their last days together, these two who loved
each other wasted the time that was left--as too often happens--in one of
those sterile fits of sullenness in which so many affections are swallowed
up. They only met at meals, when they sat opposite each other, not looking
at each other, never speaking, forcing themselves 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 awkward, but she was suffering too
much to know how to win back her son's love, which she thought she had
lost, and at all costs to prevent his departure, the idea of which she
refused to face. Christophe stole glances at his mother's pale, swollen
face and he was torn by remorse; but he had made up his mind to go, and
knowing that he was going forever out of her life, he wished cowardly to be
gone to escape his remorse.
His departure was fixed for the next day but one. One of their sad meals
had just come to an end. When they finished their supper, during which they
had not spoken a word, Christophe withdrew to his room; and sitting 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 in the next room. The
door opened and his mother appeared in her nightgown, barefooted, and threw
her arms round his neck and sobbed. She was feverish. She kissed her son
and moaned through her despairing sobs:
"Don't go! Don't go! I implore you! I implore you! My dear, don't go!... I
shall die.... I can't, I can't bear it!..."
He was alarmed and upset. He kissed her and said: "Dear mother, calm
yourself, please, please!"
But she went on:
"I can't bear it ... I have only you. If you go, what will become of me? I
shall die if you go. I don't want to die away from you. I don't want to die
alone. Wait until I am dead!..."
Her words rent his heart. He did not know what to say to console her. What
arguments could hold good against such an outpouring of love and sorrow!
He took her on his knees and tried to calm her with kisses and little
affectionate words. The old woman gradually became silent and wept softly.
When she was a little comforted, he said:
"Go to bed. You will catch cold."
She repeated: "Don't go!"
He said in a low voice: "I will not go."
She trembled and took his hand. "Truly?" she said. "Truly?"
He turned his head away sadly. "To-morrow," he answered, "I will tell you
to-morrow.... Leave me now, please!..."