laughing, "I forgot all about it."
"When did you come back?"
"At the beginning of October."
"And it has taken you three weeks to come?... Listen. Tell me frankly:
Did your mother prevent you?... Does she dislike your seeing me?"
"No. Not at all. She told me to come to-day."
"What?"
"The last time I saw you before the holidays I told her everything when
I got home. She told me I had done right, and she asked about you, and
pestered me with a great many questions. When we came home from
Brittany, three weeks ago, she made me promise to go and see you again.
A week ago she reminded me again. This morning, when she found that I
had not been, she was angry with me, and wanted me to go directly after
breakfast, without more ado."
"And aren't you ashamed to tell me that? Must you be forced to come and
see me?"
"No. You mustn't think that.... Oh! I have annoyed you. Forgive me.... I
am a muddle-headed idiot.... Scold me, but don't be angry with me. I
love you. If I did not love you I should not have come. I was not forced
to come. I can't be forced to do anything but what I want to do."
"You rascal!" said Christophe, laughing in spite of himself. "And your
musical projects, what about them?"
"Oh! I am still thinking about it."
"That won't take you very far."
"I want to begin now. I couldn't begin these last few months. I have had
so much to do! But now you shall see how I will work, if you still want
to have anything to do with me...."
(He looked slyly at Christophe.)
"You are an impostor," said Christophe.
"You don't take me seriously."
"No, I don't."
"It is too dreadful. Nobody takes me seriously. I lose all heart."
"I shall take you seriously when I see you working."
"At once, then."
"I have no time now. To-morrow."
"No. To-morrow is too far off. I can't bear you to despise me for a
whole day."
"You bore me."
"Please!..."
Smiling at his weakness, Christophe made him sit at the piano, and
talked to him about music. He asked him many questions, and made him
solve several little problems of harmony. Georges did not know much
about it, but his musical instinct supplied the gaps of his ignorance;
without knowing their names, he found the chords Christophe wanted; and
even his mistakes in their awkwardness showed a curiosity of taste and a
singularly acute sensibility. He did not accept Christophe's remarks
without discussion; and the intelligent questions he asked in his turn
bore witness to the sincerity of a mind that would not accept art as a
devout formula to be repeated with the lips, but desired to live it for
its own sake.--They did not only talk of music. In reference to harmony
Georges would summon up pictures, the country, people. It was difficult
to hold him in check: it was constantly necessary to bring him back to
the middle of the road: and Christophe had not always the heart to do
so. It amused him to hear the boy's joyous chatter, so full of wit and
life. What a difference there was between his nature and Olivier's! With
the one life was a subterranean river that flowed silently; with the
other all was above ground: a capricious stream disporting itself in the
sun. And yet it was the same lovely, pure water, like their eyes. With a
smile, Christophe recognized in Georges certain instinctive antipathies,
likings and dislikings, which he well knew, and the naïve intolerance,
the generosity of heart which gives itself entirely to whatsoever it
loves.... Only Georges loved so many things that he had no time to love
any one thing for long.
He came back the next day and the days following. He was filled with a
youthful passion for Christophe, and he worked enthusiastically at his
lessons....--Then his enthusiasm palled, his visits grew less frequent.
He came less and less often. Then he came no more, and disappeared for
weeks.
He was light-hearted, forgetful, naïvely selfish, and sincerely
affectionate; he had a good heart and a quick intelligence which he
expended piecemeal day by day. People forgave him everything because
they were so glad to see him; he was happy....
Christophe refused to judge him. He did not complain. He wrote to
Jacqueline to thank her for having sent her son to him. Jacqueline
replied with a short letter filled with restrained emotion: she
expressed a hope that Christophe would be interested in Georges and help
him in his life. Through shame and pride she could not bring herself to
see him again. And Christophe thought he could not visit her without
being invited.--So they stayed apart, seeing each other at a distance at
concerts, bound together only by the boy's infrequent visits.
