Despite the success that struggled outside France, the material status of the friends improved slowly. Difficult times came when regular famine was forced. The damage was compensated for by eating two more heavily when the money was received. But for a long time it was a desperate food order.
At the moment, they had a “lean cows” again. Christophe had continued even half the night to get ready for an insanely nuotinkopioimistyön Hechtille; he had gone to rest only at dawn, and slept as a log to take back the controlled night’s damage. Olivier had left the city early: he had an hour at the other end of Paris. At about eight o’clock the caretaker, who brought them letters to their apartment, called the doorbell. Usually he didn’t care to linger at the door unless it soon opened, but put the letters under the door. But now, this morning, he knocked himself. Christophe woke up in his sleep and went to the business to open; he did not bother to listen to what the caretaker smiled and talked to him about a newspaper article;
An hour later, he woke up again, startled as he heard the steps in his room; and to his astonishment, he now saw a stranger on his bed at the foot of a bed that greeted him solemnly. Another newspapermaker had come in without having to open the door. Christophe jumped out of bed:
– What are you getting into? – he cried to the comer.
He tore his leashes to throw it against the face of the invader, the man jumping instinctively a couple of steps back. They were now dealing with each other. The reporter of La Nation wanted to interview Monsieur Krafft on the article that appeared in Le Grand Journal .
– What article?
– Didn’t Christophe read it? The reporter offered to explain it to her.
Christophe fell into his bed again. Had he not been so dumb, he would have driven that man out; but now it was easier for him to let the guest speak. He pressed into his bed, closed his eyes, and was sleeping. She was really a little asleep when she was dreaming. But the comer was stubborn and was going to read the beginning of the article with a loud voice. Listening to the first lines, Christophe woke up to his ears. It spoke of Monsieur Krafft as the first musical genius of his era. Christophe forgot to play the sleeping part, cursed her, sat up and said:
– They’re crazy. What has been wrong with them?
The reporter took advantage of the opportunity and interrupted his reading to make him a quick set of questions; and Christophe answered them without saying anything. He had taken the magazine and looked at his own image, stunned by his first page; but he didn’t have time to read: for another newspapermaker came in now. This time Christophe nevertheless got angry. He told them to go on their journey; But they didn’t do it before they had a glance at the order in which the furniture and photographs of the chamber were on the walls, and how that original composer appeared, who now knocked them out and ripped them out of their shoulders and put them on their doorstep.
But it seemed fateful that he would not be in peace that day. Christophe had not yet had time to dress when the door was again taped, this time in an agreed way that only a few close friends knew. Christophe opened and the third unknown man was standing in front of him. Christophe was going to rush without knocking him out, but the newcomer protested, defending his arrival by being the author of that article. Push out a man who will thank you for your genius! Christophe was in a bad mood, but he had to withstand the breath of his admirer. He wondered about his sudden reputation; it had fallen upon him as if it were a moon; and he wondered whether he had really presented a new masterpiece to the world yesterday, unknowingly. But he didn’t have time to think about it. The newspaper had come to take him forcibly or with joy to direct his newspaper delivery, where the editor-in-chief, Arsène Gamache, wanted to see him in his own personality; The car was already waiting at the gate. Christophe tried to defend himself; but he was naive and unintentionally sensitive to friendship insurance and eventually agreed to travel.
Ten minutes later, he was introduced to the boss in front of which the whole world trembled. Arsène Gamache was a tough bitch, a fifty-year-old man, short and wide; his head was big and round, hair gray and brushed, face red, speech sharply commanding; voice highlighting heavy and pathetic, with occasional dry tingling in words. With his selfless consciousness, he had been able to squeeze into the position of a commander in Paris. He was an apocalypse, with money and people speculator, selfish, naive and Kavala, passionate and just remembering himself; such a nature that he was able to melt his own desires in French, even in all mankind, just as naturally. His own interests, the magazine’s success and Salus publicawere the closest related things to him. He was convinced that the one who dared to do wrong with him had wronged all of France; and to crush someone’s personal opponent, he could have twisted the whole state even with the righteous mind. In a way he could be generous. He was an idealist just like being after a decent dinner, and then he sometimes used to lift some poor and miserable vodka from the dust of the earth, just as God himself created the people, so to show the magnitude of his power that could not be resisted: it was the power that set he would have been able to put the kings in the throne and kick them out if he had wanted. His ability was enough anywhere. It knew how to make a genius if needed.
That day he had “made” Christopho a genius.
Olivier had unknowingly made this dangerous adventure.
