“We did so, in China.”
“Very well, then: look about you. Don’t you see that the heroic idealism of your country and every other country in Europe is actually threatened? Don’t you see that they are all, more or less, a prey to the adventurers of every class of society? To fight that common enemy, don’t you think you should join with those of your adversaries who are of some worth and moral vigor? How can a man like you set so little store by the realities of life? Here are people who uphold an ideal which is different from your own! An ideal is a force, you cannot deny it: in the struggle in which you were recently engaged, it was your adversaries’ ideal which defeated you. Instead of wasting your strength in fighting against it, why not make use of it, side by side with your own, against the enemies of all ideals, the men who are exploiting your country and your wealth of ideas, the men who are bringing European civilization to rottenness?”
“For whose sake? One must know where one is. To make our adversaries triumph?”
“When you were in Africa, you never stopped to think whether you were fighting for the King or the Republic. I fancy that not many of you ever gave a thought to the Republic.”
“They didn’t care a rap.”
“Good! And that was well for France. You conquered for her, as well as for yourselves, and for the honor and the joy of it. Why not do the same here? Why not widen the scope of the fight? Don’t go haggling over differences in politics and religion. These things are utterly futile. What does it matter whether your nation is the eldest daughter of the Church or the eldest daughter of Reason? The only thing that does matter is that it should live! Everything that exalts life is good. There is only one enemy, pleasure-seeking egoism, which fouls the sources of life and dries them up. Exalt force, exalt the light, exalt fruitful love, the joy of sacrifice, action, and give up expecting other people to act for you. Do, act, combine! Come! …”
And he laughed and began to bang out the first bars of the march in B minor from the Choral Symphony.
“Do you know,” he said, breaking off, “that if I were one of your musicians, say Charpentier or Bruneau (devil take the two of them!), I would combine in a choral symphony ‘Aux armes, citoyens!,’ ‘l’Internationale,’ ‘Vive Henri IV,’ and ‘Dieu Protège la France!’—(You see, something like this.)—I would make you a soup so hot that it would burn your mouth! It would be unpleasant—(no worse in any case than what you are doing now):—but I vow it would warm your vitals, and that you would have to set out on the march!”
And he roared with laughter.
The Commandant laughed too:
“You’re a fine fellow, Monsieur Krafft. What a pity you’re not one of us!”
“But I am one of you! The fight is the same everywhere. Let us close up the ranks!”
The Commandant quite agreed: but there he stayed. Then Christophe pressed his point and brought the conversation back to M. Weil and the Elsbergers. And the old soldier no less obstinately went back to his eternal arguments against Jews and Dreyfusards, and nothing that Christophe had said seemed to have had the slightest effect on him.
Christophe grew despondent. Olivier said to him:
“Don’t you worry about it. One man cannot all of a sudden change the whole state of mind of a nation. That’s too much to expect! But you have done a good deal without knowing it.”
“What have I done?” said Christophe.
“You are Christophe.”
“What good is that to other people?”
“A great deal. Just go on being what you are, my dear Christophe. Don’t you worry about us.”
But Christophe could not surrender. He went on arguing with Commandant Chabran, sometimes with great vehemence. It amused Céline. She was generally present at their discussions, sitting and working in silence. She took no part in the argument: but it seemed to make her more lively: and quite a different expression would come into her eyes: it was as though it gave her more breathing-space. She began to read, and went out a little more, and found more things to interest her. And one day, when Christophe was battling with her father about the Elsbergers, the Commandant saw her smile: he asked her what she was thinking, and she replied calmly:
“I think M. Krafft is right.”
The Commandant was taken aback, and said:
“You … you surprise me! … However, right or wrong, we are what we are. And there’s no reason why we should know these people. Isn’t it so, my dear?”
“No, father,” she replied. “I would like to know them.”
The Commandant said nothing, and pretended that he had not heard. He himself was much less insensible of Christophe’s influence than he cared to appear. His vehemence and narrow-mindedness did not prevent his having a proper sense of justice and very generous feelings. He loved Christophe, he loved his frankness and his moral soundness, and he used often bitterly to regret that Christophe was a German. Although he always lost his temper in these discussions, he was always eager for more, and Christophe’s arguments did produce an effect on him, though he would never have been willing to admit it. But one day Christophe found him absorbed in reading a book which he would not let him see. And when Céline took Christophe to the door and found herself alone with him, she said:
“Do you know what he was reading? One of M. Weil’s books.”
Christophe was delighted.
“What does he say about it?”
“He says: ‘Beast!’ … But he can’t put it down.”
Christophe made no allusion to the fact with the Commandant. It was he who asked:
“Why have you stopped hurling that blessed Jew at my head?”
“Because I don’t think there’s any need to,”
