Chapter 57 Volume 8 Girlfriends (4)

After this night, there was no sign of her for several weeks.His lust, which had been numb for a long time, was stirred up by her that night, and she was indispensable.She forbade him to come to her house; he went to the theater, where he lay in the last rows, trembling with love and passion.He was as exhausted as she was by the tragic and ardent venting of her acting.He finally wrote to her: "My friend, do you hate me? I beg you to forgive me if I displease you." Seeing this humble word, she ran and threw herself into his arms, saying: "It's better for everyone to simply be good friends. But since it's impossible, there's no need to struggle. Let's make it sound natural!"

They lived together, but did not live together, each maintaining his own freedom.It was impossible for Françoise to live a regular cohabitation life with Christophe, and her position did not allow it.She could only come to Christophe's house, either day or night, and spend a few hours with him, but she would go home every day for the night. During the summer vacation when the theater was closed, they rented a house on the outskirts of Paris, near Yeves.Although there were some bleak and melancholy times, they did have some happy days, days of fellowship and hard work.They had a beautiful, well-lit bedroom overlooking the green fields beyond.At night, in bed, they could see strange clouds from the window, galloping across the gloomy sky.They embraced each other, and in their half-sleeping state they heard the crickets singing, the thunderstorm; Come into the house and penetrate them.The night is so still.The two slept so sweetly.Everything was silent.A few dogs barked and cocks crowed in the distance.Morning light revealed.In the gray and cold dawn, the sound of early prayers from the distant bell made the bodies shiver while lying on the warm bed, and they leaned closer to each other.A flock of birds woke up on the vines climbing the wall, chirping and chattering.Christophe opened his eyes, held his breath, and looked tenderly at the lovely face of his friend beside him, at her pale color after the excitement of love...

Their love is not a selfish lust, but a deep friendship in which the flesh also demands a share.They do not interfere with each other, each doing its own work.Christophe's genius, compassion, and personality are all valued by Françoise.She felt a maternal joy in certain things about herself being older than him.She was sorry that she didn't know anything about what he played: she couldn't understand the music, except at rare times when she felt a wild emotion take over her, not directly from the music, but from the music itself. Because of the passion she was then infected with, with everything around her, the sights, the people, the colors, the sounds.But she could also feel Christopher's talent in this inexplicable and mysterious language.It was as if watching a great actor perform in a foreign language, and her own spirit was stirred up.As for Christophe, when he creates a work, he often puts his thoughts and enthusiasm on this woman, and sees that these thoughts and enthusiasm are more beautiful than in his own heart.There is an inestimable wealth in the result of sympathy with a soul so feminine, so weak, so kind, so cruel, and sometimes radiant with genius.She taught him a great deal about life and people--about women whom he did not know well enough to judge harshly by her clear eyes.He especially relied on her to gain a better understanding of the theater; she made him deeply appreciate the spirit of this most perfect, truest and fullest art of all arts.Only then did he know that drama is the most wonderful tool for creating dreams; she told him that he should not write for himself, like his current tendency,--(That is inevitable for many artists, they follow Beethoven's example, refuses to "write for a damned violin when inspired.")—but writes for a stage, adapts one's thoughts to certain actors: a great playwright is not ashamed, He doesn't feel that this method will make himself small; because he knows that if the fantasy is beautiful, then of course the realization of this fantasy is great.Drama is the strictest art, like fresco painting—a living art.

These thoughts expressed by Franchise are in line with Christophe's thoughts.The stage he reached in his artistic career at that time was tending towards a collective art that communicated with human beings.Françoise's experience made him realize the mysterious cooperation between the crowd and the actors.Although Françoise is so realistic and has no illusions of self-deception, she also feels the power of mutual induction, the resonant electric wave that connects the actors and the crowd. When she touches an actor's voice, it is silent. voice of thousands of people.Of course, this feeling is intermittent and extremely rare, and it never reappears in the same paragraph in the same play.For the rest of the time, there is only the individual soulless performance of the actor, the skillful and unenthusiasm deadpan.But it is the exceptional case that deserves attention: when, as if in a flash of lightning, the abyss was revealed for an instant, and the common soul of millions of people, confessed by one person, was revealed.

