they lived apart from it. Emmanuel had grown passionately devoted to
Christophe, though his pride would not let him show it. He covered it up
with his brusque manners, and sometimes used to be absolutely rude to
Christophe. But Christophe was not deceived. He knew how deeply attached
to him Emmanuel was, and he knew the worth of his affection. No week
went by but they met two or three times. When they were prevented by
ill-health from going out, they used to write to each other. Their
letters might have been written from places far removed from Paris. They
were less interested in external happenings than in the progress of the
mind in science and art. They lived in their ideas, pondering their art,
or beneath the chaos of facts perceiving the little undistinguished
gleam which reveals the progress of the history of the human mind.
Generally it was Christophe who visited Emmanuel. Although, since a
recent illness, he was not much better in health than his friend, he had
grown used to thinking that Emmanuel's health called for more
consideration than his own. Christophe could not now ascend Emmanuel's
six flights of stairs without difficulty, and when he reached the top he
had to wait a moment to recover his breath. They were both incapable of
taking care of themselves. In defiance of their weak throats and their
fits of despondency, they were inveterate smokers. That was one of the
reasons why Christophe preferred that they should meet in Emmanuel's
rooms rather than in his own, for Aurora used to declare war on his
habit of smoking, and he used to hide away from her. Sometimes they
would both break out coughing in the middle of their conversation, and
then they would break off and look at each other guiltily like
schoolboys, and laugh: and sometimes one would lecture the other while
he was coughing; but as soon as he had recovered his breath the other
would vigorously protest that smoking had nothing to do with it.
On Emmanuel's table, in a clear space among the papers, a gray cat would
sit and gravely look at the smokers with an air of reproach. Christophe
used to say that it was their living conscience, and, by way of stifling
it, he would cover it up with his hat. It was a wretched beast, of the
commonest kind, that Emmanuel had picked up half-dead in the street; it had
never really recovered from the brutal handling it had received, and
ate very little, and hardly ever played, and never made any noise: it
was very gentle, and used to follow its master about with its
intelligent eyes, and be unhappy when he was absent, and quite content
to sit on the table by his side, only breaking off its musing
ecstatically, for hours together, to watch the cage where the
inaccessible birds fluttered about, purring politely at the least mark
of attention, patiently submitting to Emmanuel's capricious, and
Christophe's rough, attentions, and always being very careful not to
scratch or bite. It was very delicate, and one of its eyes was always
weeping: it used to cough: and if it had been able to speak it would
certainly not have had the effrontery, like the two men, to declare that
"the smoke had nothing to do with it"; but it accepted everything at
their hands, and seemed to think:
"They are men. They know what they are doing." Emmanuel was fond of the
beast because he saw a certain similarity between its lot and his own.
Christophe used to declare that the resemblance was even extended to the
expression in their eyes.
"Why not?" Emmanuel would say.
Animals reflect their surroundings. Their faces grow refined or the
reverse according to the people with whom they live. A fool's cat has a
different expression from that of a clever man's cat. A domestic animal
will become good or bad, frank or sly, sensitive or stupid, not only
according to what its master teaches it, but also according to what its
master is. And this is true not only of the influence of men. Places
fashion animals in their own image. A clear, bright landscape will light
up the eyes of animals.--Emmanuel's gray cat was in harmony with the
stuffy garret and its ailing master, who lived under the Parisian sky.