Olivier, who did not usually do anything for himself, he who disliked the advertisements and scared the newspaper as a plague, understood his duty differently when his question came to his friend. He was like a affectionate mother, who sometimes hears stories, an honorable little bourgeois lady and a impeccable spouse who would even throw her body to get her son rescued if the boy is doomed to death.
When Olivier wrote in the magazine and often came close to many critics and dancers, he did not defeat any opportunity to talk about Christoph; and recently he found out that his words began to be listened to. He saw from his surroundings that Christophe had some kind of curiosity, mystery and restless movement in the literary and great world circles. Where did it come from? Was it the echo caused by the press that Christophe’s works were recently shown in England and Germany? There was no obvious reason for that. It was just like that for all the breathers of Paris’s air, and the city’s fashions, alert to the creatures familiar with the following creatures, who know more than Saint-Jacques. n meteorological observatory a day before the wind turns tomorrow and what it will bring. In this great nervous city, there is a staggering electric vibration, moving in the invisible air flows of a reputation, a hidden fame that prepares another, public; it traverses the same amount of vague salon breaths like that Nescio quid Majus nascitur Iliade , which then discharges at a given moment as advertizing articles and horns, such that it pushes a new idol name into the drums of boring ears. Otherwise it may happen that this fanfare will expel the man whose glory it proclaims, his first and best friends. And yet they are the responsible ones.
So Olivierk contributed to the Le Grand Journal article. He had taken advantage of the interest he had come to wake up to Christoph and had tried to mimic it with mysterious communications. He had been careful that Christophe would not have to speak to the newspaper industry on his own; he was afraid that there would be another bad mess again. But when the Le Grand Journalsparing her information, she organized cunningly in a way that a reporter could face Christophe in a cafe, at the same table where the friends sat together, without Christophe wondering what the man had in mind. Meanwhile, the conservative curiosity annoyed the eagerness’s curiosity and made Christophe even more interested. Olivier had not yet discovered what publicity meant; he did not think he was now twisting a terrible machine that could not be controlled or curbed when it was once launched.
When Olivier went to see Le Grand Journal an hour agoarticle, he was hit by a recession. He had no idea what the hell was about. At least he hadn’t been waiting for it right away. He thought the magazine would make a little bit of his mind and gather all the information he could, trying to get to know the person he wanted to talk to before writing about Christoph. It was a delusion. If a newspaper is willing to bother to bring some new magnitude to the public, it will of course make it alone and deprive other competing journals of the glory that revelation produces. It must therefore be fast, though it will not be able to learn how to understand the person it commends. But it is very rare for an artist to complain about it: when she is just admired, it doesn’t matter if she understands it!
Le Grand JournalI first put down trite stories of the misery of Christophe’s life, presenting him as a victim of German despotism, an apostle of freedom who had been forced to flee from the German Empire and resort to France, a place of salvation of those free spirits; – (an excellent opportunity to come up with patriotic proverbs!) – then it teased a murderous praise for his genius, whose samples he didn’t know at all, – nothing but some trivial chant pieces from the time Christophe first appeared in Germany, that Christophe would have been ashamed They burn. But the fact that the author of the article did not know Christophe’s remarkable production was replaced by talking about his future intentions – namely the intentions of the author’s own imagination and invention. A couple of three words accidentally hijacked by Christophe and Olivier’s mouth, and the information provided by a Christophe art connoisseur like Goujart, was sufficient for the author of the article to make a perfect picture of Christoph, “the Republican Power, – a great composer of democracy.” At the same time, he took advantage of the opportunity to bark French composers of his time, especially the most peculiar and self-contained, who gave the blaze of democracy, saving only a few composers whose party affections were commendable to him. He was sorry that their compositions were not as excellent as their principles. But now it was a side issue. Otherwise their praise for Christophen was not so important to him as the barking of other musicians. When Paris sees an article that praises someone, it’s always good to ask yourself: -. Who’s here? Olivier became more and more horrible if he stared at the magazine, and he said to himself: – Now I did the deeds! She could hardly give her hours. As soon as he got rid of it, he ran home. But how did he get depressed when he heard that Christophe had already left with the newspaper head for the city! Olivier waited for him to eat. Christophe didn’t come. Olivier’s anxiety grew momentarily, he thought: he ran home. But how did he get depressed when he heard that Christophe had already left with the newspaper head for the city! Olivier waited for him to eat. Christophe didn’t come. Olivier’s anxiety grew momentarily, he thought: he ran home. But how did he get depressed when he heard that Christophe had already left with the newspaper head for the city! Olivier waited for him to eat. Christophe didn’t come. Olivier’s anxiety grew momentarily, he thought:
– What fools they can make him speak!
