Jean-Christophe

which had taken place in his symphonic poem, David, he went so far as to tell the story of the performance organized by Deputy Roussin to introduce his mistress to the public. Gamache, who did not like Roussin, was delighted: and Christophe, spurred on by the generous wines and the sympathy of his hearers, plunged into other stories, more or less indiscreet, the point of which was not lost on those present. Christophe was the only one to forget them when the party broke up. And now, on Olivier’s question, they rushed back to his memory. He felt a little shiver run down his spine. For he did not deceive himself: he had enough experience to know what would happen: now that he was sober again he saw it as clearly as though it had actually happened: his indiscretions would be twisted and distorted, and scattered broadcast as malicious blabbing, his artistic sallies would be turned into weapons of war. As for his letter correcting the article, he knew as well as Olivier how much that would avail him: it is a waste of ink to answer a journalist, for he always has the last word.

Everything happened exactly to the letter as Christophe had foreseen it would. His indiscretions were published, his letter was not. Gamache only went so far as to write to him that he recognized the generosity of his feelings, and that his scruples were an honor to him: but he kept his scruples dark: and the falsified opinions attributed to Christophe went on being circulated, provoking biting criticism in the Parisian papers, and later in Germany, where much indignation was felt that a German artist should express himself with so little dignity about his country.

Christophe thought he would be clever, and take advantage of an interview by the reporter of another paper to protest his love for the Deutsches Reich, where, he said, people were at least as free as in the French Republic.⁠—He was speaking to the representative of a Conservative paper, who at once credited him with anti-Republican views.

“Better and better!” said Christophe. “But what on earth has my music to do with politics?”

“It is usual with us,” said Olivier. “Look at the battles that have taken place over Beethoven. Some people will have it that he was a Jacobin, others a mountebank, others still a Père Duchesne, and others a prince’s lackey.”

“He’d knock their heads together.”

“Well, do the same.”

Christophe only wished he could. But he was too amiable with people who were friendly towards him. Olivier never felt happy when he left him alone. For they were always coming to interview him: and it was no use Christophe promising to be guarded: he could not help being confidential and unreserved. He said everything that came into his head. Women journalists would come and make a fuss of him, and get him to talk about his sentimental adventures. Others would make use of him to speak ill of such-an-one, or so-and-so. When Olivier came in he would find Christophe utterly downcast.

“Another howler?” he would ask.

“Of course,” Christophe would reply in despair.

“You are incorrigible!”

“I ought to be locked up.⁠ ⁠… But I swear that it is the last time.”

“Yes, I know. Until the next.⁠ ⁠…”

“No. This really is the last.”

Next day Christophe said triumphantly to Olivier:

“Another one came today. I shut the door in his face.”

“Don’t go too far,” said Olivier. “Be careful with them. ‘This animal is dangerous.’ He will attack you if you defend yourself.⁠ ⁠… It is so easy for them to avenge themselves! They can twist the least little thing you may have said to their uses.”

Christophe drew his hand across his forehead:

“Oh! Good Lord!”

“What’s the matter?”

“When I shut the door in his face I told.⁠ ⁠…”

“What?”

“The Emperor’s joke.”

“The Emperor’s?”

“Yes. His or one of his people’s.⁠ ⁠…”

“How awful! You’ll see it tomorrow on the front page!”

Christophe shuddered. But, next day, what he saw was a description of his room, which the journalist had not seen, and a report of a conversation which he had not had with him.

The facts were more and more embellished the farther they spread. In the foreign papers they were garnished out of all recognition. Certain French articles having told how in his poverty he had transposed music for the guitar, Christophe learned from an English newspaper that he had played the guitar in the streets. He did not only read eulogies. Far from it. It was enough for Christophe to have been taken up by the Grand Journal, for him to be taken to task by the other papers. They could not as a matter of dignity allow the possibility of a rival’s discovering a genius whom they had ignored. Some of them were rabid about it. Others commiserated Christophe on his ill-luck. Goujart, annoyed at having the ground cut away from under his feet, wrote an article, as he said, to set people right on certain points. He wrote familiarly of his old friend Christophe, to whom, when he first came to Paris, he had been guide and comforter: he was certainly a highly gifted musician, but⁠—(he was at liberty to say so, since they were friends)⁠—very deficient in many ways, ill-educated, unoriginal, and inordinately vain; so absurdly to flatter his vanity, as had been done, was to serve him but ill at a time when he stood in need of a mentor who should be wise, learned, judicious, benevolent, and severe, etc.⁠—(a fancy portrait of Goujart).⁠—The musicians made bitter fun of it all. They affected a lofty contempt for an artist who had the newspapers at his back: and, pretending to be disgusted with the vulgum pecus, they refused the presents of Artaxerxes, which were not offered them. Some of them abused Christophe: others overwhelmed him with their commiseration. Some of them⁠—(his colleagues)⁠—laid the blame on Olivier.⁠—They were only too glad to pay him out for his intolerance and his way of holding aloof from them⁠—rather, if the truth were known,