He was more the victim of passion than an ordinary man. It is the necessity of the nature of men of genius. Even the most chaste, like Beethoven and Bürchner, must always be in love: every human capacity is raised to a higher degree in them, and as, in them, every human capacity is seized on by their imagination, their minds are a prey to a continual succession of passions. Most often they are only transitory fires: one destroys another, and all are absorbed by the great blaze of the creative spirit. But if the heat of the furnace ceases to fill the soul, then the soul is left defenseless against the passions without which it cannot live: it must have passion, it creates passion: and the passions will devour the soul … —and then, besides the bitter desire that harrows the flesh, there is the need of tenderness which drives a man who is weary and disillusioned of life into the mothering arms of the comforter, woman. A great man is more of a child than a lesser man: more than any other, he needs to confide in a woman, to lay his head in the soft hands of the beloved, in the folds of the lap of her gown.
But Christophe could not understand. … He did not believe in the inevitability of passion—the idiotic cult of the romantics. He believed that a man can and must fight with all the force of his will. … His will! Where was it? Not a trace of it was left. He was possessed. He was stung by the barbs of memory, day and night. The scent of Anna’s body was with him everywhere. He was like a dismantled hulk, rolling rudderless, at the mercy of the winds. In vain did he try to escape, he strove mightily, wore himself out in the attempt: he always found himself brought back to the same place, and he shouted to the wind:
“Break me, break me, then! What do you want of me?”
Feverishly he probed into himself. Why, why this woman? … Why did he love her? It was not for her qualities of heart or mind. There were any number of better and more intelligent women. It was not for her body. He had had other mistresses more acceptable to his senses. What was it? … —“We love because we love.”—Yes, but there is a reason, even if it be beyond ordinary human reason. Madness? That means nothing. Why this madness?
Because there is a hidden soul, blind forces, demons, which every one of us bears imprisoned in himself. Our every effort, since the first existence of humanity, has been directed towards the building up against this inward sea of the dykes of our reason and our religions. But a storm arises (and the richest souls are the most subject to storms), the dykes are broken, the demons have free play, they find themselves in the presence of other souls uptorn by similar powers. … They hurl themselves at each other. Hatred or love? A frenzy of mutual destruction?—Passion is the soul of prey.
The sea has burst its bounds. Who shall turn it back into its bed? Then must a man appeal to a mightier than himself. To Neptune, the God of the tides.
After a fortnight of vain efforts to escape, Christophe returned to Anna. He could not live away from her. He was stifled.
And yet he went on struggling. On the evening of his return, they found excuses for not meeting and not dining together: at night they locked their doors in fear and dread.—But love was stronger than they. In the middle of the night she came creeping barefooted, and knocked at his door. She wept silently. He felt the tears coursing down her cheeks. She tried to control herself, but her anguish was too much for her and she sobbed. Under the frightful burden of her grief Christophe forgot his own: he tried to calm her and gave her tender, comfortable words. She moaned:
“I am so unhappy. I wish I were dead. …”
Her plaint pierced his heart. He tried to kiss her. She repulsed him:
“I hate you! … Why did you ever come?”
She wrenched herself away from him. She turned her back on him and shook with rage and grief. She hated him mortally. Christophe lay still, appalled. In the silence Anna heard his choking breathing: she turned suddenly and flung her arms round his neck:
“Poor Christophe!” she said. “I have made you suffer. …”
For the first time he heard pity in her voice.
“Forgive me,” she said.
He said:
“We must forgive each other.”
She raised herself as though she found it hard to breathe. She sat there, with bowed back, overwhelmed, and said:
“I am ruined. … It is God’s will, He has betrayed me. … What can I do against Him?”
She stayed for a long time like that, then lay down again and did not stir. A faint light proclaimed the dawn. In the half-light he saw her sorrowful face so near his. He murmured:
“The day.”
She made no movement.
He said:
“So be it. What does it matter?”
She opened her eyes and left him with an expression of utter weariness. She sat for a moment looking down at the floor. In a dull, colorless voice she said:
“I thought of killing him last night.”
He gave a start of terror:
“Anna!” he said.
She was staring gloomily at the window.
“Anna!” he said again. “In God’s name! … Not him! … He is the best of us! …”
She echoed:
“Not him. Very well.”
They looked at each other.
They had known it for a long time. They had known where the only way out lay. They could not bear to live a lie. And they had never even considered the possibility of eloping together. They knew perfectly well that
