But a few minutes after this harangue he groped for one of the sheets of paper that lay scattered on his bed, and he tried to write down a few more notes. When he saw the contradiction of it, he smiled and said:
“Oh, my music, companion of all my days, thou art better than I. I am an ingrate: I send thee away from me. But thou wilt not leave me: thou wilt not be repulsed at my caprice. Forgive me. Thou knowest these are but whimsies. I have never betrayed thee, thou hast never betrayed me; and we are sure of each other. We will go home together, my friend. Stay with me to the end.”
He awoke from a long torpor, heavy with fever and dreams. Strange dreams of which he was still full. And now he looked at himself, touched himself, sought and could not find himself. He seemed to himself to be “another.” Another, dearer than himself. … Who? … It seemed to him that in his dreams another soul had taken possession of him. Olivier? Grazia? … His heart and his head were so weak! He could not distinguish between his loved ones. Why should he distinguish between them? He loved them all equally.
He lay bound in a sort of overwhelming beatitude. He made no attempt to move. He knew that sorrow lay in ambush for him, like a cat waiting for a mouse. He lay like one dead. Already. … There was no one in the room. Overhead the piano was silent. Solitude. Silence. Christophe sighed.
“How good it is to think, at the end of life, that I have never been alone even in my greatest loneliness! … Souls that I have met on the way, brothers, who for a moment have held out their hands to me, mysterious spirits sprung from my mind, living and dead—all living.—O all that I have loved, all that I have created! Ye surround me with your warm embrace, ye watch over me. I hear the music of your voices. Blessed be destiny, that has given you to me! I am rich, I am rich. … My heart is full! …”
He looked out through the window. … It was one of those beautiful sunless days, which, as old Balzac said, are like a beautiful blind woman. … Christophe was passionately absorbed in gazing at the branch of a tree that grew in front of the window. The branch was swelling, the moist buds were bursting, the little white flowers were expanding; and in the flowers, in the leaves, in the whole tree coming to new life, there was such an ecstasy of surrender to the newborn force of spring, that Christophe was no longer conscious of his weariness, his depression, his wretched, dying body, and lived again in the branch of the tree. He was steeped in the gentle radiance of its life. It was like a kiss. His heart, big with love, turned to the beautiful tree, smiling there upon his last moments. He thought that at that moment there were creatures loving each other, that to others this hour, that was so full of agony for him, was an hour of ecstasy, that it is ever thus, and that the puissant joy of living never runs dry. And in a choking voice that would not obey his thoughts—(possibly no sound at all came from his lips, but he knew it not)—he chanted a hymn to life.
An invisible orchestra answered him. Christophe said within himself:
“How can they know? We did not rehearse it. If only they can go on to the end without a mistake!”
He tried to sit up so as to see the whole orchestra, and beat time with his arms outstretched. But the orchestra made no mistake; they were sure of themselves. What marvelous music! How wonderfully they improvised the responses! Christophe was amused.
“Wait a bit, old fellow! I’ll catch you out.”
And with a tug at the tiller he drove the ship capriciously to left and right through dangerous channels.
“How will you get out of that? … And this? Caught! … And what about this?”
But they always extricated themselves: they countered all his audacities with even bolder ventures.
“What will they do now? … The rascals! …”
Christophe cried “bravo!” and roared with laughter.
“The devil! It is becoming difficult to follow them! Am I to let them beat me? … But, you know, this is not a game! I’m done, now. … No matter! They shan’t say that they had the last word. …”
But the orchestra exhibited such an overpoweringly novel and abundant fancy that there was nothing to be done but to sit and listen open-mouthed. They took his breath away. … Christophe was filled with pity for himself.
“Idiot!” he said to himself. “You are empty. Hold your peace! The instrument has given all that it can give. Enough of this body! I must have another.”
But his body took its revenge. Violent fits of coughing prevented his listening:
“Will you hold your peace?”
He clutched his
