The train took them to the darkness

Christophe and Mr. Langeais returned from the station. Christophe said biting playfully and naively:

– Now we’re both widowed!

Mr Langeais burst out laughing. He liked much about Christoph, which he had now learned. They uttered goodbye to each other, and each went on their own. They both suffer pain; but the sadness and the sweetness were mixed with it. And alone in his room thought Christophe:

However, my best soul is now happy.

Olivier’s chamber had been left entirely unchanged. The friends had agreed that the furniture and memorabilia of the traveling friend would stay in Christophe’s apartment until Olivier returned and set up a new home for himself. It felt like Olivier was still there. Christophe watched Antoinette’s photo, put it on her desk and said to her:

– Dear, are you happy now?

Christophe often wrote to his friend – a little too often. He got some letters from him, distracted and increasingly alienating in content. Christophe was disappointed but not very sorry. He assured himself that he had to be so; and he was not troubled by the fate of their friendship.

Loneliness didn’t bother her. Far from it: barely he had enough. He began to suffer from the protection of Le Grand Journal . Arsène Gamache had a strong tendency to believe that he had full ownership of the graces he had taken to bring to public: he seemed natural to have his glory added to his own, just as Ludvig XIV gathered Molière, Le Brun and Lull around his throne. Christophe felt that the gentleman who had forged Hymn for irgir was more selfish and no more disturbing to the art than his protector, Le Grand Journalboss. For this journalist, although he did not understand the art more than the Emperor of Germany, was, like that emperor, very confident in his art; what he did not love, he did not suffer its existence: he declared it bad and harmful; and he destroyed it for the common good. How comical and damaging men, aficionados, who have no culture and culture, but require to control not only the political and the monetary world, but also the spiritual life, and offer it a canopy, a collar and a food cup, and can, if they refuse to protect them, believe it Tens of thousands of intelligent creatures from which they have raised a obedient hound of horses. – Christophe was not a man who would agree to such a command. He had nothing to do with the assumption that a donkey would advise him about what he had to do or not to do in his music work; and he clearly stated to Arsne Gamach that artistic work required more maturation than politics. He refused, and at no point, to compose a silly libretto by its author,Journal’s first accountants, tried to get on stage and recommended by boss Christophelle. Then Christophe and Gamache splashed for the first time.

Christophe was not about it. He barely had a reputation, and he was once again awake. He found himself ” exposed to the sun, in the light of which a man loses himself to the flock of others .” Too many considered him to be of any concern. He thought about these words of Goethe:

” When a writer has become noticeable about a worthy work, the audience will try to prevent him from producing another kind of thing … A strong self-centered ability to force the world into a whirlwind, because everyone thinks they can capture a piece of talent from it .”

Christophe closed his doors from the outside world and instead approached some old friends in his house. She was once again in the family of Arnaud, whom she had recently forgotten a little. M: We Arnaud, who was most of the day alone, could remember the sorrows of the other, so much time he had. That woman was now thinking of how empty Christoph could feel when Olivier had left; and he overcame his sincerity and once called Christophe to his home for dinner. If he had dared, he would have offered to check and clean up Christophe’s apartment from time to time; but he lacked courage; and maybe it was best; because Christophe didn’t like to get into his affairs. But he agreed to the dinner invitations, and then he went every night with his neighbors.

He met that modest couple in the former harmony, met a similar gentle, somewhat sad atmosphere, painful and even grayer than before. Arnaud himself had now come to the power of spiritual humiliation, which was caused by torture of teacher action, – a tiring work that repeats every day the same as yesterday, as if it were a rotating wheel, never stopping, never going forward. Though that decent man was very patient, he had now come to the grief of depression. He imagined he had been the victim of injustice, his vulnerability was useless. M: We Arnaud encouraged him with gentle words; the wife still seemed as calm as before; but his face was pale. Christophe once congratulated the Lord on hearing that she had such a wise wife:

– Yes, Arnaud admitted, he is so kind, nothing can ever make him balanced. He is a happy being; and i am too. If he had begun to suffer from this life, I think I too would be in ruin.

