Jean-Christophe Journey's End Part 62

"It will not go on much longer."

He would feel the pulse of his human egoism and wonder:

"Which would you prefer? To have the name and personality of Christophe become immortal and his work disappear, or to have his work endure and no trace be left of his personality and name?"

Without a moment's hesitation he replied:

"Let me disappear and my work endure! My gain is twofold: for only what is most true of me, the real truth of myself will remain. Let Christophe peris.h.!.+..."

But very soon he felt that he was becoming as much a stranger to his work as to himself. How childish was the illusion of believing that his art would endure! He saw clearly not only how little he had done, but how surely all modern music was doomed to destruction. More quickly than any other the language of music is consumed by its own heat; at the end of a century or two it is understood only by a few initiates. For how many do Monteverdi and Lully still exist? Already the oaks of the cla.s.sic forest are eaten away with moss. Our buildings of sound, in which our pa.s.sions sing, will soon be empty temples, will soon crumble away into oblivion.--And Christophe was amazed to find himself gazing at the ruins untroubled.

"Have I begun to love life less?" he wondered.

But at once he understood that he loved it more.... Why weep over the ruins of art? They are not worth it. Art is the shadow man casts upon Nature. Let them disappear together, sucked up by the sun's rays! They prevent my seeing the sun.--The vast treasure of Nature pa.s.ses through our fingers. Human intelligence tries to catch the running water in the meshes of a net. Our music is an illusion. Our scale of sounds is an invention. It answers to no living sound. It is a compromise of the mind between real sounds, the application of the metric system to the moving infinite. The mind needs such a lie as this to understand the incomprehensible, and the mind has believed the lie, because it wished to believe it. But it is not true. It is not alive. And the delight which the mind takes in this order of its own creation has only been obtained by falsifying the direct intuition of what is. From time to time, a genius, in pa.s.sing contact with the earth, suddenly perceives the torrent of reality, overflowing the continents of art. The d.y.k.es crack for a moment. Nature creeps in through a fissure. But at once the gap is stopped up. It must be done to safeguard the reason of mankind.

It would perish if its eyes met the eyes of Jehovah. Then once more it begins to strengthen the walls of its cell, which nothing enters from without, except it have first been wrought upon. And it is beautiful, perhaps, for those who will not see.... But for me, I will see Thy face, Jehovah! I will hear the thunder of Thy voice, though it bring me to nothingness. The noise of art is an hindrance to me. Let the mind hold its peace! Let man be silent!...

But a few minutes after this harangue he groped for one of the sheets of paper that lay scattered on his bed, and he tried to write down a few more notes. When he saw the contradiction of it, he smiled and said:

"Oh, my music, companion of all my days, thou art better than I. I am an ingrate: I send thee away from me. But thou wilt not leave me: thou wilt not be repulsed at my caprice. Forgive me. Thou knowest these are but whimsies. I have never betrayed thee, thou hast never betrayed me; and we are sure of each other. We will go home together, my friend. Stay with me to the end."

_Bleib bei uns...._

[Ill.u.s.tration: Musical notation]

He awoke from a long torpor, heavy with fever and dreams. Strange dreams of which he was still full. And now he looked at himself, touched himself, sought and could not find himself. He seemed to himself to be "another." Another, dearer than himself.... Who?... It seemed to him that in his dreams another soul had taken possession of him. Olivier?

Grazia?... His heart and his head were so weak! He could not distinguish between his loved ones. Why should he distinguish between them? He loved them all equally.

He lay bound in a sort of overwhelming beat.i.tude. He made no attempt to move. He knew that sorrow lay in ambush for him, like a cat waiting for a mouse. He lay like one dead. Already.... There was no one in the room.

Overhead the piano was silent. Solitude. Silence. Christophe sighed.

"How good it is to think, at the end of life, that I have never been alone even in my greatest loneliness!... Souls that I have met on the way, brothers, who for a moment have held out their hands to me, mysterious spirits sprung from my mind, living and dead--all living.--O all that I have loved, all that I have created! Ye surround me with your warm embrace, ye watch over me. I hear the music of your voices. Blessed be destiny, that has given you to me! I am rich, I am rich.... My heart is full!..."

