He didn’t come for a long time

One evening Christophe heard by chance that he had been dangerously ill, that he hadn’t been playing for weeks, Christophe went to him even though Françoise had denied him.

He was not first received; but when he heard his name, he was shouted back from the steps. Françoise was on her own, she could be better, she had pneumonia, her appearance had changed a lot; but he still had an ironic smile and a sharp look that never softened. However, he seemed really pleased that Christophe came. He asked Christoph to sit by the bed. He spoke of himself lurking indifferently, and said he had died. That’s when Christophe was hugging. But Françoise Oudon drank her. Christophe blamed the actress for not telling him anything:

– Did you say anything? That you would come? Never!

– I’m sure you didn’t think of me.

– And that’s right, the actress answered loudly, a bit sadly smiling. I didn’t think about it for a moment, throughout my illness. Only today, how it probably happened. Well, don’t get that sad now. When I’m sick, I do not think anybody, I do not ask people anything other than that they’ll let me be in peace. I push my nose against the wall, I wait, I want to be alone, throw my life alone as a rat.

– But it’s hard to suffer alone.

– That I’m used to. I have been unhappy long years. No one has ever come to help me. And now I’m used to it … And it’s better. Nobody can do anything for another person. Ragging in the room, the compliments of the intruders, the roaring of the hypocrites… No. It is better to die alone.

– You’re well signed up!

– Resigned? I don’t know what that word means. No, I’ll tighten my teeth, and I hate the pain that makes me suffer.

Christophe asked if nobody had visited her here to see if anyone cared about her. Françoise replied that her theater associates were good people, – fools, – but helpful, pathetic (in a superficial way).

– But I just don’t want to see them. I am a wily sick.

– Well, then, Christophe said. The actress looked at her patently with a smile:

– I did! Did you talk like the others?

Christophe said:

– Sorry, sorry … Good God! How do I come to Paris?
I am ashamed of myself… I can swear I didn’t think what I said…
Christophe pressed his face against his bedspread. The actress laughed sincerely, snapping her head to her head:

– Oh, that speech is not Parisian! All the better! Now I know you again. But: now show your face! Don’t weep over my skin.

– You forgive me?

– I’ll give you. But don’t touch that thing anymore.

The actress spoke a little with her, asked what she did, tired and bored, and asked her to go.

It was agreed that Christophe should look at him next week. But just when he was leaving, he got a message from the actress that he wasn’t supposed to come: Françoise said he was back in bad mood. – Two days after, he called Christophe again. Christophe came. He met the actress already recovering, sitting in front of the window half loosely. It was the first days of spring, the sun was sunny, young buds in the trees. Françoise was kinder and gentler than ever before. He said that on the other day he would not have been able to tolerate any man: he would have rebuked Christopheak, as well as others.

– How about today?

– Today I feel so young, just like new, I’m prone to all young and new, that I feel around me – like you.

– I’m not very young now and I’m not new.

– You’re up to your death.

They escaped what Christophe had done when they had not seen each other, and discussed a theater where the recuperator soon said he was going to act again; and from that speech, Françoise Christophelle expressed her thoughts about the theater she was hating, but who still kept her in her breath.

He didn’t want Christophe to come with him anymore. He promised to go to Christophe. But he was afraid to disturb Christoph. Christophe announced when the actress would be sure to come, so that her work would not be disturbed. They agreed on some sort of characteristic: Françoise would knock on the door in a special way; then Christophe would open or not open, according to his desire…

Françoise did not first use this permission. But one evening, already on the way to some of the delicacies in the evening where he had to say poems, the opportunity began to impregnate him at the last moment; he departed from the phone, that he could not come there; and he told his driver to drive to Christophe. He was just going to drop into Christophelle’s good evening; but that night he went to believe Christ’s life, telling him from childhood.