M: We were blushing Arnaud and quiet. Then, with a restful voice, he started talking about other things. – Christophe’s visits had a former positive effect; he brought that home light; and he enjoyed being warmed up in the vicinity of those good hearts.

Become a new friend of her. Or, rather, Christophe himself was looking for him, because although that person hoped to get to know Christophe, he had no way of trying to get along with him. She was a young girl, recently a five-third year old, musician, award winning at the Conservatory as the first piano player. His name was Cécile Fleury. He was a short-sized, fairly vantter. Eyebrows, beautiful eyes, oval in shape, moist, nose small and thick, vertical, slightly reddish, like duck beak; lips hollow, their tone good and affectionate; jaw vigorous, solid and fat, forehead not high, but wide. The dagger was twisted to the top of the neck. Arms strong, hands pianist: big hands, thumbs curled out, fingertips squared. His whole being was a bit clumsy, juicy, rustic. She lived with her mother, whom she loved greatly; Mom was a good person whose mind music wasn’t really attached, but who talked about it because she had always heard about it and usually knew all the newsMusicopolis knew. Cécile got along so and so, gave hours every day, and sometimes concerts that no one noticed. He came from the city to his home on foot or by tram, getting exhausted, but always in a good mood; and boldly he played his scale and sewed his hat, talked a lot and laughed and sang a lot, without any special reason for joy.

He had not been spoiled by life. He knew to give value to the little prosperity he had gained through his own efforts, – to enjoy the joy of little amusements, the slightest progress in his financial position, or the development of his artistic gifts. So if he earned five francs more this month than the previous one, or if he managed to play well for that or the Chopin’s point he’d been trying to do for weeks, – he was happy. His work, which was not overwhelmingly fervent, excellently matched his character’s tendencies and satisfied him as a sensible health care. Calling, singing, giving lessons brought him a pleasant feeling due to his willingness to act, a sense of normal and regular life, and at the same time a modest economic comfort and peaceful little artist success. She had a good appetite, she ate a lot, slept well and was never sore.

That direct, sincere, rational and reasonable man of balance had never been worried about anything: for he always lived in the present, without thinking what had happened before and what the opposition would bring with him. And when he was always well-off and his life was quite secured from the fate of destiny, he was almost always satisfied. She was as pleased to practice playing as cooking or cooking, or doing nothing. He could live, not from day to day, – (for he was economical and looking ahead) – but from minute to minute. No idealism bothered his head; the only thing he had with idealism, if it could be said, was bourgeois; it was scattered apart in all his chores, distributed to all the parts of his life; its content was to love everything he did peacefully, no matter what. He visited the holy church; but religious feelings had no place in his life. He admired fervent beings and fervent people such as Christophe who have faith or great genius gifts. But he did not envy them: what would he have done with their restless soul or their brother?

How could he then interpret their music? It would have been difficult for him to explain. But he knew he understood the music. His superiority with other virtuosos was in his steady physical and mental balance; in his life-threatening being, with no personal passions, the guests’ passions fell on a good ground and flourished. They were not disturbed by them at all. The terrible horrors who had been the artist, he interpreted their entire original power, but their poison did not get into his blood; he knew nothing more than their strength and the fatigue that followed the effort. When the performance ended, he was quite polished and exhausted; he smiled calmly and was pleased.

Christophe heard him in an evening concert and his play was very much attracted to his attention. After the concert he went to squeeze the pianist’s hand. Cécile Fleury was grateful for her: there were few audiences in the concert, and the girl hadn’t been too complacent. When he did not have the flexibility to wash into one of the musicians’ corners, and did not cuddle to get the admirer of his admirer; when he did not try to distinguish himself from other pianists by any kind of technical exaggeration or the interpretation of well-known works according to his own imagination and did not require himself to deal with just that or that great master, Johan Sebastian Bach or Beethoven; – and because he hadn’t molded any theory about what he was playing, he was just playing what he felt, – No one noticed him, and the criticism was not known to him: for no one had said that he played well; and the critics themselves would not have invented him.