He looked out through the window.... It was one of those beautiful sunless days, which, as old Balzac said, are like a beautiful blind woman.... Christophe was pa.s.sionately absorbed in gazing at the branch of a tree that grew in front of the window. The branch was swelling, the moist buds were bursting, the little white flowers were expanding; and in the flowers, in the leaves, in the whole tree coming to new life, there was such an ecstasy of surrender to the new-born force of spring, that Christophe was no longer conscious of his weariness, his depression, his wretched, dying body, and lived again in the branch of the tree. He was steeped in the gentle radiance of its life. It was like a kiss. His heart, big with love, turned to the beautiful tree, smiling there upon his last moments. He thought that at that moment there were creatures loving each other, that to others this hour, that was so full of agony for him, was an hour of ecstasy, that it is ever thus, and that the puissant joy of living never runs dry. And in a choking voice that would not obey his thoughts--(possibly no sound at all came from his lips, but he knew it not)--he chanted a hymn to life.

An invisible orchestra answered him. Christophe said within himself:

"How can they know? We did not rehea.r.s.e it. If only they can go on to the end without a mistake!"

He tried to sit up so as to see the whole orchestra, and beat time with his arms outstretched. But the orchestra made no mistake; they were sure of themselves. What marvelous music! How wonderfully they improvised the responses! Christophe was amused.

"Wait a bit, old fellow! I'll catch you out."

And with a tug at the tiller he drove the s.h.i.+p capriciously to left and right through dangerous channels.

"How will you get out of that?... And this? Caught!... And what about this?"

But they always extricated themselves: they countered all his audacities with even bolder ventures.

"What will they do now?... The rascals!..."

Christophe cried "bravo!" and roared with laughter.

"The devil! It is becoming difficult to follow them! Am I to let them beat me?... But, you know, this is not a game! I'm done, now.... No matter! They shan't say that they had the last word...."

But the orchestra exhibited such an overpoweringly novel and abundant fancy that there was nothing to be done but to sit and listen open-mouthed. They took his breath away.... Christophe was filled with pity for himself.

"Idiot!" he said to himself. "You are empty. Hold your peace! The instrument has given all that it can give. Enough of this body! I must have another."

But his body took its revenge. Violent fits of coughing prevented his listening:

"Will you hold your peace?"

He clutched his throat, and thumped his chest, wrestled with himself as with an enemy that he must overthrow. He saw himself again in the middle of a great throng. A crowd of men were shouting all around him. One man gripped him with his arms. They rolled down on the ground. The other man was on top of him. He was choking.

"Let me go. I will hear!... I will hear! Let me go, or I'll kill you!..."

He banged the man's head against the wall, but the man would not let him go.

"Who is it, now? With whom am I wrestling? What is this body that I hold in my grasp, this body warm against me?..."

A crowd of hallucinations. A chaos of pa.s.sions. Fury, l.u.s.t, murderous desires, the sting of carnal embraces, the last stirring of the mud at the bottom of the pond....

"Ah! Will not the end come soon? Shall I not pluck you off, you leeches clinging to my body?... Then let my body perish with them!"

Stiffened in shoulders, loins, knees, Christophe thrust back the invisible enemy.... He was free.... Yonder, the music was still playing, farther and farther away. Dripping with sweat, broken in body, Christophe held his arms out towards it:

"Wait for me! Wait for me!"

He ran after it. He stumbled. He jostled and pushed his way.... He had run so fast that he could not breathe. Has heart beat, his blood roared and buzzed in his ears, like a train rumbling through a tunnel....

"G.o.d! How horrible!"

He made desperate signs to the orchestra not to go on without him.... At last! He came out of the tunnel!... Silence came again. He could hear once more.

"How lovely it is! How lovely! Encore! Bravely, my boys!... But who wrote it, who wrote it?... What do you say? You tell me that Jean-Christophe Krafft wrote it? Oh! come! Nonsense! I knew him. He couldn't write ten bars of such music as that!... Who is that coughing?

Don't make such a noise!... What chord is that?... And that?... Not so fast! Wait!..."

Christophe uttered inarticulate cries; his hand, clutching the quilt, moved as if it were writing: and his exhausted brain went on mechanically trying to discover the elements of the chords and their consequents. He could not succeed: his emotion made him drop his prize.

He began all over again.... Ah! This time it was too difficult....

"Stop, stop.... I can no more...."

His will relaxed utterly. Softly Christophe closed his eyes. Tears of happiness trickled down from his closed lids. The little girl who was looking after him, unknown to him, piously wiped them away. He lost all consciousness of what was happening. The orchestra had ceased playing, leaving him on a dizzy harmony, the riddle of which could not be solved.

His brain went on saying:

"But what chord is that? How am I to get out of it? I should like to find the way out, before the end...."