Emmanuel had grown more human. He was not the same man that he had been
at the time of his first acquaintance with Christophe. He had been
profoundly shaken by a domestic tragedy. His companion, whom, in a
moment of exasperation, he had made too clearly feel how tiresome the
burden of her affection was to him, had suddenly disappeared. Frantic
with anxiety, he spent a whole night looking for her, and at last he
found her in a police station where she was being retained. She had
tried to throw herself into the Seine; a passer-by had caught hold of
her by the clothes, and pulled her back just as she was clambering over
the parapet of the bridge; she had refused to give her name and address,
and made another attempt on her life. The sight of her grief had
overwhelmed Emmanuel; he could not bear the thought that, having
suffered so much at the hands of others, he, in his turn, was causing
suffering. He brought the poor crazed creature back to his rooms, and
did his best to heal the wound he had dealt her, and to win her back to
the confidence in his affection she so sorely needed. He suppressed his
feeling of revolt, and resigned himself to her absorbing love, and
devoted to her the remainder of his life. The whole sap of his genius
had rushed back to his heart. The apostle of action had come to the
belief that there was only one course of action that was really
good--not to do evil. His part was played. It seemed that the Force
which raises the great human tides had used him only as an instrument,
to let loose action. Once his orders were carried out, he was nothing:
action pursued its way without him. He watched it moving on, almost
resigned to the injustice which touched him personally, though not
altogether to that which concerned his faith. For although, as a
free-thinker, he claimed to be free of all religion and used humorously
to call Christophe a clerical in disguise, like every sturdy spirit, he
had his altar on which he deified the dreams to which he sacrificed
himself. The altar was deserted now, and Emmanuel suffered. How could he
without suffering see the blessed ideas, which he had so hardly led to
victory, the ideas for which, during the last hundred years, all the
finest men had suffered such bitter torment--how could he see them
tramped underfoot by the oncoming generation? The whole magnificent
inheritance of French idealism--the faith in Liberty, which had its
saints, martyrs, heroes, the love of humanity, the religious aspiration
towards the brotherhood of nations and races--all, all was with blind
brutality pillaged by the younger generation! What madness is it in them
that makes them sigh for the monsters we had vanquished, submit to the
yoke that we had broken, call back with great shouts the reign of Force,
and kindle Hatred and the insanity of war in the heart of my beloved
France!
"It is not only in France," Christophe would say laughingly, "it is
throughout the entire world. From Spain to China blows the same keen
wind. There is not a corner anywhere for a man to find shelter from the
wind! It is becoming a joke: even in my little Switzerland, which is
turning nationalist!"
"You find that comforting?"
"Certainly. It shows that such waves of feeling are not due to the
ridiculous passions of a few men, but to a hidden God who controls the
universe. And I have learned to bow before that God. If I do not
understand Him, that is my fault, not His. Try to understand Him. But
how many of you take the trouble to do that? You live from day to day,
and see no farther than the next milestone, and you imagine that it
marks the end of the road. You see the wave that bears you along, but
you do not see the sea! The wave of to-day is the wave of yesterday; it
is the wave of our souls that prepared the way for it. The wave of
to-day will plow the ground for the wave of to-morrow, which will wipe
out its memory as the memory of ours is wiped out. I neither admire nor
dread the naturalism of the present time. It will pass away with the
present time: it is passing, it has already passed. It is a rung in the
ladder. Climb to the top of it! It is the advance-guard of the coming
army. Hark to the sound of its fifes and drums!..."
(Christophe drummed on the table, and woke the cat, which sprang away.)
"... Every nation now feels the imperious necessity of gathering its
forces and making up its balance-sheet. For the last hundred years all
the nations have been transformed by their mutual intercourse and the
immense contributions of all the brains of the universe, building up new
morality, new knowledge, new faith. Every man must examine his
conscience, and know exactly what he is and what he has, before he can
enter with the rest into the new age. A new age is coming. Humanity is
on the point of signing a new lease of life. Society is on the point of
springing into new vigor with new laws. It is Sunday to-morrow. Every
one is making up his accounts for the week, setting his house in order,
making it clean and tidy, that, with other men, we may go into the
presence of our common God and make a new compact of alliance with Him."
Emmanuel looked at Christophe, and his eyes reflected the passing
vision. He was silent for some time after Christophe had finished
speaking, and then he said:
"You are lucky, Christophe! You do not see the night!"
"I can see in the dark," said Christophe. "I have lived in it enough. I
am an old owl."
About this time his friends noticed a change in his manner. He was often
distracted and absent-minded. He hardly listened to what was said to
him. He had an absorbed, smiling expression. When his absent-mindedness
was commented upon he would gently excuse himself. Sometimes he would
speak of himself in the third person:
"Krafft will do that for you...."
or,
"Christophe will laugh at that...."
