And they were in France too. The nationalists of the music magazines – most of them foreigners – blew him against his face with some kind of fury in his nationality. Christophe’s success was much higher; And now the fashion got mixed up, causing the evil that because it wasted him too much incense, he teased people who didn’t belong to a certain party, and for the more reason more. At Christophe’s concerts nowadays, not only fine and young magazine pencilists regularly visited, but also their enthusiasts of art, and they got into their halls; there was no music before him. Some of them began to explain his works and invent philosophical intentions, which he himself was stunned to hear. Others saw a revolution in composition art, an attack on traditions that Christophe respected more than anyone else. He wouldn’t have helped argue. He would have been proven not to understand what he had written himself. Those admirers admired him while admiring himself. – So Christophe’s professional brothers were very happy about this war against him; they were furious about the “humbuugelel” he held on his behalf, even though he was absolutely innocent. They didn’t need any reason to keep their compositions out: most of them knew for him the naturally understandable irritability of artists who have no idea and who express it in a non-existent manner, according to the learned patterns, while a man whose head is full of ideas may interpret them somewhat clumsily, creating his imagination in accordance with the demands of seeming disorder. How many times were all kinds of wastefulers, which consisted of a style to follow the recipes of a corner or school, to pour themselves into their pancake, to blame him for not having a style!
Christophe’s best friends were those who did not try to understand him and who alone understood him, because they simply loved him because he felt his work good for himself; but after all, there were trivial listeners who had no voice. The only one who might have responded heavily to Christophe was Olivier; but then he separated from Christoph and seemed to have forgotten him. So Christophe was thrown between his opponents and his admirers, who were racing against him. She got tired of everything that didn’t respond to any attacks. When he read the judgments he was pronounced in the columns of a mighty magazine, those self-contained reviews, whose authors mastered the art with the ruthlessness of their whole ignorance and intact status, he just shook their shoulders and said: but then he separated from Christoph and seemed to have forgotten him. So Christophe was thrown between his opponents and his admirers, who were racing against him. She got tired of everything that didn’t respond to any attacks. When he read the judgments he was pronounced in the columns of a mighty magazine, those self-contained reviews, whose authors mastered the art with the ruthlessness of their whole ignorance and intact status, he just shook their shoulders and said: but then he separated from Christoph and seemed to have forgotten him. So Christophe was thrown between his opponents and his admirers, who were racing against him. She got tired of everything that didn’t respond to any attacks. When he read the judgments he was pronounced in the columns of a mighty magazine, those self-contained reviews, whose authors mastered the art with the ruthlessness of their whole ignorance and intact status, he just shook their shoulders and said:
– Just judge me. I will judge you. See you in a hundred years!
But in the meanwhile, the malicious acts continued with full force; and the public, as usual, took the mouth against the stupid and most libelous accusations.
As if his position hadn’t been hard enough already, Christophe was just messing with the publisher right now. And he had no reason to criticize Hecke because Hecht always published all his new works and was a decent man in business. It is true that it did not prevent him from commissioning unfavorable contracts from Christophella; but he kept his contract. Even he kept them too careful. One day, Christophe was surprised to see that one of his writings was arranged as a quartet, and one piano set for two hands was clumsily applied to four hands, and nothing was reported to him. He ran for Hecht’s speeches, pushed the dead pieces before him and said:
– Do you know these?
– No doubt, Hecht replied.
– And you dared… dared to falsify my works without asking me for permission!…
– What’s your promise? said Hecht. Your works are my property.
– Also mine, probably.
– No, Hecht responded moderately. Christophe whispered.
– Isn’t my job mine?
– They’re no longer yours. You have sold them to me.
– You’re playing! I am myönyt you sheets of paper. Make money from them if you want. But what’s written on them is to beat, that’s mine.
– You’ve sold me all. In exchange for the work that has been there, I have promised you a reward of three hundred francs, which must be paid the full amount by performing thirty Sentime each edition of the work of the first chapter. So you have given me, without any conditions or restrictions, all your rights to your work.
– Does the right to destroy my work?