Sad childhood! The occasional father whom the daughter had never seen. The mother held a malicious restaurant on the outskirts of a town in northern France; in the restaurant there were truck drivers in the drink, they lay with the hostess of the restaurant and treated her brutally. One of them fucked her when she had a few coins of money; he reached out to his wife and drank and ate his stuff. François had an older sister who was in the same restaurant as the maid; he could do the job that was broken; the master made him cry in front of the mother’s eyes; the sister had lung disease; to that he was dead. Françoise had grown up with plenty of beating and insanity when she grew up. He was a foolish child, quick-minded and indecent; his little soul was burning and wild. She saw her mother and sister crying and suffering, submissive, dying, dying. He made a furious decision not to surrender, but to frustrate himself from this dirty environment; by its nature, he was frenzied; when he was made a very great injustice, he suffered severe nerve attacks; he scratched, Puri, when he was beaten. Once he tried to hang himself. There was nothing: he hardly tried, he didn’t want it anymore, he was afraid he would; and when he was choked with his choked hands by his choking hands, he was frightened by the young open knot, and the angry desire to live was raging in him. And because he could not escape by death, – (Christophe smiled sadly as he remembered his own suffering), – he swore to win: to make himself free, rich, to walk all those who trampled him. He swore that oath in his dumb sleeping cubicle one night, hearing from the adjacent room his mother’s cries, which were beaten, the man’s curses and his sister crying. How miserable he was then! And yet it did even make it easier. He Puri’s teeth and thought:

– I’ll crush you all.

Only one star in this dark childhood:

Once he took one of the boys with whom he screamed along the streets, the son of a theater caretaker, to the theater, to some play, even though it was forbidden. They slipped into the dark corner of the stand. Françoisea lumosi enchanted a mysterious scene from which the light radiated into the dark, the beautiful and incomprehensible words that were spoken there, and the queen-like form of an acting woman, where there was practically a romantic melodrama with a queen. Movement harsh on his surface; and, at the same time, his heart beatingly fiercely… “As such, it should be once!… Oh, if he could get that!…” When the workout ended, he wanted to see the play itself later in the evening. He now let his comrades go out and was leaving with him; but suddenly he turned back and hid in the stand; he pressed a pile under a bench; then he waited there for three hours, without moving, choking, in the dust of the mast; and when the plot finally started and the audience arrived at the theater, the humiliation that he was seen, captured and shamed out of the laughter of the people, hit the home where he got back, faced him. That night he would have died unless he knew then what he would do to control those people and avenge them. was caught and shamed out, laughing at the people, drowned in the home where he got his back. That night he would have died unless he knew then what he would do to control those people and avenge them. was caught and shamed out, laughing at the people, drowned in the home where he got his back. That night he would have died unless he knew then what he would do to control those people and avenge them.

His plan was ready. He went to the Theater Hotel and Café to serve where the Actors went. He could hardly read and write; He had not read any books, had no reading, he wanted to learn and began to exercise his will with devastating power. He blew books from guest rooms; he read them at night in the light of the moon, or in the twilight of rattling, so as not to burn the candle in vain. These thefts were not noticed because the Actors were usually careless; or the owners only cursed where their books had disappeared. Otherwise, I delivered Françoise back to them as soon as they had read them, except for a couple of three who moved him so that he could no longer separate them; – But in the very old condition he didn’t give them back, he removed them from the magazines he kept. Bringing books back to the rooms he cautiously threw them under the bed or other furniture to think they were there all the time. And he stood behind the doors and listened to the ear in the key hole, as the Actors read at home. And by sweeping the corridor of the hotel, he alone was on their statement and made moves. When he was surprised at the job, he was laughing, or banged. He was silent, but his heart was boiling. “Such a teaching might have been going on for a long time, unless he once stolenly stole an actor’s room from his role book.” The actress had cracked her anger. No one other than a silhouette girl ever visited her room: she accused the girl. Françoise denied ruthlessly; the actor threatened him with a police investigation; Françoise threw herself at her feet and confessed to her and even stole her before and tore off the books: she revealed all her beautiful secrets. The man wept terribly, but he was not as bad as he might have thought. He asked why Françoise had done that. When Françoise said she wanted to become an actress, another bursting laughing burst. He asked the girl more closely about the matter; and Françoise read to her all the pages of the plays she had learned from the outside, she was astonished by the actor, she said: When Françoise said she wanted to become an actress, another bursting laughing burst. He asked the girl more closely about the matter; and Françoise read to her all the pages of the plays she had learned from the outside, she was astonished by the actor, she said: When Françoise said she wanted to become an actress, another bursting laughing burst. He asked the girl more closely about the matter; and Françoise read to her all the pages of the plays she had learned from the outside, she was astonished by the actor, she said:

– Listen, do you want me to give you hours?

Françoise appeared in her delights, kissing the Lord’s hands.

– Ah, said Françoise now to Christoph, how I could have loved her!

But then the actor added:

– But the ball, the hood, you know, nothing is free …

Françoise was a virgin, she had always felt the rage of disgust at the anger she had been exposed to. He was already a child, surrounded by all kinds of abominable sad scenes: … Oh, he’s unhappy! He had to pay it dearly!… What a fate!

– And you, Christophe, asked you.

– I would have gone even though I had to get out of my misery, Françoise answered. He threatened to let me capture the thief. I had no choice. – That’s how I started art … and my life.

– It’s the villain! exclaimed Christophe.

– Yeah, I hated him. But after I have seen the same so much that he did not seem to me the most worst. At least he kept his word. He taught me what you knew – (and it wasn’t much!) – the profession of an actor. He got me to the theater staff. I was there first for every spike. I showed some small parts. Then one evening, when the subtrade was sick, I dared to give my hand to my hands. Then I continued to play. I was considered impossible, crazy, baroque. I was ugly at that time. I stayed ugly until the day I was proclaimed – unless it was just “divine”, as the other Great, – at least in the highest number of feminine, ideal … Declared ” Woman”… Fools! – What came to act, it was considered inaccurate, exaggerated. I didn’t like the audience. The comrades dropped me. I paid for my ascension, step by step, I paid for my body. Comrades, theater director, impresario, impresario friends …

Françoise remained silent, pale, Puri lips together, staring at her, not crying; but Christophe felt that his heart was crying with bloody tears. At a glance, Françoise once again saw all the shame she’d gone and felt that exasperated desire to win, the will that had kept her up, and the more and more shewed him, the more she had to suffer from paralysis. He would have liked to die; but it would have been too terrible to fall down in the midst of such humiliation without getting further. Before that, he could still commit suicide! Or just after the victory. But fall so low without even getting a prize!…

The actress was silent. Christophe walked back and forth in the room; he would have wanted to kill those people who had suffered such a woman, those people who had stolen him. Then looked at Christophe’s pity on him; he paused in front of him, took his head from his arms, holding his hands, gently squeezing his forehead and said:

– You’re missing!

Françoise was going to push him aside. Christophe said:

– Don’t be afraid of me. I like you.

Then the tears lit up on Françoise’s cheeky cheeks. Christophe put his knees in front of him, kissed his long and delicate hands,

la lunga man d’ogni Bellezza milk…

those hands for which a couple of tears had fallen.

Then Christophe sat down again. Françoise was calm and rested on her report:

Some writer had finally put her in fashion. In this bizarre being, he had found a demon, Genius , and a more dramatic type, a new, full-time woman. Of course he had taken him as many others. And Françoise had given her herself, like many others, without love, even in a state of mind that was in direct opposition to love. But the author had created his reputation; and actress writer.

– And now, said Christophe, no one else can resist you; You can do to them what you want.

– You think so? said Françoise bitterly. Then he told Christoph Ivan the other fate that he had as a passion for a rogue who despised him: a writer who had used him, stole his most painful secrets, made books of them, and then left him.

