“Let be, Christophe. I am giving you back what you lent me!”
Though Christophe took the attacks on himself lightly, there was one other man who was very far from such disinterestedness. This was Emmanuel.
The evolution of European thought was progressing swiftly. It was as though it had been accelerated by mechanical inventions and the new motors. The stock of prejudices and hopes which in old days were enough to feed humanity for twenty years was now exhausted in five years. The generations of the mind were galloping ahead, one behind the other, often one trampling the other down, with Time sounding the charge.—Emmanuel had been left behind.
The singer of French energy had never denied the idealism of his master, Olivier. Passionate as was his national feeling, he identified himself with his worship of moral greatness. If in his poetry he loudly proclaimed the triumph of France, it was because in her, by an act of faith, he adored the loftiest ideas of modern Europe, the Athena Nike, the victorious Law which takes its revenge on Force.—And now Force had awakened in the very heart of Law, and it was springing up in all its savage nakedness. The new generation, robust and disciplined, was longing for combat, and, before its victory was won, had the attitude of mind of the conqueror. This generation was proud of its strength, its thews, its mighty chest, its vigorous senses so thirsting for delight, its wings like the wings of a bird of prey hovering over the plains, waiting to swoop down and try its talons. The prowess of the race, the mad flights over the Alps and the sea, the new crusades, not much less mystic, not much less interested than those of Philip Augustus and Villehardouin, had turned the nation’s head. The children of the nation who had never seen war except in books had no difficulty in endowing it with beauty. They became aggressive. Weary of peace and ideas, they hymned the anvil of battle, on which, with bloody fists, action would one day new-forge the power of France. In reaction against the disgusting abuse of systems of ideas, they raised contempt of the idea to the level of a profession of faith. Blusteringly they exalted narrow common sense, violent realism, immodest national egoism, trampling underfoot the rights of others and other nations, when it served the turn of their country’s greatness. They were xenophobes, anti-democrats, and—even the most skeptical of them—set up the return to Catholicism, in the practical necessity for “digging channels for the absolute,” and shutting up the infinite under the surveillance of order and authority. They were not content to despise—they regarded the gentle dotards of the preceding generation, the visionary idealists, the humanitarian thinkers of the preceding generation, as public malefactors. Emmanuel was among them in the eyes of the young men. He suffered cruelly and was very angry.
The knowledge that Christophe was, like himself—more than himself—the victim of their injustice, made him sympathetic. His ungraciousness had discouraged Christophe’s visits. He was too proud to show his regret by seeking him out. But he contrived to meet him, as if by chance, and forced Christophe to make the first advances. Thereafter his umbrageous susceptibilities were at rest, and he did not conceal the pleasure he had in Christophe’s company. Thereafter they often met in each other’s rooms.
Emmanuel confided his bitterness to Christophe. He was exasperated by certain criticisms, and, thinking that Christophe was not sufficiently moved by them, he made him read some of the newspaper appreciations of himself. Christophe was accused of not knowing the grammar of his work, of being ignorant of harmony, of having stolen from other musicians, and, generally, of dishonoring music. He was called: “This old toss-brain. …” They said: “We have had enough of these convulsionaries. We are order, reason, classic balance. …”
Christophe was vastly entertained.
“It is the law,” he said. “The young bury the old. … In my day, it is true, we waited until a man was sixty before we called him an old man. They are going faster, nowadays. … Wireless telegraphy, aeroplanes. … A generation is more quickly exploded. … Poor devils! They won’t last long! Let them despise us and strut about in the sun!”
But Emmanuel had not his sanity. Though he was fearless in thought, he was a prey to his diseased nerves; with his ardent soul in his rickety body, he was driven on to the fight and was unfitted for it. The animosity of certain opinions of his work drew blood.
“Ah!” he would say. “If the critics knew the harm they do artists by the unjust words they throw out so recklessly, they would be ashamed of their trade.”
“But they do know, my friend. That is the justification of their existence. Everybody must live.”
“They are butchers. One is drenched with the blood of life, worn out by the struggle we have to wage with art. Instead of holding out their hands to us, and compassionately telling us of our faults, and brotherly helping us to mend them, they stand there with their hands in their pockets and watch you dragging your burden up the slope, and say: ‘You can’t do it!’ And when you reach the top, some of them say: ‘Yes, but that is not the way to climb up.’ While the others go on blandly saying: ‘You couldn’t do it! …’ You’re lucky if they don’t send great stones rolling down on you to send you flying!”
“Bah! There are plenty of good men among them, and think of the good they can do!
