Suddenly, in the distance, there came a storm. A premonitory gust of wind blew up from the depths of the forest. Like a galloping horse it rushed over the swaying treetops. It was like the God of Michelangelo passing in a waterspout. It passed over Christophe’s head. The forest rustled, and Christophe’s heart quivered. It was the Annunciation. …
Silence came again. In a state of holy terror Christophe walked quickly home, with his legs giving way beneath him. At the door of the house he glanced fearfully behind him, like a hunted man. All Nature seemed dead. The forests which covered the sides of the mountain were sleeping, lying heavy beneath a weight of sadness. The still air was magically clear and transparent. There was never a sound. Only the melancholy music of a stream—water eating away the rock—sounded the knell of the earth. Christophe went to bed in a fever. In the stable hard by the beasts stirred as restlessly and uneasily as he. …
Night. He had dozed off. In the silence the distant storm arose once more. The wind returned, like a hurricane now—the foehn of the spring, with its burning breath warming the still sleeping, chilly earth, the foehn which melts the ice and gathers fruitful rains. It rumbled like thunder in the forests on the other side of the ravine. It came nearer, swelled, charged up the slopes: the whole mountain roared. In the stable a horse neighed and the cows lowed. Christophe’s hair stood on end, he sat up in bed and listened. The squall came up screaming, set the shutters banging, the weathercocks squeaking, made the slates of the roof go crashing down, and the whole house shake. A flowerpot fell and was smashed. Christophe’s window was insecurely fastened, and was burst open with a bang, and the warm wind rushed in. Christophe received its blast full in his face and on his naked chest. He jumped out of bed gaping, gasping, choking. It was as though the living God were rushing into his empty soul. The Resurrection! … The air poured down his throat, the flood of new life swelled through him and penetrated to his very marrow. He felt like to burst, he wanted to shout, to shout for joy and sorrow: and there would only come inarticulate sounds from his mouth. He reeled, he beat on the walls with his arms, while all around him were sheets of paper flying on the wind. He fell down in the middle of the room and cried:
“O Thou, Thou! Thou art come back to me at last!”
“Thou art come back to me, Thou art come back to me! O Thou, whom I had lost! … Why didst Thou abandon me?”
“To fulfil My task, that thou didst abandon.”
“What task?”
“My fight.”
“What need hast Thou to fight? Art Thou not master of all?”
“I am not the master.”
“Art Thou not All that Is?”
“I am not all that is. I am Life fighting Nothingness. I am not Nothingness, I am the Fire which burns in the Night. I am not the Night. I am the eternal Light; I am not an eternal destiny soaring above the fight. I am free Will which struggles eternally. Struggle and burn with Me.”
“I am conquered. I am good for nothing.”
“Thou art conquered? All seems lost to thee? Others will be conquerors. Think not of thyself, think of My army.”
“I am alone. I have none but myself. I belong to no army.”
“Thou art not alone, and thou dost not belong to thyself. Thou art one of My voices, thou art one of My arms. Speak and strike for Me. But if the arm be broken, or the voice be weary, then still I hold My ground: I fight with other voices, other arms than thine. Though thou art conquered, yet art thou of the army which is never vanquished. Remember that and thou wilt fight even unto death.”
“Lord, I have suffered much!”
“Thinkest thou that I do not suffer also? For ages death has hunted Me and nothingness has lain in wait for Me. It is only by victory in the fight that I can make My way. The river of life is red with My blood.”
“Fighting, always fighting?”
“We must always fight. God is a fighter, even He Himself. God is a conqueror. He is a devouring lion. Nothingness hems Him in and He hurls it down. And the rhythm of the fight is the supreme harmony. Such harmony is not for thy mortal ears. It is enough for thee to know that it exists. Do thy duty in peace and leave the rest to the Gods.”
“I have no strength left.”
“Sing for those who are strong.”
“My voice is gone.”
“Pray.”
“My heart is foul.”
“Pluck it out. Take Mine.”
“Lord, it is easy to forget myself, to cast away my dead soul. But how can I cast out the dead? how can I forget those whom I have loved?”
“Abandon the dead with thy dead soul. Thou wilt find them alive with My living soul.”
“Thou hast left me once: wilt Thou leave me again?”
“I shall leave thee again. Never doubt that. It is for thee never to leave Me more.”
“But if the flame of my life dies down?”
“Then do thou kindle others.”
“And if death is in me?”
“Life is otherwhere. Go, open thy gates to life. Thou insensate man, to shut thyself up in thy ruined house! Quit thyself. There are other mansions.”
“O Life, O Life! I see … I sought thee in myself, in my own empty shut-in soul. My soul is broken: the sweet air pours in through the windows