The winter passed. Grazia wrote but seldom. She was still faithful in
her friendship for Christophe. But, like a true Italian, she was hardly
at all sentimental, attached to reality, and needed to see people if she
were, perhaps not to think of them, but certainly to take pleasure in
talking to them. Her heart's memory needed to be supported by having her
sight's memory refreshed from time to time. Her letters became brief and
distant. She was as sure of Christophe as Christophe was of her. But
their security gave out more light than warmth.
Christophe did not feel his new disappointments very keenly. His musical
activity was enough to fill his life. When he reaches a certain age a
vigorous artist lives much more in his art than in his life; his life
has become the dream, his art the reality. His creative powers had been
reawakened by contact with Paris. There is no stronger stimulant in the
world than the sight of that city of work. The most phlegmatic natures
are touched by its fever. Christophe, being rested by years of healthy
solitude, brought to his work an enormous accumulation of force.
Enriched by the new conquests forever being made in the fields of
musical technique by the intrepid curiosity of the French, he hurled
himself in his turn along the road to discovery: being more violent and
barbarous than they, he went farther. But nothing in his new audacities
was left to the hazardous mercies of his instinct. Christophe had begun
to feel the need of clarity; all his life his genius had obeyed the
rhythm of alternate currents: it was its law to pass from one pole to
the other, and to fill everything between them. Having greedily
surrendered in his last period to _"the eyes of chaos shining through
the veil of order,"_ even to rending the veil so as to see them more
clearly, he was now striving to tear himself away from their
fascination, and once more to throw over the face of the sphinx the
magic net of the master mind. The imperial inspiration of Rome had
passed over him. Like the Parisian art of that time, by the spirit of
which he was infected, he was aspiring to order. But not--like the
reactionaries who spent what was left of their energies in protecting
their slumber--to order in Varsovia; the good people who are always
going back to Brahms--the Brahmses of all the arts, the thematics, the
insipid neo-classics, in search of solace! Might one not say that they
are enfeebled with passion! You are soon done for, my friends.... No, it
is not of your order that I speak. Mine has no kinship with yours. Mine
is the order in harmony of the free passions and the free will....
Christophe was studying how in his art to maintain the just balance
between the forces of life. These new chords, the new musical daimons
that he had summoned from the abyss of sounds, were used to build clear
symphonies, vast, sunlit buildings, like the Italian cupola'd basilicas.
These plays and battles of the mind occupied him all winter. And the
winter passed quickly, although, in the evening, as he ended his day's
work and looked behind him at the tale of days, he could not have told
whether it had been long or short, or whether he was still young or very
old.
Then a new ray of human sunshine pierced the veil of his dreams, and
once more brought in the springtime. Christophe received a letter from
Grazia, telling him that she was coming to Paris with her two children.
For a long time she had planned to do so. Her cousin Colette had often
invited her. Her dread of the effort necessary to interrupt her habits
and to tear herself away from her careless tranquillity and the home she
loved in order to plunge into the Parisian whirligig that she knew so
well, had made her postpone the journey from year to year. This spring
she was filled with melancholy, perhaps with a secret
disappointment--(how many unspoken romances there are in the heart of a
woman, unknown to others, often unconfessed to herself!)--and she longed
to go right away from Rome. A threatened epidemic gave her an excuse for
hurrying on her children's departure. She followed her letter to
Christophe in a very few days.
Christophe hastened to her as soon as he heard she was at Colette's. He
found her still absorbed and distant. He was hurt, but did not show it.
By now he was almost rid of his egoism, and that gave him the insight of
affection. He saw that she had some grief which she wished to conceal,
and he suppressed his longing to know its nature. Only he strove to keep
her amused by giving her a gay account of his misadventures and sharing
with her his work and his plans, and he wrapped her round with his
affection. Her mournful heart rested in the heart of her friend, and he
spoke to her always of things other than that which was in both their
minds. And gradually he saw the shadow of melancholy fade from her eyes,
and their expression became nearly, and ever more nearly, intimate. So
much so, that one day, as he was talking to her, he stopped suddenly,
and in silence looked at her.
