Christophe had no time to be surprised at such a revolution in the minds of his friends. He was too much occupied with his own mind, in which there had been an upheaval, the consequences of which he could not master. Olivier was much calmer than he, though he had much more reason to be upset. Of all Christophe’s acquaintance, he seemed to be the only one to escape the contagion. Though he was oppressed by the anxious waiting for the outbreak of war, and the dread of schism at home, which he saw must happen in spite of everything, he knew the greatness of the two hostile faiths which sooner or later would come to grips: he knew also that it is the part of France to be the experimental ground in human progress, and that all new ideas need to be watered with her blood before they can come to flower. For his own part, he refused to take part in the skirmish. While the civilized nations were cutting each other’s throats he was fain to repeat the device of Antigone: “I am made for love, and not for hate.”—For love and for understanding, which is another form of love. His fondness for Christophe was enough to make his duty plain to him. At a time when millions of human beings were on the brink of hatred, he felt that the duty and happiness of friends like himself and Christophe was to love each other, and to keep their reason uncontaminated by the general upheaval. He remembered how Goethe had refused to associate himself with the liberation movement of , when hatred sent Germany to march out against France.
Christophe felt the same: and yet he was not easy in his mind. He who in a way had deserted Germany, and could not return thither, he who had been fed with the European ideas of the great Germans of the eighteenth century, so dear to his old friend Schulz, and detested the militarist and commercial spirit of New Germany, now found himself the prey of gusty passions: and he did not know whither they would lead him. He did not tell Olivier, but he spent his days in agony, longing for news. Secretly he put his affairs in order and packed his trunk. He did not reason the thing out. It was too strong for him. Olivier watched him anxiously, and guessed the struggle which was going on in his friend’s mind: and he dared not question him. They felt that they were impelled to draw closer to each other than ever, and they loved each other more: but they were afraid to speak: they trembled lest they should discover some difference of thought which might come between them and divide them, as their old misunderstanding had done. Often their eyes would meet with an expression of tender anxiety, as though they were on the eve of parting forever. And they were silent and oppressed.
But still on the roof of the house that was being built on the other side of the yard, all through those days of gloom, with the rain beating down on them, the workmen were putting the finishing touches: and Christophe’s friend, the loquacious slater, laughed and shouted across:
“There! The house is finished!”
Happily, the storm passed as quickly as it had come. The chancelleries published bulletins announcing the return of fair weather, barometrically as it were. The howling dogs of the Press were despatched to their kennels. In a few hours the tension was relieved. It was a summer evening, and Christophe had rushed in breathless to convey the good news to Olivier. He was happy, and could breathe again. Olivier looked at him with a little sad smile. And he dared not ask him the question that lay next his heart. He said:
“Well: you have seen them all united, all these people who could not understand each other.”
“Yes,” said Christophe good-humoredly, “I have seen them united. You’re such humbugs! You all cry out upon each other, but at bottom you’re all of the same mind.”
“You seem to be glad of it,” remarked Olivier.
“Why not? Because they were united at my expense? … Bah! I’m strong enough for that … Besides, it’s a fine thing to feel the mighty torrent rushing you along, and the demons that were let loose in your hearts. …”
“They terrify me,” said Olivier. “I would rather have eternal solitude than have my people united at such a cost.”
They relapsed into silence: and neither of them dared approach the subject which was troubling them. At last Olivier pulled himself together, and, in a choking voice, said:
“Tell me frankly, Christophe: you were going away?”
Christophe replied:
“Yes.”
Olivier was sure that he would say it. And yet his heart ached for it. He said:
“Tell me, Christophe: could you … could you … ?”
Christophe drew his hand over his forehead and said:
“Don’t let’s talk of it. I don’t like to think of it.”
Olivier went on sorrowfully:
“You would have fought against us?”
“I don’t know. I never thought about it.”
“But, in your heart, you had decided?”
Christophe said:
“Yes.”
“Against me?”
“Never against you. You are mine. Where I am, you are too.”
“But against my country?”
“For my country.”
“It is a terrible thing,” said Olivier. “I love my country, as you do. I love France: but could I slay my soul for her? Could I betray my conscience for her? That would be to betray her. How could I hate, having no hatred, or, without being guilty of a lie, assume a hatred that I did not feel? The modern State was guilty of