– I despise him, said Françoise, like dirt under my feet. And it is the rage that shakes me when I think that I love him, that he just needs to refer, then I run to him, to the humble dust of that evil. But what can I do for it? I have a heart that never loves what I sensibly love. And alternately, one of them must sacrifice, humiliate. There is a heart. There is a body. And they are still shouting, shouting, both wanting their share of happiness. And I have no bridle to restrain them, I do not believe in anything, I am free … Free? My heart and the slave of my body who want what I don’t want, often, almost always. They take me with me, and I’m ashamed. But what can I do?…

She was silent for a moment, improving her thoughts with a pinch of grin.

– I’ve read, he that actors tend to feel any emotion said. And indeed they are almost all of them that I have seen, large, ambitious children, which are other concerns than to tease their little vanity. I don’t know if they aren’t the right Actors, or I’m not. Probably I’m not. In any case, I get paid for the faults of the other.

He was silent. The clock was three at night. He got up to leave. Christophe asked him to wait for the morning and then go home; he suggested that Françoise would take a moment to rest on her bed. The actress preferred to be in an armchair, beside a fire-extinguished fireplace, and still talking in peace at a night-time house.

– You will be very tired tomorrow.

– I am so accustomed to. But what about you… What are you going to do tomorrow?

– I am free. Only an hour at eleven … And besides, I am the kind of firm.

– The bigger reason to sleep hard.

– Yes, I sleep like a log. There is no fear that could prevent me from doing so. Sometimes I get angry that I sleep so well. So much time is wasted!… I find it sometimes fun to get back to my sleepiness, to snatch a night.

They continued to talk in a quiet voice, occasionally for long periods of time. And then Christophe slept. Françoise smiled, supported her head, herself from the shoulder so that she would not fall from the chair … And she dreamed at the window, looking at the shady garden that soon whitened. At about 7 o’clock, he gently woke up to Christophe and said goodbye to him.

Within a month, Françoise came twice to meet Christoph in exactly the bad time that Christophe had left: his door was locked. Then Christophe gave him the key to get to his apartment when he wanted. And many times, Françoise came after Christophe’s absence. He left a small orphan bundle on the table or a couple of words on a piece of paper, or drew some kind of curiosity, like a curry tiger, as a sign to start.

One evening after the play, he came to Christophe to talk familiarly at least as if; he met Christophe at work; they started talking. In the first words, they found that neither of them was in the same good state of mind as the last. Françoise was going to leave, but it was too late. He wasn’t blocked by Christophe. But his own will did not allow him to go any further. So they were still together, feeling an accelerated longing. And they took each other.

After that night, Françoise disappeared for weeks. Christophe, whose months that night of sleeping sensual passion had accelerated, could not live without him. Françoise had forbidden her to come to her; Christophe went to see her in the theater. He sat in the back row, hiding; and he was afflicted with love and mind movement; he colored up to the kernels; The tragic fever that Françoise ignited on all the parts he played was used by Christopheak with him. Finally Christophe wrote to him:

– “Friend, are you angry with me Forgive me if I’ve offended you?”.

When Françoise got these humble lines, she rushed to Christophe and fell into her arms.

– It would have been better to be just good friends. But because it was impossible, it is impossible to resist unnecessary. Go on as you go!

They joined their lives together. However, they both kept their own homes and liberties. Françoise would not have been able to bend to anything like living with Christophe. Besides, his position did not allow it at all. He came to visit Christophe, spent some days and nights with him; but every day he went back to his home and was there for the night.