"What is it?" she asked.
"To-day," he said, "you have come back to me."
She smiled, and in a low voice she replied:
"Yes."
It was not easy for them to talk quietly together. They were very rarely
alone. Colette gave them the pleasure of her presence more often than
they wished. In spite of her eccentricities she was extremely kind and
sincerely attached to Grazia and Christophe; but she never dreamed that
she could be a nuisance to them. She had, of course, noticed--(for her
eyes saw everything)--what she was pleased to call Christophe's
flirtation with Grazia; flirtation was her element, and she was
delighted, and asked nothing better than to encourage it. But that was
precisely what she was not required to do; she was only desired not to
meddle with things that did not concern her. It was enough for her to
appear or to make an (indiscreet) discreet allusion to their friendship
to one of them, to make Christophe and Grazia freeze and turn the
conversation. Colette cast about among all the possible reasons, except
one, and that the true one, for their reserve. Fortunately for them, she
could never stay long. She was always coming and going, coming in, going
out, superintending everything in her house, doing a dozen things at a
time. In the intervals between her appearances Christophe and Grazia,
left alone with the children, would resume the thread of their innocent
conversation. They never spoke of the feelings that bound them together.
Unrestrainedly they confided to each other their little daily
happenings. Grazia, with feminine interest, inquired into Christophe's
domestic affairs. They were in a very bad way: he was always having
ruptures with his housekeepers; he was continually being cheated and
robbed by his servants. She laughed heartily but very kindly, and with
motherly compassion for the great child's small practical sense. One
day, when Colette left them after a longer visitation than usual, Grazia
sighed:
"Poor Colette! I love her dearly.... But how she bores me!"
"I love her too," said Christophe, "if you mean by that that she bores
us."
Grazia laughed:
"Listen. Will you let me ... (it is quite impossible for us to talk in
peace here) ... will you let me come to your house one day?"
He could hardly speak.
"To my house! You will come?"
"If you don't mind?"
"Mind! Mercy, no!"
"Well, then, will you let me come on Tuesday?"
"Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, any day you like."
"Tuesday, at four. It is agreed?"
"How good of you! How good of you!"
"Wait. There is a condition."
"A condition? Why? Anything you like. You know that I will do it,
condition or no condition."
"I would rather make a condition."
"I promise."
"You don't know what it is."
"I don't care. I promise. Anything you like."
"But listen. You are so obstinate."
"Tell me!"
"The condition is that between now and then you make no change in your
rooms--none, you understand; everything must be left exactly as it is."
Christophe's face fell. He looked abject.
"Ah! That's not playing the game."
"You see, that's what comes of giving your word too hastily! But you
promised."
"But why do you want--?
"But I want to see you in your rooms as you are, every day, when you are
not expecting me."
"Surely you will let me--"
"Nothing at all. I shall allow nothing."
"At least--"
"No, no, no! I won't listen to you, or else I won't come, if you prefer
it--"
"You know I would agree to anything if you will only come."
"Then you promise."
"Yes."
"On your word of honor?"
"Yes, you tyrant."
"A good tyrant."
"There is no such thing as a good tyrant: there are tyrants whom one
loves and tyrants whom one detests."
"And I am both?"
"No. You are one of the first."
"It is very humiliating."
On the appointed day she came. With scrupulous loyalty Christophe had
not dared even to arrange the smallest piece of paper in his untidy
rooms: he would have felt dishonored had he done so. But he was in
torture. He was ashamed of what his friend would think. Anxiously he
awaited her arrival. She came punctually, not more than four or five
minutes after the hour. She climbed up the stairs with her light, firm
step. She rang. He was at the door and opened it. She was dressed with
easy, graceful elegance. Through her veil he could see her tranquil
eyes. They said "Good-day" in a whisper and shook hands; she was more
silent than usual: he was awkward and emotional and said nothing, to
avoid showing his feeling. He led her in without uttering the sentence
he had prepared by way of excusing the untidiness of his room. She sat
down in the best chair, and he sat near her.