People who did not know him said:
"What extraordinary self-infatuation!"
But it was just the opposite. He saw himself from the outside, as a
stranger. He had reached the stage when a man loses interest even in the
struggle for the beautiful, because, when a man has done his work, he is
inclined to believe that others will do theirs, and that, when all is
told, as Rodin says, "the beautiful will always triumph." The
malevolence and injustice of men did not repel him.--He would laugh and
tell himself that it was not natural, that life was ebbing away from
him.
In fact, he had lost much of his old vigor. The least physical effort, a
long walk, a fast drive, exhausted him. He quickly lost his breath, and
he had pains in his heart. Sometimes he would think of his old friend
Schulz. He never told anybody what he was feeling. It was no good. It
was useless to upset his friends, and he would never get any better.
Besides he did not take his symptoms seriously. He far more dreaded
having to take care of himself than being ill.
He had an inward presentiment and a desire to see his country once more.
He had postponed going from year to year, always saying--"next year...."
Now he would postpone it no longer.
He did not tell any one, and went away by stealth. The journey was
short. Christophe found nothing that he had come to seek. The changes
that had been in the making on his last visit were now fully
accomplished: the little town had become a great industrial city. The
old houses had disappeared. The cemetery also was gone. Where Sabine's
farm had stood was now a factory with tall chimneys. The river had
washed away the meadows where Christophe had played as a child. A street
(and such a street!) between black buildings bore his name. The whole of
the past was dead, even death itself.... So be it! Life was going on:
perhaps other little Christophes were dreaming, suffering, struggling,
in the shabby houses in the street that was called after him.--At a
concert in the gigantic _Tonhalle_ he heard some of his music
played, all topsy-turvy: he hardly recognized it.... So be it! Though it
were misunderstood it might perhaps arouse new energy. We sowed the
seed. Do what you will with it: feed on us.--At nightfall Christophe
walked through the fields outside the city; great mists were rolling
over them, and he thought of the great mists that should enshroud his
life, and those whom he had loved, who were gone from the earth, who had
taken refuge in his heart, who, like himself, would be covered up by the
falling night.... So be it! So be it! I am not afraid of thee, O night,
thou devourer of suns! For one star that is put out, thousands are lit up.
Like a bowl of boiling milk, the abysm of space is overflowing with
light. Thou shalt not put me out. The breath of death will set the flame
of my life flickering up once more....
On his return from Germany, Christophe wanted to stop in the town where
he had known Anna. Since he had left it, he had had no news of her. He
had never dared to ask after her. For years her very name was enough to
upset him....--Now he was calm and had no fear. But in the evening, in
his room in the hotel looking out on the Rhine, the familiar song of the
bells ringing in the morrow's festival awoke the images of the past.
From the river there ascended the faint odor of distant danger, which he
found it hard to understand. He spent the whole night in recollection.
He felt that he was free of the terrible Lord, and found sweet sadness
in the thought. He had not made up his mind what to do on the following
day. For a moment--(the past lay so far behind!)--he thought of calling
on the Brauns. But when the morrow came his courage failed him: he dared
not even ask at the hotel whether the doctor and his wife were still
alive. He made up his mind to go....
When the time came for him to go an irresistible force drove him to the
church which Anna used to attend: he stood behind a pillar from which he
could see the seat where in old days she used to come and kneel. He
waited, feeling sure that, if she were still alive, she would come.
A woman did come, and he did not recognize her. She was like all the
rest, plump, full-faced, with a heavy chin, and an indifferent, hard
expression. She was dressed in black. She sat down in her place, and did
not stir. There was nothing in the woman to remind Christophe of the
woman he was expecting. Only once or twice she made a certain queer
little gesture as though to smooth out the folds of her skirt about her
knees. In old days, _she_ had made such a gesture,... As she went
out she passed slowly by him, with her head erect and her hands holding
her prayer-book, folded in front of her. For a moment her somber, tired
eyes met Christophe's. And they looked at each other. And they did not
recognize each other. She passed on, straight and stiff, and never
turned her head. It was only after a moment that suddenly, in a flash of
memory, beneath the frozen smile, he recognized the lips he had kissed
by a certain fold in them.... He gasped for breath and his knees
trembled. He thought:
"Lord, is that the body in which she dwelt whom I loved? Where is she?