Hecht shrugged his shoulders, played the clock and said to one of his officers:
– Come here, Monsieur Krafft. He read seriously to Christophhe’s agreement, which Christophe had never seen, and – in accordance with the convention rules that the composers usually used at that time, – “Hecht was transferred to all rights, opportunities and interests of the author, including the right to publish, publish, draw , print, translate, rent, and sell for your own benefit, in what form you wanted, to perform at the concerts, Café concerts, dances, theaters, etc., to publish every instrumental arrangement, including words, as well as change its name…
– You see now, Christophe Hecht said that I have been very reasonable.
– Clearly, Christophe replied; I must thank you. You would have been able to make coffee in my septet.
She was shocked and shook her head.
– I am myönyt soul, he kept saying.
“Be sure I’m not using it wrong,” Hecht said vaguely.
– And how is it possible, said Christophe, that your Republican justifies such a scam! Here it is claimed that man is free. But the ideas are sold as a merchant.
– You have received the payment, answered Hecht.
– Thirty silver pendants, just right, Christophe answered. You’ll get them back.
He dug his pockets to give Hecht back three hundred francs. But he didn’t have them. Hecht’s mouth smiled, a little disdainful. That smile got Christophe’s rage.
– I want all my work back, he said; I buy them from you.
– There’s no right to that, Hecht replied. But since Tapani is by no means keeping people out of violence, I agree to give them back – if you are inclined to pay me appropriate compensation.
– That’s what I do, Christophe said, even if I had to sell myself.
He agreed two weeks later without compromising on the conditions imposed by Hecht. So he made the impossible madness that he bought the editions of his works five times higher than they had given him, even though that price was not exaggerated: for it was exactly calculated according to the actual victories Hecht himself would have obtained from Christophe’s works. Christophe couldn’t pay; and Hecht had taken it into account. He didn’t worry about harassing Christoph because he regarded him as an artist and a man of greater value than any other musician; but he wanted to give him a little sermon: for he did not allow his righteousness to be dared to cuddle. He hadn’t made those laws, they were created by that time: he thought they were quite reasonable. By the way, he was convinced that they were watching the author’s interests well, as did the publisher, who knows better than the author to distribute the works, and not in the shops, as he does, all kinds of emotions, causes that are respectable, but detrimental to the artist’s real interests. He had decided to help Christophe win; but it had to happen in the manner prescribed by Hecht, and on the condition that Christophe surrendered with his skins his power. Hecht wanted to show Christoph that his ministry was not so easy to postpone. They made a new contract on the following terms: if Christophe didn’t get the amount done within six months, his work would remain exclusive to Hecht. It was easy to guess
However, he stubbornly tried; he moved out of his apartment, full of loved memories, and rented a cheaper one; – he sold some of his goods, and he didn’t get much price for them; – took out his debts and resorted to a friendly Mooch, who at that time was in very little money and still sick, staying inside his nails; “Christophe tried to get another publisher and got every place to hear the same lucrative terms as Hecht had given him, unless his offer was rejected.”
At that time, the attacks on the music magazines were at their worst. Especially one of the most remarkable Parisian leaves was unrecognizable; Some of its journalists who did not appear in their own name had chosen him as an alien to the goal: not a week did Les Echosreleased some tragic news to make Christophe ridiculous. The music review complemented the work of that masked colleague: the smallest subject was enough to cause him to break his anger. And these were no more than the initial bites: the slogan promised to continue at every suitable occasion, and intended to be a final, systematic execution. The attackers didn’t hurry too much, for they knew that no clear accusation was effective in the public as much as the inferior persistent hints. They played Christophella as a cat with the mouse. Christophe, to whom those articles were naturally sent, despised them, but still could not suffer from them. However, he was silent. And instead, that he would have answered – (and would he otherwise have had the opportunity to answer, even if he wanted to?) – he only continued to produce his useless and disproportionate match with his publisher. He lost all his time, power, and money, and the only weapons he had, because he wanted the people to force their works out of publicity, which Hecht had certainly helped.