At about 3 o’clock, Christophe returned home, in a very harsh mood. She had been having dinner with Arsène Gamachen, and her head was a little bit of a wheel of champagne she had drunk on them. He did not understand why Olivier asked him in his pain that he had said and done.
– What did you do? Eat a pork dinner. I haven’t got better for a long time.
Christophe began to list her:
– What about the wine … I am holkkinut every color!
Olivier stopped him and asked who there were other guests.
– Guest?… I don’t know. There was a gamache, a nice man, straight like gold; Clodomir, author of the article, great boy; three, four newsletters I didn’t know were really hilarious men, all very friendly to me, good men’s cream.
Olivier did not seem to believe Christophe’s insurances. Christophe wondered that Olivier was so little envious.
– You haven’t read that article? he asked his friend.
– Yes, I have. What about you, have you read it?
– Yes … Namely, I watched it. I didn’t get it right.
– Well, now you would read.
Christophe read. When he saw the first lines he exclaimed.
– Oh, what the rubbish! he said.
And he laughed to crack.
– Pyh, he thought, all the critics are the same. They don’t understand anything.
But as far as he read, he started getting angry: this was too mad, it made him ridiculous. That he was trying to form a “Republican composer”, it didn’t make any sense … Well, let’s just have a jar… But his “republican” art was placed in the opposite of the “Masters” and his great Masters who lived before him – (he who sucked his power the spirit of those Masters) – it was too much…
– You got the log heads! Make me an idiot!…
And then: what was the point of the skull when he talked about some capable French composers, of whom he liked more or less, – (rather, a bit more) – because they knew their profession and did it honorably? And, what was worse, – in his mouth, with utter incredible indignation, hostile expressions of emotion towards his fatherland!…
– I’ll write a letter to them right away, Christophe said.
Olivier came in between:
– No, no, he said, not now! You’re too excited now.
Tomorrow when your head is rested…
Christophe wanted to do it right away. When he had something to say, he could never wait until tomorrow. He promised only to show his friend a letter. It was a good decision. When the letter in which Christophe specifically addressed the paragraphs of the article where he was spoken of strange opinions about Germany had been properly improved, he ran to inject it into the post office.
“Of course it has been helped,” Christophe said, coming back; the adjustment will appear tomorrow.
Olivier shook his head calmly and skeptically. Then he said to
Christoph, still in his thoughts, looking at him firmly:
– Christophe, just didn’t you talk anything dangerous about those dinners?
– No, no, Christophe said, laughing.
– Are you sure?
– I’m a coward.
Olivier calmed down a bit. But Christophe wasn’t quite calm. He remembered that he had spoken of all kinds, crossed. She had a point in the company like her home. His head had not been scared to doubt those men: they seemed so kind to him, so sneaky to him! And indeed they were gracious. After all, a man is always Aulis and deserves to whom he has done good. And Christophe was so sincerely glad that the joy grabbed the others. His indomitable good-heartedness, his worry-free whisper, his terrible appetite and the speed at which drinks flicked into his throat, without acting on him, could not be uncomfortable with Arsène Gamachea, who he was a strong freak, a rotten man with a strong body, a mere contempt for those who were not glorious and did not dare to eat properly and did not drink because of the little Parisian gossip. He criticized men for digestion. And Christophen now accepted. As soon as he proposed, ChristophenGargantu would be performed as an opera in the Great Opera. – At that time, for those French bourgeoisie, the peak of art puts Faust’s disappearance on the stage or the Nine Symphony .) – (Gamache thought all the people were just her slaves.) – And when the proposal led Christophe to remember how strange to live his symphonic poem Davidrecently changed, then he told me about the performance that Ms. Roussin had arranged for her mistress for her debut. Gamache didn’t like Roussin at all, so he was fond of Christophe’s story. And then Christophe, while inspired by the goodwill of the good wines and the listener, still had other more or less sensitive things, from which the listeners weighed every word. Christophe alone forgot to leave them immediately after dinner. But now that Olivier asked what he had been talking about, they came back to his mind again. Christophe felt the cold colors passing his spine. For he waited for evil; he already had enough experience to figure out what would happen. Now that the hops had gone away from him, he saw everything in front of him: saw his ruthless speeches as distorted and published in the columns of an infamous magazine; What’s more, with his letter of rectification, he knew in advance as well as Olivier that answering the newspaper was a waste of ink: the newspaper always says the last word in the debate.