Christophe then met Cécile often. A powerful and calm girl attracted her like a mystery. Cécile was juicy and heartless at the same time. Christophea angered that she was not more well-known and therefore suggested to Cécil that she, Christophe, would put Le Grand Journala group of friends to write about him. But even though Cécile was pleased that he was so praised, he asked Christophe not to do anything at all. He did not want to fight, and not to struggle, to awaken in others envy; he wanted to live in his own peace. He was not talked about: the better! He was not jealous; he was first prepared to admire the technique of other skiers. He had no honor and no other lusts. His soul life was remarkably lazy! When he did not have a definite task for a moment, he did nothing, nothing at all; he didn’t even dream; At night, even in bed, he either slept or was thinking nothing. And he didn’t even have the passion to marry, the sick of the sick, who is poisoning the lives of girls who are afraid of being old. When asked if he wouldn’t have fun if he had a good man, he replied:

– Why not fifty thousand francs interest as well? You have to settle for what you get. If something is offered, the better. Unless, I will come to action. If you do not get wheat, there is no reason to refuse to eat rye bread. Especially when you have long bitten a very hard cake.

– And especially when there are a lot of people who don’t get it every day, mother continued.

By the way, Cécile had good reasons to doubt men. His father, who had died a few years ago, had been weak and lazy; he had done a lot of evil to his wife and children. Besides, Cécile had a brother who had gone bad; not exactly what he had become; from time to time he appeared at home to make money; he was feared and destroyed, and thought about what he would hear once; and yet they loved him. Christophe saw him once. He was then at Cécile: the doorbell rang; Mom went to open. In the adjoining room there was a word exchange that became loud. Cécile became very restless and in turn went out, leaving Christophe alone. The controversy continued and the foreign voice was threatening; Christophe thought he might have had to go to help women: he opened the door. The best thing he did was see a pretty deceased young man who turned his back on him: Cécile rushed to Christophe and prayed to go inside. He then came with Christophe to another room. They sat for a moment. In the adjoining chamber, the entrant still awoke, a few minutes; then he left and fired at the door. Cécile got a sigh, and he said to Christoph:

– So … it was a brother.

Christophe understood him:

– Ah, he replied… I know it… I also have one…

Cécile took her by the hand, deeply in the air:

– You too?

– Yeah, said Christophe … They are the family joys.

Cécile laughed; then they talked about the rest. No, family joy didn’t attract Cécile at all, and marriages did not blind her eyes: there wasn’t much about men. The life of an independent person had its own merits: Cecile’s mother had long dreamed of such freedom; Cécile didn’t want to miss it. The only dreams he had in him and what he occasionally had fun was the desire that he didn’t need to give lessons and that he could always be on the ground – if it could ever happen, God knew when! But Cécile didn’t even take the trouble to imagine what life would be like: it was useless to think about such uncertainties; it was better to land, and to do their work…

And while he was waiting for his windbreak, he always rented a small villa near Paris in the summer and lived there with his mother. It was twenty minutes away from the city by train. The villa was quite far from the station, in a very secluded location, in the midst of vague countries of quality, called the fields; and Cecile often came from the city very late in the darkness of the night. But he was not afraid; he never believed in any danger. He had a revolver; but he always forgot to go home. Besides, he would hardly have been able to launch it.

As a guest of Cécile, Christophe called that girl. He was amused to see how Cécile deepened his musical works; it succeeded especially when Christophe directed him to the mood that was to be expressed. Christophe noticed that Cécile had an excellent voice: the girl himself hadn’t thought of it. He forced Cécile to practice: he sang the German Liedi or his own compositions; Cécile became enthusiastic and now progressing so well that she was amazed, and so did Christophe. Cécile was amazingly talented. The spark of the music was shining like a coincidence with this little Parisian little podium, where there has been no whim of the artist’s feeling. Filomela- (Christophe called her by that name) – sometimes talked about music with Christophe, but always in a practical, never emotional way; he seemed not to be a mind-bending other than the technical side of singing and playing piano. But more often, when they didn’t call, they were talking about bourgeois things: economic and kitchen, home-made chores. And Christophe, who would not have been able to tolerate such things with a bourgeoisie in any way, regarded them as quite natural when talking with Filomela.