Suddenly everything changed completely. The latest article promised by the magazine did not appear. There was an end to the lullabies. The attack stopped at that place. Even more: a couple of three weeks later, the reviewer of the same magazine wrote as a coincidence of a few gratifying lines that seemed to indicate that peace had been made. A great Leipzig publisher wrote to Christoph and offered to publish his works; the contract was made to Christoph on very favorable terms. He received a very flattering letter in the envelope of the Austrian Embassy, in which he expressed the wish to have some of his works in the program of party celebrations held in the delegation. Filomela, who had begun to take care of Christophe’s affairs, was asked to sing at one of these evenings; and after that, they wanted to appear in all the aristocratic salons of the German and Italian colonies of Paris. Christophe himself, who could not go to such a concert, received the ambassador very politely. And yet he noticed Christophe when he talked with a momentary messenger that that gentleman who was not very musical had known his works. Where did this kind of hobby suddenly come from? An invisible hand seemed to protect him, to destroy the obstacles, to pave the way for him. Christophe tried to make that friend clear. The ambassador, through the shore, expressed some of Christophe’s friends who were very fond of him, namely the Count and Countess Berény. Christophe didn’t even know their name; and he didn’t get that night when he visited the embassy, the opportunity to present himself to them. Then he didn’t worry any more about getting into their acquaintance. At that time he had such a period of humanity that he cared as little as his friends and enemies: friends and enemies were just as uncertain; bleak like a windbreaker; had to learn how to get along without them and say as an old wise man who lived in the 17th century:
” God gave friends to me; he took them away; they left me. I leave them, and I don’t mind. ”
After Christophe had left Olivier, Olivier had not given him a sign of life; everything seemed to have run out of them. Christophe didn’t want to make new friends. He thought that the Count and Count Berény were similar to many other gigs who had claimed to be his friends; he did not try to get them to meet the country. If the opportunity had come, he would have fled them better.
He would have wanted to escape from all of Paris. For a few weeks, she loved the gentle loneliness. If he had been allowed to slip for a day, only for a few days to come back to his native land! Gradually it grew into a longing for sickness. He wanted to see the river again, his sky, the country where his dear ones slept in the soil. She had to get them to see. But he couldn’t do it except in the face of losing his freedom: he was still under arrest warrant he was convicted of when he fled from Germany. But he felt that he would do whatever madness he’d just have to visit in his home country to be there even one day.
Fortunately, he talked about this about one of his new protectors. When a young German embassy officer, who he once met at those nightclubs where his works were performed, told him that his fatherland was proud of a composer like him, and Christophe replied bitterly:
– It’s so proud of me to let me die in front of me without opening it to me.
A young diplomat asked him to explain what that meant; and after a day he came to meet Christoph and said to him:
– You are being interested in a very high place. A noble person who alone has the ability to prevent the execution of the judgment that has been directed at you has been informed of your status as a bitch; and he has been forced to be moved. I do not know to what extent your music may have liked him: for – (among us) – he does not have a very good taste; but he is otherwise smart and kind-hearted. Even though it is not possible, nowadays, to repeal the commandment you are under, you are now inclined to look through your fingers if you want to spend two days in your hometown to see your acquaintances there. Here’s your passport. You look at it when you arrive and leave. Be wise, do not focus now on yourself.
Christophe saw his native land again. The two days he’d been allowed to be there, he used to just socialize with his loved ones who slept there. She went to her mother’s grave. Kumpu was grassy; but it had recently been imported flowers. Right next door slept father and grandfather. He sat in front of the graves. They were right next to the stone wall of the cemetery. The chestnut tree, which grew on the other side of the fence, pressed along the road, curved over the graves and overshadowed them. Behind the low fence, there were golden grain fields that softened smoothly in the warm wind; the sun radiated to peace over a sleeping land; in the middle of the grain was the quirky voices of the quail, and the cymbals were hissing in the grave. Christophe sat there alone and asleep. His heart was calm. He leaned on the fence, his hands around his knee, and looked at the sky. His eyes fell to the bottom. How was everything simple. He felt at home, with his own. He stood beside them, hand in hand. Hours passed. In the afternoon there was a stroll of steps from a sandy corridor. The gate went past, Christophe saw him sitting there. Christophe asked him who had brought flowers here. The man replied that a housewife from Buir was here a couple of times a year.
Then they talked.
– You can be the boy? asked the man.
– He had three, Christophe said.
– I mean the one in Hamburg. For those others who have gone bad.
Christophe sat head slightly in the back, motionless and silent.
The sun started to fall.