For the summer, when the theater was closed, they rented a villa near Gif, near Paris. There they spent happy days, even though sometimes they were shrouded by the grief of sorrow. Days of friendship and work. They had a beautiful, bright room, with far-reaching views of the free air beaches, over the beds. At night, they saw their bed through the window panes wandering through the strange and cloudy skies of clouds in the dark sky. Resting in each other’s arms in half-hearts, they heard the cheeky cheerleader laughing, the heavy rain crumbling; In the fall, I penetrated the scent of the earth – the smell of spruce, clematis and glycine, and the drying hay, – through the entire building and through their bodies. Night silence. Sleep between two. Were silent. Far from dogs barking. The roots began to reel.Angelus was weakly distant from the church tower, the gray and cold daylight, causing the body to vibrate in a warm bed and the human being squeezed by another two loved ones. The birds begin to wander in the vines that climb out the wall. Christophe opens his eyes, holds his breath, and with a gentle heart he looks at those dear faces, a tired friend who sleeps; looking at his pet’s laughter…

Their love was by no means a mere selfish passion. It was a deep friendship that the body wanted. They didn’t piss at each other. Both worked their own work. Christophe’s ingenuity, his goodness, his moral companionship, were loved by François. He felt Christophea older and matured in some things, and he enjoyed his mother. He died that he did not understand what Christophe was playing: he was completely closed to music, except in a few moments when he was overwhelmed by a strange movement that was more about him than music: passions that at that time struck him and everything that made him surrounded by landscape, people, colors and sounds. But despite that, he completely realized Christophe’s genius, even though he didn’t realize its language, which was hidden from him. It affected him in the same way as hearing a great actor in a foreign language. Her innate genius charmed her. And Christophe, again with the power of his love, shone his ideas and his beloved outward appearance into his ideas and embodied the enthusiasm of his life; Today she saw in that woman his own thoughts more beautiful than they were in Himself, in the beauty of antiquity, almost in the shade of eternity. What an unpredictable happiness was the close acquaintance of such a soul, so feminine, weak and good and cruel, and glitteringly brilliant. Françoise taught Christoph to know a lot about life and people – women whom Christophe realized very weakly and that Françoise criticized sharply. Particularly, Christophe missed him with his gratitude for better understanding theater; Françoise helped her to penetrate the spirit of this wonderful, artistic, most savage and versatile art form. He showed Christophe all the beauty of that human magic wand – and showed him that he had to write to the stage not just for himself, as he tended to,to spend on the violin when the Spirit speaks to them . ”- The great dramatic poet is not ashamed to work for a strictly limited stage and to reconcile his thoughts with the actors he has at his disposal; like a small theater hall, and no flute can be written to the flute. Theatrical theater, such as a fresco, is just the right art for its place, and so is the art of human art, living art.

The thoughts that Françoise expressed in this way are also suitable for Christophe’s thoughts, as he sought precisely in this evolutionary period a collective art, one that would communicate with other people. The experience of Françoise helped her now to embrace mystical co-operation between the public and the actor. As clear as the realist as Françoise was, and as little as he had illusions, he clearly saw the power of the two-sided suggestion, the waves of sympathy that unite the actor’s view, the silence of the thousands of souls from which only the voice of the interpreter rises. Of course, he had no idea of ​​this at times other than some disappearing moments that were very rare and did not recur when he performed the same song in the same places. At other times, he had a mere profession, soulless, intelligent, and cold mechanism. But the excuse is interesting, it is a flash of lightning: in the light of it, one sees the gap, the common soul of thousands of beings, whose power manifests itself in the actor for a short time of eternity.