"This is my work-room."
It was all he could find to say to her.
There was a silence. She looked round slowly, with a kindly smile, and
she, too, was much moved, though she would not admit it to herself.
(Later she told him that when she was a girl she had thought of coming
to him, but had been afraid as she reached the door.) She was struck by
the solitary aspect and the sadness of the place: the dark, narrow hall,
the absolute lack of comfort, the visible poverty, all went to her
heart: she was filled with affectionate pity for her old friend, who, in
spite of all his work and his sufferings and his celebrity, was unable
to shake free of material anxiety. And at the same time she was amused
at the absolute indifference revealed by the bareness of the room that
had no carpets, no pictures, no bric-a-brac, no armchair; no other
furniture than a table, three hard chairs, and a piano: and papers,
papers everywhere, mixed up with books, on the table, under the table,
on the floor, on the piano, on the chairs--(she smiled as she thought
how conscientiously he had kept his word).
After a minute or two she asked him, pointing to his place at the table:
"Is that where you work?"
"No," he said. "There."
He pointed to the darkest corner of the room, where there stood a low
chair with its back to the light. She went and sat in it quietly,
without a word. For a few minutes they were silent, for they knew not
what to say. He got up and went to the piano. He played and improvised
for half an hour; all around him he felt the presence of his beloved and
an immense happiness filled his heart; with eyes closed he played
marvelous things. Then she understood the beauty of the room, all
furnished with divine harmonies: she heard his loving, suffering heart
as though it were beating in her own bosom.
When the music had died away, he stopped for a little while, quite
still, at the piano; then he turned as he heard the breath of his
beloved and knew that she was weeping. She came to him.
"Thank you!" she murmured, and took his hand.
Her lips were trembling a little. She closed her eyes. He did the same.
For a few seconds they remained so, hand in hand; and time stopped; it
seemed to them that for ages, ages, they had been lying pressed close
together.
She opened her eyes, and to shake off her emotion, she asked:
"May I see the rest of the flat?"
Glad also to escape from his emotions, he opened the door into the next
room; but at once he was ashamed. It contained a narrow, hard iron bed.
On the wall there was a cast of the mask of Beethoven, and near the bed,
in a cheap frame, photographs of his mother and Olivier. On the
dressing-table was another photograph: Grazia herself as a child of
fifteen. He had found it in her album in Rome, and had stolen it. He
confessed it, and asked her to forgive him. She looked at the face, and
said:
"Can you recognize me in it?"
"I can recognize you, and remember you."
"Which of the two do you love best?" she asked, pointing to herself.
"You are always the same. I love you always just the same. I recognize
you everywhere. Even in the photograph of you as a tiny child. You do
not know the emotion I feel as in this chrysalis I discern your soul.
Nothing so clearly assures me that you are eternal. I loved you before
you were born, and I shall love you ever after...."
He stopped. She stood still and made no answer: she was filled with the
sweet sorrow of love. When she returned to the work-room, and he had
shown her through the window his little friendly tree, full of chattering
sparrows, she said:
"Now, do you know what we will do? We will have a feast. I brought tea
and cakes because I knew you would have nothing of the kind. And I
brought something else. Give me your overcoat."
"My overcoat?"
"Yes. Give it me."
She took needles and cotton from her bag.
"What are you going to do?"
"There were two buttons the other day which made me tremble for their
fate. Where are they now?"
"True. I never thought of sewing them on. It is so tiresome!"
"Poor boy! Give it me."
"I am ashamed."
"Go and make tea."