– I have to close the gates, said the guard. Christophe got up and walked with the man quietly at the cemetery. The guard stared at her that fable. Christophe stopped to watch the tombs. How many familiar people he saw there together! Euler’s elder and his delusions, – farther away from his childhood friends, the little girls with whom he had once played, – and that name that deeply shaken into his heart: Aada… Peace for all…
The descending sun flames shone on the calm beach. Christophe left the cemetery. He walked a long time in the city. The stars were lit…
The next day he came back to the cemetery, and spent the night side of yesterday’s spot. And, yesterday’s sweet, quiet peace had now begun to live. His heart sang a careless and lucky anthem. He sat on the stone frame of the tomb and wrote in his knee with a pencil on the note book the song he heard. The day went by. She felt like she had been working in her former tight chamber, and that mother was there behind the door. When he stopped and he had to leave, he had already risen from the grave, he changed his mind and came back, and pushed his booklet into the tomb in the grass, in the cache of murmur trees. A few raindrops drowned. Christophe thought:
– It will soon be erased. But that’s nothing!… Only for you.
No one else.
He was also watching the Rhein stream, seeing the streets that had so much changed. At the gates of the city, at the foot of the old ramparts, the little acacia forest planted as a child, conquered so much area that it choked old trees. As he walked across the wall of the wall surrounding von Kerichi’s garden, he knew the bumper he’d climbed into a small garden to look at; and he wondered how small the street, the wall, and the garden seemed to him. Christophe paused for a moment for the house. He was going to continue his journey with the wagons. He instinctively raised his face; and his eyes were in the eyes of a young, fresh-looking fat and hilarious man who looked at him with a curious look. And then the woman exclaimed with her astonishment. He pointed and the wagons stopped. He said:
– Mr. Krafft! Christophe stopped. The woman continued laughing:
Christophe ran to him almost as shocked as he had seen him for the first time. [See Jean-Christopbe: II, Morning.] Alongside Minna, a gentleman, tall, fat, rocky, sat down; his whiskers were heroically turned upright; Minna introduced her: ” Herr Reichsgerichtsrat von Brombach”, – her husband. Minna wanted Christophen to come in. Christophe tried to apologize to go, but Minna exclaimed:
– No no; Christophe must come for dinner.
The lady spoke loudly and quickly and immediately asked questions without waiting for her whole life. The head of Christophe went to the bike with such noisy slang language; he barely understood half; he just looked at the speaker. It was his little Minna. He was a flourishing, robust, full-bodied, beautiful skin, hippie color reddish, but the features spread, especially with a solid nose fluttered. Movements, behavior, little compliments were former; but the volume of everything had changed.
Meanwhile, the lady did not stop talking: she told Christoph the history of the past, his personal story of how he had loved her husband, and how her husband had loved her. Christophe was a little embarrassed. Mrs. was very optimistic with no reviews; so he had his own city, home, family, husband, food, four children and had himself better than others, – (at least when he had to see others). He said of her husband, and the man, hearing that Herr Reichsgerichtsrat was “the greatest man he had ever seen”, that his man lived a “superhuman power”. That “greatest man” then clapped laughing at Maana’s cheeks and declared to Christoph that Minna was a “rare woman”.It seemed to be clear about Christophe’s affairs, and it seemed not right to know whether he should treat him in a friendly or non-friendly manner, because he was Christophe on the other hand in exile, but on the other hand again in a very noble guard: he then passed the golden midway. What came to Minna, he spoke one measure. When he had challenged grain to Christoph himself, he continued from Christoph; he tempted him with questions; they were just as sensitive as the answers he gave to Christoph quite wrong, because Christophe didn’t ask him anything at all. Minna was charmed to see Christophe; he didn’t know any of his works; but he knew Christophe was known; and he was glad that Christophe had loved him (and that he had abandoned Christophe). – Minna led the play down, and not just teasing to play, the former times of Christophe’s mind. He asked Christoph to write his name on his album. He inquired firmly about any kind of Paris. He was as curious about that city as he despised. It was like feeling it because he had seen itLes Folies Bergère , Great Opera, Montmartre Alley and Saint-Cloud. In his opinion, all the pair pairs of cocoons , bad mothers, they had as few children as possible, and they did not care about them, but left them alone at home in theaters and other entertainment venues. Minna did not defy any objections. During the evening, he wanted Christoph to play something on the piano. He said it was charming. But from the bottom, she admired as much her husband’s calling as her husband, which she liked in every respect for everyone else, as she was better than the others.
