“Give me your hand,” said Christophe.
He would amuse himself by opening the trapdoor of his realistic, tragic vision of life. Georges would draw away from it, and Christophe would shut it down again, laughing:
“How can you live like that?” Georges would ask.
“I am alive, and I am happy,” Christophe would reply.
“I should die if I were forced to see things like that always.”
Christophe would slap him on the shoulder:
“Fine athlete you are! … Well, don’t look, if your head is not strong enough. There is nothing to make you, after all. Go ahead, my boy. But do you need a master to brand your shoulder, like a sheep? What is the word of command you are waiting for? The signal was given long ago. The signal to saddle has sounded, and the cavalry is on the march. Don’t worry about anything but your horse. Take your place! And gallop!”
“But where to?” asked Georges.
“With your regiment to the conquest of the world. Conquer the air, master the elements, dig the last entrenchment of Nature, set back space, drive back death. …
“Expertus vacuum Dædalus aera. …”
“… Do you know that, you champion of Latin? Can you even tell me what it means?”
“Perrupit Acheronta. …”
“That is your lot, you happy conquistadores!”
So clearly did he show the duty of heroic action that had devolved upon the new generation, that Georges was amazed, and said:
“But if you feel that, why don’t you come with us?”
“Because I have a different task. Go, my boy, do your work. Surpass me, if you can. But I stay here and watch. … Have you read the Arabian Night in which a genii, as tall as a mountain, is imprisoned in a bottle sealed with the seal of Solomon? … The genii is here, in the depths of our soul, the soul into which you are afraid to look down. I and the men of my time spent our lives in struggling with him: we did not conquer him: he conquered us. At present we are both recovering our breath, and, with no rancor nor fear, we are looking at each other, satisfied with the struggles in which we have been engaged, waiting for the agreed armistice to expire. You are profiting by the armistice to gather your strength and cull the world’s beauty. Be happy. Enjoy the lull. But remember that one day, you or your children, on your return from your conquests, will have to come back to the place where I stand and resume the combat, with new forces, against the genii by whose side I watch and wait. And the combat will endure with intervals of armistice until one of the two (perhaps both) will be laid low. It is your duty to be stronger and happier than we! … —Meanwhile, indulge in your sport if you like: stiffen your muscles and strengthen your heart: and do not be so foolish as to waste your impatient vigor upon silly trifles: you belong to an age that, if you are patient, will find a use for it.”
Georges did not remember much of what Christophe said to him. He was open-minded enough to grasp Christophe’s ideas, but they escaped him at once. He forgot everything before he reached the bottom of the stairs. But all the same, he had a feeling of well-being, which endured when the memory of the words that had produced it had long been wiped out. He had a real veneration for Christophe. He believed in nothing that Christophe believed in (at heart he laughed at everything and had no belief). But he would have broken the head of any man who took upon himself to speak ill of his old friend.
Fortunately, no one did speak ill of him in his presence, otherwise he would have been kept busy.
Christophe had accurately forecast the next change of the wind. The new ideal of the new French music was very different from his own; but while that was a reason the more for Christophe to sympathize with it, its exponents had no sympathy with him. His vogue with the public was not likely to reconcile the most hungry for recognition of these young men to him; they were meagerly fed, and their teeth were long, and they bit. Christophe was not put out by their spite.
“How thoroughly they do it!” he would say. “These boys are cutting their teeth. …”
He was inclined to prefer them to the other puppies who fawned on him because of his success—those people of whom D’Aubigné writes, who “when a mastiff plunges his nose into a butter-pot, come and lick his whiskers by way of congratulation.”
He had a piece accepted at the Opéra. Almost at once it was put into rehearsal. Through a newspaper attack Christophe learned that a certain young composer’s piece had been postponed for it. The writer of the article waxed indignant over such abuse of power, and made Christophe responsible for it.
Christophe went to see the manager, and said:
“Why didn’t you tell me? You must not do it. You must put on the opera you accepted before mine.”
The manager protested, began to laugh, refused, covered Christophe’s character, work, genius, with flattery, and said that the other man’s work was beneath contempt, and assured him that it was worthless and would not make a sou.
“Why did you accept it then?”
“One can’t always do as one likes. Every now and then one has to throw a sop to public opinion. Formerly these young men could shout as much as they pleased. And no one listened to them. But now they are able to let loose on us the nationalist Press, which roars ‘Treason’ and calls you a disloyal Frenchman because you happen to have the misfortune to be unable to go into ecstasies over the younger school. The younger school! Let’s look at it! … Shall I tell you what I think of it? I’m sick of it! So