Where is she? And where am I, myself? Where is the man who loved her?
What is there left of us and the cruel love that consumed us?--Ashes.
Where is the fire?"
And his God answered and said:
"In Me."
Then he raised his eyes and saw her for the last time in the crowd
passing through the door into the sunlight.
* * * * *
It was shortly after his return to Paris that he made peace with big old
enemy, Lévy-Coeur, who had been attacking him for a long time with equal
malicious talent and bad faith. Then, having attained the highest
success, glutted with honors, satiated, appeased, he had been clever
enough secretly to recognize Christophe's superiority, and had made
advances to him. Christophe pretended to notice neither attacks nor
advances. Lévy-Coeur wearied of it. They lived in the same neighborhood
and used often to meet. As they passed each other Christophe would look
through Lévy-Coeur, who was exasperated by this calm way of ignoring his
existence.
He had a daughter between eighteen and twenty, a pretty, elegant girl,
with a profile like a lamb, a cloud of curly fair hair, soft coquettish
eyes, and a Luini smile. They used to go for walks together, and
Christophe often met them in the Luxembourg Gardens; they seemed very
intimate, and the girl would walk arm-in-arm with her father.
Absent-minded though he was, Christophe never failed to notice a pretty
face, and he had a weakness for the girl. He would think of Lévy-Coeur:
"Lucky beast!"
But then he would add proudly:
"But I too have a daughter."
And he used to compare the two. In the comparison his bias was all in
favor of Aurora, but it led him to create in his mind a sort of
imaginary friendship between the two girls, though they did not know
each other, and even, without his knowing it, to a certain feeling for
Lévy-Coeur.
When he returned from Germany he heard that "the lamb" was dead. In his
fatherly selfishness his first thought was:
"Suppose it had been mine!"
And he was filled with an immense pity for Lévy-Coeur. His first impulse
was to write to him: he began two letters, but was not satisfied, was
ashamed of them, and did not send either. But a few days later when he
met Lévy-Coeur with a weary, miserable face, it was too much for him: he
went straight up to the poor wretch and held out both hands to him.
Lévy-Coeur, with a little hesitation, took them in his. Christophe said:
"You have lost her!..."
The emotion in his voice touched Lévy-Coeur. It was so unexpected! He
felt inexpressibly grateful.... They talked for a little sadly and
confusedly. When they parted nothing was left of all that had divided
them. They had fought: it was inevitable, no doubt: each man must fulfil
the law of his nature! But when men see the end of the tragi-comedy
coming, they put off the passions that masked them, and meet face to
face,--two men, of whom neither is of much greater worth than the other,
who, when they have played their parts to the best of their ability,
have the right in the end to shake hands.
The marriage of Georges and Aurora had been fixed for the early spring.
Christophe's health was declining rapidly. He had seen his children
watching him anxiously. Once he heard them whispering to each other.
Georges was saying:
"How ill he looks! He looks as though he might fall ill at any moment."
And Aurora replied:
"If only he does not delay our marriage!"
He did not forget it. Poor children! They might be sure that he would
not disturb their happiness!
But he was inconsiderate enough on the eve of the marriage--(he had been
absurdly excited as the day drew near: as excited as though it were he
who was going to be married)--he was stupid enough to be attacked by his
old trouble, a recurrence of pneumonia, which had first attacked him in
the days of the Market-Place. He was furious with himself, and dubbed
himself fool and idiot. He swore that he would not give in until the
marriage had taken place. He thought of Grazia as she lay dying, never
telling him of her illness because of his approaching concert, for fear
lest he should be distracted from his work and pleasure. Now he loved
the idea of doing for her daughter--for her--what she had done for him.
He concealed his condition, but he found it hard to keep himself going.
However, the happiness of his children made him so happy that he managed
to support the long ordeal of the religious ceremony without disaster.
But he had hardly reached Colette's house than his strength gave out: he
had just time enough to shut himself up in a room, and then he fainted.