Such a common sense was to be interpreted by a great artist. His ideal was to be a living objectivism, in which the poet merges with those to whom he sings, and strips himself of himself and dresses up in collective, stormy, flying world passions. Françoise felt this requirement deeper when she was not able to displace her personally, but always played her own self. – The flourishing flourishing of individual lyricism, which has been in power for one and a half centuries, is somehow ill. Moral greatness is that it knows a lot and dominates its feelings, is scarce and pure from thoughts, and does not spread all of them to the hands of people; it is that it speaks with a single gaze, a deep word, childishly exaggerated, not feminine, and talks to those who can understand the word for men. Modern music, flattening so much of itself and revealing personal secrets every moment, is a lack of jealousy and taste. It resembles a sick person who does not think of his own disease, is not tired of shedding it and its disgusting and ridiculous little things to other people. That ridiculous side has been remarkable in art for over a hundred years. Françoise, who was not musical, likewise liked excessive swelling of music at the expense of the poem almost as a sign of decadence; it was like a polyp that ate a poem. Christophe argued; But when he pondered the matter further, he was wondering if Françoise’s claim might have been anything. The first songs written for Goethe’s poems for men. Modern music, flattening so much of itself and revealing personal secrets every moment, is a lack of jealousy and taste. It resembles a sick person who does not think of his own disease, is not tired of shedding it and its disgusting and ridiculous little things to other people. That ridiculous side has been remarkable in art for over a hundred years. Françoise, who was not musical, likewise liked excessive swelling of music at the expense of the poem almost as a sign of decadence; it was like a polyp that ate a poem. Christophe argued; But when he pondered the matter further, he was wondering if Françoise’s claim might have been anything. The first songs written for Goethe’s poems for men. Modern music, flattening so much of itself and revealing personal secrets every moment, is a lack of jealousy and taste. It resembles a sick person who does not think of his own disease, is not tired of shedding it and its disgusting and ridiculous little things to other people. That ridiculous side has been remarkable in art for over a hundred years. Françoise, who was not musical, likewise liked excessive swelling of music at the expense of the poem almost as a sign of decadence; it was like a polyp that ate a poem. Christophe argued; But when he pondered the matter further, he was wondering if Françoise’s claim might have been anything. The first songs written for Goethe’s poems who flattens so much of himself and reveals his personal secrets at any moment, has a lack of jealousy and taste. It resembles a sick person who does not think of his own disease, is not tired of shedding it and its disgusting and ridiculous little things to other people. That ridiculous side has been remarkable in art for over a hundred years. Françoise, who was not musical, likewise liked excessive swelling of music at the expense of the poem almost as a sign of decadence; it was like a polyp that ate a poem. Christophe argued; But when he pondered the matter further, he was wondering if Françoise’s claim might have been anything. The first songs written for Goethe’s poems who flattens so much of himself and reveals his personal secrets at any moment, has a lack of jealousy and taste. It resembles a sick person who does not think of his own disease, is not tired of shedding it and its disgusting and ridiculous little things to other people. That ridiculous side has been remarkable in art for over a hundred years. Françoise, who was not musical, likewise liked excessive swelling of music at the expense of the poem almost as a sign of decadence; it was like a polyp that ate a poem. Christophe argued; But when he pondered the matter further, he was wondering if Françoise’s claim might have been anything. The first songs written for Goethe’s poems not tired of poking it and its disgusting and ridiculous little things to other people. That ridiculous side has been remarkable in art for over a hundred years. Françoise, who was not musical, likewise liked excessive swelling of music at the expense of the poem almost as a sign of decadence; it was like a polyp that ate a poem. Christophe argued; But when he pondered the matter further, he was wondering if Françoise’s claim might have been anything. The first songs written for Goethe’s poems not tired of poking it and its disgusting and ridiculous little things to other people. That ridiculous side has been remarkable in art for over a hundred years. Françoise, who was not musical, likewise liked excessive swelling of music at the expense of the poem almost as a sign of decadence; it was like a polyp that ate a poem. Christophe argued; But when he pondered the matter further, he was wondering if Françoise’s claim might have been anything. The first songs written for Goethe’s poems Christophe argued; But when he pondered the matter further, he was wondering if Françoise’s claim might have been anything. The first songs written for Goethe’s poems Christophe argued; But when he pondered the matter further, he was wondering if Françoise’s claim might have been anything. The first songs written for Goethe’s poemsThe flowers were quite poetic and modest; soon Schubert confuses them with their own romantic sentimentality that changes their content; Schumann, again, a little girl-in-law; and that development continues until Hugo Wolf as an increasingly acclaimed declamation, an inappropriately tearing analysis, a passion that does not want to leave any single soul out of touch. All the curtains are grated out of the heart’s mysteries.

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