So they spent together their evenings, between them, and sincerely kept each other, quite peaceful and almost cold. One night, when Christophe had come to dinner in a villa rented by Cécile, he became enthusiastic about talking later than usual. Then, when he was going to the city with the last train, it was raining and the wind was raging; Cécile said to her:

– Do not go yet! Come on tomorrow morning.

Christophe got a bed in a small hall with a temporarily littered bed. The thin partition separated him from Cécile’s bedroom, and the doors didn’t close properly. He heard a second bed of fatigue in his bed and a calm breath of a young woman. After five minutes, Cécile was asleep in a deep sleep; and soon Christophe also fell asleep, and even the disturbing thought of his soul.

At the same time, he still had other friends: unknown friends who were attracted to him by his works. Most of them lived far from Paris, and there, too, inside their own walls, and they never met Christoph. There may be something good about superficial success: it makes the artist familiar with the thousands of alive people who would never have been able to approach him unless the stupid articles in the newspapers helped him. Christophe was in contact with some of these. They were lonely young men, in a difficult situation, struggling for the ideal of the whole soul, which they had no assurance of; And now they were thrilled by Christophe’s brotherly soul. Or were they insignificant in the countryside, who had read his Lied and now wrote letters to him as he used to be old Schulz, and felt like his spirits. Even they had poor artists, including a composer, who had not succeeded and could not succeed even in public success, then express their own soul; they were very happy when Christophe now made their ideas. And the most loved Christophes, perhaps, were those who wrote his name without expressing him, so they could speak to him freely, dismantling his entire moving trust in his oldest brother, who had now come to help them. The heart of Christophe swelled from affection when he thought he would never feel those noble souls, to whom he would have so gladly shown his love; and he kissed letters from these strangers, just as their authors had kissed ChristopheLiedi ; and each of them thought about it:

– How good are these expensive pages for me.

Thus, according to the universal rhythm law of the universe, the whole little family of the genius whose center is the master and who feeds him and gives him food is formed around Christophe. it gradually grows and finally forms a great collective soul, whose heat supply it is, enlightening, like the spiritual planet, circulating in space and connecting its brotherhood to the harmony of spheres.

The bridgehead as this mysterious liaison broke between Christophe and his invisible friends, also in his artistic view, a reform; he expanded and became more humane. He no longer wanted to speak the music that was a solo call to himself; even less scientific construction for professionals only. He wanted art to connect with other people. There is no living art other than one that unites with others. Only Johan Sebastian Bach joined, with his worst isolation moments, to the other religious devotion his art was expressing. Handel and Mozart wrote the matter to the public, not to themselves. Even Beethoven had to take a large herd. It’s healthy. Is good,

– What’s in your art for me? If there’s nothing, you can go!

This compulsion has the greatest benefit for itself. There are some great artists who just express themselves. But the biggest ones are those whose hearts light up for everyone. Who wants to see the face of a living God in the face, he should not seek his thoughts of desolate space, but of human love.

Today’s artists were far from this love. They did not write to the non-vanishing bosses, the more or less anarchist, out of society’s life, whose honor was to avoid other people’s prejudices and blind passions or to laugh at them. Healthy indeed: cut off the members of your life, not like the others! So the death will come to them! Instead, we are going to live, we drink from the earth, from the sources where all our families flow deep and holy; we drink the love of our fathers into the genus and the soil. In the freest time of the world, among the nation that served feverish beauty, during that time the young king of Italian Renaissance, Rafael, worshiped Mother Trasteverenmadonnissaan. Who makes us today Madonna della Sedian ? Who makes us music for all moments of life? No man in France is the only one. When you, the French, want to donate your country’s songs, you have to settle for the music of the ancient German Champions. Everything in your art is still to be done, or done again, from bottom to top…