He brought the kettle and the spirit-lamp into the room, so as not to
miss a moment of his friend's stay. As she sewed she watched his clumsy
ways stealthily and maliciously. They drank their tea out of cracked
cups, which she thought horrible, dodging the cracks, while he
indignantly defended them, because they reminded him of his life with
Olivier.
Just as she was going, he asked:
"You are not angry with me?"
"Why should I be?"
"Because of the litter here?"
She laughed.
"I will make it tidy."
As she reached the threshold and was just going to open the door, he
knelt and kissed her feet.
"What are you doing?" she said. "You foolish, foolish dear! Good-by!"
They agreed that she should come once a week on a certain day. She had
made him promise that there should be no more outbursts, no more
kneelings, no more kissing of her feet. She breathed forth such a gentle
tranquillity, that even when Christophe was in his most violent mood, he
was influenced by it; and although when he was alone, he often thought
of her with passionate desire, when they were together they were always
like good comrades. Never did word or gesture escape him which could
disturb his friend's peace.
On Christophe's birthday she dressed her little girl as she herself had
been when they first met in the old days; and she made the child play
the piece that Christophe used to make her play.
But all her grace and tenderness and sweet friendship were mingled with
contradictory feelings. She was frivolous, and loved society, and
delighted in being courted, even by fools; she was a coquette, except
with Christophe,--even with Christophe. When he was very tender with
her, she would be deliberately cold and reserved. When he was cold and
reserved she would become tender and tease him affectionately. She was
the most honest of women. But even in the most honest and the best of
women there is always a girl. She insisted on standing well with the
world, and conformed to the conventions. She had fine musical gifts, and
understood Christophe's work; but she was not much interested in
it--(and he knew it).--To a true Latin woman, art is of worth only in
proportion as it leads back to life, to life and love.... The love which
is forever seething, slumbering, in the depths of the voluptuous
body.... What has she to do with the tragic meditations, the tormented
symphonies, the intellectual passions of the North? She must have music
in which her hidden desires can unfold, with the minimum of effort, an
opera, which is passionate life without the fatigue of the passions, a
sentimental, sensual, lazy art.
She was weak and changing: she could only apply herself intermittently
to any serious study: she must have amusement; rarely did she do on the
morrow what she had decided to do the night before. She had so many
childish ways, so many little disconcerting caprices! The restless
nature of woman, her morbid and periodically unreasonable character. She
knew it and then tried to isolate herself. She knew her weaknesses, and
blamed herself for her failure to resist them, since they distressed her
friend; sometimes, without his knowing it, she made real sacrifices for
him; but, when all was told, her nature was the stronger. For the rest,
Grazia could not bear Christophe to seem to be commanding her; and, once
or twice, by way of asserting her independence, she did the opposite of
what he asked her. At once she regretted it; at night she would be
filled with remorse that she could not make Christophe happier; she
loved him more than she would let him see; she felt that her friendship
with him was the best part of her life. As usually happens with two very
different people, they were more united when they were not together. In
truth, if they had been thrust apart by a misunderstanding, the fault
was not altogether Christophe's, as he honestly believed. Even when in
the old days Grazia most dearly loved Christophe, would she have married
him? She would perhaps have given him her life; but would she have so
given herself as to live all her life with him? She knew (though she did
not confess it to Christophe) that she had loved her husband, and, even
now, after all the harm he had done her, loved him as she had never
loved Christophe.... The secrets of the heart, the secrets of the body,
of which one is not very proud, and hides from those dear to one, as
much out of respect for them, as in complacent pity for oneself....
Christophe was too masculine to divine them: but every now and then, in
flashes, he would see how little the woman he most dearly loved, who
truly loved him, belonged to him--and that he could not wholly count on
any one, on any one, in life. His love was not quenched by this
perception. He even felt no bitterness. Grazia's peace spread over him.
He accepted everything. O life why should I reproach thee for that which
thou canst not give? Art thou not very beautiful and very blessed as
thou art? I must fain love thy smile, Gioconda....