Christophe was also pleased to meet Minna’s mother, Mrs von Kerich, at the house. Christoph was hiding his secret affection for her, because she was good for her. That goodness was as great as before, and he was more natural than Minna; but in his behavior Christophea felt the same kind of irony that was so annoying before Christoph. He had remained at the stage of development Christophe had previously remembered; he liked the same things as then; and it seemed to him that nothing in the world could be different or better than he thought; he compared Jean-Christoph to the current one; and he was better than him.
None of Mrs von Kerich’s acquaintances except Christophe had changed their spirit. The small town’s immobility and cramped vision made Christophea painful. His host had spent a part of that night telling him all the small things that were not known to Christophe. They were well aware of the ridiculous aspects of their neighbors; and they utterly ridiculed all that differed from themselves and their ways. That malevolent sniffing and an obsolete nonsense care finally made Christophe a totally unbearable impression. He tried to talk about his life abroad. But he felt that it was impossible for them to perceive the French civilization, the culture that he had suffered, but that he became loved by him, when he remembered it now in his own country; So, love the Latin spirit, whose first commandment is intelligence: understand as much as possible life and thoughts, even if you reject the moral rules. In these survivors, and especially in Minna, he noticed the same self-indulgence that he had encountered in ancient times here, but which he had already forgotten in the meantime; despising the defects of those people who could not get through, the “irregular” superiority of the accustomed aptitude service, public contempt. There was the firm and preaching conviction that he was always right. There were no other nuances in judging other people. Otherwise, Minna didn’t care to understand them, she only took care of her self. And his selfishness was still touched by some kind of metaphysical water color. There was always the purpose of “self” and the development of its “self”. She was maybe a good woman and was capable of love. But he loved himself too much. Above all, it was too much respected. Looked like he always and the alinoma would have spoken She was maybe a good woman and was capable of love. But he loved himself too much. Above all, it was too much respected. Looked like he always and the alinoma would have spoken She was maybe a good woman and was capable of love. But he loved himself too much. Above all, it was too much respected. Looked like he always and the alinoma would have spokenFather’s mother and prayer prayer in front of her “own”. It seemed like he would have ceased completely and for a lifetime to love the most deeply loved one if he were for a moment – (for example, he would have done a thousand repentance), – forgot his respect for his own, “worthy”…. Also sometimes think, “You! …”
But Christophe did not look at Minna very hard now. He who was usually so easy to irritate was listening patiently as an angel. He denied himself criticizing Minna. He encircles him with the sacred memory of his childhood love as soon as he radiates; and he persevered in seeing that little Minna in that lady. It was not impossible to find it in some of his stores; in his voice, there were shakes that awakened Christophian moving echoes. Christophe fell asleep to observe them, did not speak anything, did not listen to the words Minna spoke, even though they were heard and was respectful to him all the time. But it was hard for Christophen to concentrate his thoughts on what he wanted: that woman held too loud, he prevented Christoph from hearing Minna. Finally, Christophe got up,
– Little Minna! Believe me that you would be here, in that beautiful and obese woman who screams and is sad. But I know you’re not in him. Let’s go out, Minna. What do we have to do with these people?
And Christophe left, giving the gentleman to think he would come back the next day. If he had told them that he had to travel the next night, they would not have let him go, but he should have been there until the train left. As soon as he reached the street, he met in the darkness of the darkness the same good effect he had felt before he saw the carriages. The memory of the disturbing evening disappeared as if sweeping: there was no sign of it; Rhein’s voice weighed it out. Christophe went to the river, near the house where he was born. He had no difficulty knowing it. Shutters were now closed; it all slept. Christophe stopped in the middle of the street; he felt that if he had knocked on the door, the familiar ghosts would have come to him. He went to a small lawn that was beneath the house by the stream, to the place where he had previously spoken with Gottfried before. That’s where he sat down. And the past days awoke again in his mind. And that cute little girl who had enjoyed the dreams of first love with her rose from the dead. They now lived together with their former, merciful times, its sweet tears and indefinable desires. And Christophe said to himself with a gentle smile: They now lived together with their former, merciful times, its sweet tears and indefinable desires. And Christophe said to himself with a gentle smile: They now lived together with their former, merciful times, its sweet tears and indefinable desires. And Christophe said to himself with a gentle smile:
– Life has not taught me anything. I can really feel… experience… I always have the same imaginations.
How good is love and faith to cease! Everything to which love applies is safe from death.
– Minna, who is with me – the one who is with me, not the other , – Minna, who never dies!