“Not for the last time, my boy. We do not do what we will to do. We will and we live: two things. You must be comforted. The great thing is, you see, never to give up willing and living. The rest does not depend on us.”
Christophe repeated desperately:
“I have perjured myself.”
“Do you hear?” said Gottfried.
(The cocks were crowing in all the countryside.)
“They, too, are crowing for another who is perjured. They crow for every one of us, every morning.”
“A day will come,” said Christophe bitterly, “when they will no longer crow for me … A day to which there is no tomorrow. And what shall I have made of my life?”
“There is always a tomorrow,” said Gottfried.
“But what can one do, if willing is no use?”
“Watch and pray.”
“I do not believe.”
Gottfried smiled.
“You would not be alive if you did not believe. Everyone believes. Pray.”
“Pray to what?”
Gottfried pointed to the sun appearing on the horizon, red and frozen.
“Be reverent before the dawning day. Do not think of what will be in a year, or in ten years. Think of today. Leave your theories. All theories, you see, even those of virtue, are bad, foolish, mischievous. Do not abuse life. Live in today. Be reverent towards each day. Love it, respect it, do not sully it, do not hinder it from coming to flower. Love it even when it is gray and sad like today. Do not be anxious. See. It is winter now. Everything is asleep. The good earth will awake again. You have only to be good and patient like the earth. Be reverent. Wait. If you are good, all will go well. If you are not, if you are weak, if you do not succeed, well, you must be happy in that. No doubt it is the best you can do. So, then, why will? Why be angry because of what you cannot do? We all have to do what we can. … Als ich kann.”
“It is not enough,” said Christophe, making a face.
Gottfried laughed pleasantly.
“It is more than anybody does. You are a vain fellow. You want to be a hero. That is why you do such silly things. … A hero! … I don’t quite know what that is: but, you see, I imagine that a hero is a man who does what he can. The others do not do it.”
“Oh!” sighed Christophe. “Then what is the good of living? It is not worth while. And yet there are people who say: ‘He who wills can!’ ” …
Gottfried laughed again softly.
“Yes? … Oh! well, they are liars, my friend. Or they do not will anything much. …”
They had reached the top of the hill. They embraced affectionately. The little peddler went on, treading wearily. Christophe stayed there, lost in thought, and watched him go. He repeated his uncle’s saying:
“Als ich kann (The best I can).”
And he smiled, thinking:
“Yes. … All the same. … It is enough.”
He returned to the town. The frozen snow crackled under his feet. The bitter winter wind made the bare branches of the stunted trees on the hill shiver. It reddened his cheeks, and made his skin tingle, and set his blood racing. The red roofs of the town below were smiling under the brilliant, cold sun. The air was strong and harsh. The frozen earth seemed to rejoice in bitter gladness. And Christophe’s heart was like that. He thought:
“I, too, shall wake again.”
There were still tears in his eyes. He dried them with the back of his hand, and laughed to see the sun dipping down behind a veil of mist. The clouds, heavy with snow, were floating over the town, lashed by the squall. He laughed at them. The wind blew icily. …
“Blow, blow! … Do what you will with me. Bear me with you! … I know now where I am going.”
Part IV
Revolt
I
Shifting Sands
Free! He felt that he was free! … Free of others and of himself! The network of passion in which he had been enmeshed for more than a year had suddenly been burst asunder. How? He did not know. The filaments had given before the growth of his being. It was one of those crises of growth in which robust natures tear away the dead casing of the year that is past, the old soul in which they are cramped and stifled.
Christophe breathed deeply, without understanding what had happened. An icy whirlwind was rushing through the great gate of the town as he returned from taking Gottfried on his way. The people were walking with heads lowered against the storm. Girls going to their work were struggling against the wind that blew against their skirts: they stopped every now and then to breathe, with their nose and cheeks red, and they looked exasperated, and as though they wanted to cry. He thought of that other torment through which he had passed. He looked at the wintry sky, the town covered with snow, the people struggling along past him: he looked about him, into himself: he was no longer bound. He was alone! … Alone! How happy to be alone, to be his own! What joy to have escaped from his bonds, from his torturing memories, from the hallucinations of faces that he loved or detested! What joy at last to live, without being the prey of life, to have become his own master! …
He went home white with snow. He shook himself gaily like a dog. As he passed his mother, who was sweeping the passage, he lifted her up, giving little inarticulate cries of affection such as one makes to a tiny child. Poor old Louisa struggled in her son’s arms: she was wet with the melting snow: and she called him, with a jolly laugh, a great gaby.
He went up to his room three steps at a time.—He could hardly see himself in his little mirror it was so dark. But his heart was glad. His room was low and narrow and it was