He was found by a servant. When he came to himself Christophe forbade
them to say anything to the bride and bridegroom, who were going off on
their honeymoon in the evening. They were too much taken up with
themselves to notice anything else. They left him gaily, promising to
write to him to-morrow, and afterwards....
As soon as they were gone, Christophe took to his bed. He was feverish,
and could not shake off the fever. He was alone. Emmanuel was ill too,
and could not come. Christophe did not call in a doctor. He did not
think his condition was serious. Besides, he had no servant to go for a
doctor. The housekeeper who came for two hours in the morning took no
interest in him, and he dispensed with her services. He had a dozen
times begged her not to touch any of his papers when she was dusting his
room. She would do it: she thought she had a fine opportunity to do as
she liked, now that he was confined to his bed. In the mirror of his
wardrobe door he saw her from his bed turning the whole room upside
down. He was so furious--(no, assuredly the old Adam was not dead in
him!)--that he jumped out of bed, snatched a packet of papers out of her
hands, and showed her the door. His anger cost him a bout of fever and
the departure of the servant, who lost her temper and never returned,
without even taking the trouble to tell the "old madman," as she called
him. So he was left, ill, with no one to look after him. He would get up
in the morning to take in the jug of milk left at the door, and to see
if the portress had not slipped under the door the promised letter from
the lovers. The letter did not come: they had forgotten him in their
happiness. He was not angry with them, and thought that in their place
he would have done the same. He thought of their careless joy, and that
it was he had given it to them.
He was a little better and was able to get up when at last a letter came
from Aurora. Georges had been content to add his signature. Aurora asked
very little about Christophe and told very little, but, to make up for
it, she gave him a commission, begging him to send her a necktie she had
left at Colette's. Although it was not at all important--(Aurora had
only thought of it as she sat down to write to Christophe, and then only
because she wanted something to say),--Christophe was only too delighted
to be of use, and went out at once to fetch it. The weather was cold and
gusty. The winter had taken an unpleasant turn. Melting snow, and an icy
wind. There were no carriages to be had. Christophe spent some time in a
parcels' office. The rudeness of the clerks and their deliberate
slowness made him irritable, which did not help his business on. His
illness was partly responsible for his gusts of anger, which the
tranquillity of his mind repudiated; they shook his body, like the last
tremors of an oak falling under the blows of an ax. He returned chilled
and trembling. As he entered, the portress handed him a cutting from a
review. He glanced at it. It was a spiteful attack upon himself. They
were growing rare in these days. There is no pleasure in attacking a man
who never notices the blows dealt him. The most violent of his enemies
were reduced to a feeling of respect for him, which exasperated them,
for they still detested him.
_"We believe,"_ said Bismarck, almost regretfully, _"that nothing
is more involuntary than love. Respect is even more so...."_
But the writer of the article was one of those strong men, who, being
better armed than Bismarck, escape both respect and love. He spoke of
Christophe in insulting terms, and announced a series of attacks during
the following fortnight: Christophe began to laugh, and said as he went
to bed again:
"He will be surprised! He won't find me at home!"
They tried to make him have a nurse, but he refused obstinately, saying
that he had lived alone so much that he thought he might at least have
the benefit of his solitude at such a time.
He was never bored. During these last years he had constantly been
engrossed in dialogues with himself; it was as though his soul was
twofold; and for some months past his inward company had been
considerably augmented: not two souls, but ten, now dwelt in him. They
held converse among themselves, though more often they sang. He would
take part in their conversation, or he would hold his peace and listen
to them. He had always on his bed, or on the table, within reach of his
hand, music-paper on which he used to take down their remarks and his
own, and laugh at their rejoinders. It was a mechanical habit: the two
actions, thinking and writing, had become almost simultaneous with him;
writing was thinking out loud to him. Everything that took him away from
the company of his many souls exhausted and irritated him, even the
friends he loved best, sometimes. He tried hard not to let them see it,
but such constraint induced an extreme lassitude. He was very happy when
he came to himself again, for he would lose himself: it was impossible
to hear the inward voices amid the chattering of human beings. Divine
silence!...