Christophe was in correspondence with Olivier’s friend who had settled in a small town today. He was trying to keep their co-operation pending, the work that had been carrying so much fruit in recent times. He would have liked to have beautiful poetry texts that would fit every day’s thoughts and chores such as the old German Lieds in the basic tone. Short fragments of holy books, Hindu poems, old Greek philosophy, religious or moral idols, small natural paintings, lime and family moods, evening, morning and night poems, simple and healthy hearts. Five six verses for each Liedenough; the simplest forms of expression: no scientific breakdown, no refinement. What will I do with your aesthetic skill? Love my life, help me love it, and life. Write to me the Fairy-tale Fair, Morning and Evening Fair. And let’s look together for the brightest and melodic melody. Let’s look like a plague of artistic sayings, a hunch of professionals that are so characteristic of French writers and composers today. You have to dare to talk like a man and not an “artist”, a skater. I have to draw from the common well for everyone, without using the usual shapes that have been labeled and filled with souls for centuries. See how the fathers did before. Gluck, the symphony composer and his time LiedMasters’ melodic phrases are often everyday and bourgeois compared to sophisticated and learned phrases by Johan Sebastian Bach and Rameau. That soil emblem is due to the juiciness and infinite popularity of the great classics in the eyes of the public. They have left the most subtle musical forms like Lied, Singspiel; it is the flowers of everyday life that have stamped the childhood of Mozart or Weber. – Do the same. Write songs for all the world. Then you build the quartets and symphonies. Why go beyond the sea to fish? The pyramid is not to be built from the top. Your current symphony is endless bodies, stubborn thoughts. Oh, beauties, come on flesh! Entire generations of patient musicians are needed, gladly and piously bragging with their people. Sound art is not built in one day.

Christophe was not limited to adapting these principles to music alone; he urged his friend to take up a similar movement in literary matters:

– The current writers, Christophe, are wasting their power on describing human dignities or incidents that are common only in abnormal group communities, outside the large society of healthy and functional people. Because they themselves have withdrawn from the door of life, leave them and go to the people. Show everyday life to people at all times: it is deeper and more infinite than the sea. Even the smallest of us carry infinite limits. It is boundless in every person who knows how to be a simple person; it is in love, it is a friend and a woman who pays for the joyful glory of the day of childbirth at birth; that’s the life of life, who runs from one of us to another, and again from us to us … Write about the simple life of someone of such a modest man, the restless epic of the following days and nights, the days that are all the same and different, all the children of the same mother, from the first day of the world. Simply write about it as life goes. Don’t worry about words, sublime expressions that contemporary artists are wasting. You’re talking to everyone: speak the language of everyone. There are no noble or mundane words, no pure or uncut style; it is not as significant as to say clearly what needs to be said. Give yourself what you are doing: think what you think and feel what you feel. Your heart’s rhythm will fly to your pen! Style is like spirit. and again about us… Write about the simple life of someone of such a modest man, the restless epic of the following days and nights, the days that are all the same and yet different, all the children of the same mother, from the first day of the world. Simply write about it as life goes. Don’t worry about words, sublime expressions that contemporary artists are wasting. You’re talking to everyone: speak the language of everyone. There are no noble or mundane words, no pure or uncut style; it is not as significant as to say clearly what needs to be said. Give yourself what you are doing: think what you think and feel what you feel. Your heart’s rhythm will fly to your pen! Style is like spirit. and again about us… Write about the simple life of someone of such a modest man, the restless epic of the following days and nights, the days that are all the same and yet different, all the children of the same mother, from the first day of the world. Simply write about it as life goes. Don’t worry about words, sublime expressions that contemporary artists are wasting. You’re talking to everyone: speak the language of everyone. There are no noble or mundane words, no pure or uncut style; it is not as significant as to say clearly what needs to be said. Give yourself what you are doing: think what you think and feel what you feel. Your heart’s rhythm will fly to your pen! Style is like spirit.

Olivier accepted Christophe’s views; but he replied with a bit of a mockery:

– Such a work could be beautiful; but it would never get into the hands of those who could read it. Criticism would strangle it to death right at the start of the journey.

– But you, the French bourgeoisie! replied by Christophe. So you care about what criticism of books thinks or does not think…… Criticism, boy-parka, has no other meaning than to record the profits or losses of the writers. Just keep your winnings … I’ve already got critics! Learn how to get…

But Olivier had learned to get a lot more! He was coming out of art, Christoph and the whole world. At that time, he didn’t think of anything other than Jacqueline, and Jacqueline was nothing but him.