It is the responsibility of the great artist to embody this common soul.His ideal should be like the Greek poets in ancient times, who first got rid of the ego, and then put into his heart the collective enthusiasm that blows through the world.Françoise especially longed for this, because she could not reach this state of selflessness and was always trying to express herself. ——In the past 150 years, the excessive development of personal lyricism has reached a pathological stage.If a person wants to be spiritually great, he must feel more, control more, speak concisely, think implicitly, never extravagantly, express it only with frowns, glances, and half-words, not exaggerating like children, nor exaggerating. Show your emotions like a woman; speak for a man who can understand a word, speak for a man.Modern music chatters endlessly about itself, no matter who it meets, it will pour out its heart and soul: this is shameless and unrefined.It was quite like some patients who relished telling others about their symptoms, vividly describing the disgusting and ridiculous details.Françoise, though not a musician, felt that the parasitic infestation of music into poetry was a sign of decadence.Christophe denied it at first, but after thinking about it carefully, he felt that this statement might be partly true.The first German ballads based on Goethe's poems were simple and accurate; soon Schubert infiltrated his romantic sentimentality; Schumann added his little girlish sentimentality; Husband turned into a particularly intensive recitation, without implicit analysis, and had to expose his soul naked.All veils were torn from the mysterious mind.

Christophe was a little ashamed of this art and felt that he was also infected.Of course he doesn’t want to go back to the past——(that’s absurd and against nature)——but he picks out a few masters who express their thoughts in a particularly subtle way and have a collective artistic consciousness, and let himself be influenced: Del's works, - Handel, because he hated the ascetic religion of the German nation, deliberately wrote sacred music like an epic, and wrote folk songs for the common people.The difficulty now is to find a subject that can arouse the emotions of modern people, like the Bible in Handel's time.There is no common canon in Europe today: not a single poem, not a single prayer, not a single faith, which can be said to belong to the masses.This is a disgrace to all literati, artists, and thinkers today!There is no one who writes for the masses and thinks for the masses.Only Beethoven left a few pages of the Gospel to comfort the soul; but these pages can only be read by musicians, and will never be heard by most people.Wagner once wanted to establish a religious art uniting all mankind on the hills of Bayreuth.But his great mind had been stained by the decadent music and thoughts of the time: it was not the fishermen of Galilee who came to this sacred high hill, but a group of Pharisees. ①

--------------- ①According to the fact that Jesus preached in Galili when he was young, he persuaded fishermen: "Come and follow me, and I will make you fishers of men." The Pharisees were originally a kind of ancient Jewish people, and they were later used as Synonym for hypocrite. Christophe saw very clearly the work he should do; but he lacked a poet and could only rely on himself, limited to music.And music, although everyone thinks it is a universal language, is not universal after all: words should be used as a bow in order to shoot sounds to the hearts of the masses. Christophe plans to write a set of symphonies based on everyday life.He imagines a "Family Symphony", which is not in the Richard Strauss style, does not express family life in a film-like picture, does not use some traditional letters, uses musical terms According to the will of the author to express various characters.That is the pedantic and childish game of the counterpoint scholar! ... He does not intend to describe characters or actions, but to utter emotions that are familiar to everyone and that can find an echo in their own hearts.The first chapter shows a young couple's solemn and innocent happiness, tender feelings, and confidence in the future.The second chapter is a lament for a dead child.When Christophe expressed pain, he tried his best to avoid realism; there was no personal appearance, only a boundless suffering, yours, mine, the suffering of all people, perhaps it is the fate that no one can escape.The soul, depressed by death, struggles in pain, slowly recovers, and regards its suffering as a sacrifice to the gods.The piece of music that follows the second chapter expresses that the soul continues to move forward—it is a strong-willed "Fugue", whose strong lines and stubborn rhythm finally infected the whole person, dragging him through struggle and blood and tears. Walking forward, singing a mighty march, holding an indomitable faith.The last chapter is a portrait of the twilight of life: the themes at the beginning of the first reappear,--still with touching confidence and tender emotions--but more mature; Emerging, wearing a bright crown, singing carols to the sky, expressing reverence and love for infinite life.

---- ② German modern musician Richard Strauss wrote "Family Symphony". Christophe also looked for simple, humane topics in ancient books, which could appeal to the hearts of the public.He chose two: Joseph and Niobe.But Christophe encountered the problem of combining poetry and music here.The conversation with François reminded him of the plan he had discussed with Galina before, ① a kind of musical theater between chanting opera and drama--an art that combines free language and free music, ——That is an art that no artist thinks of today, and it is also an art steeped in the tradition of Wagner, and the critics who stick to the old law must laugh.But this is indeed a brand-new career, because the point is not to follow Beethoven, Weber, Schumann, and Bizet, although they are all accomplished in musical drama; Tremolo produces vulgar effects for vulgar crowds; rather, it consists in creating a new genre, combining singing voices with instruments close to them, mingling musical fantasies and groaning echoes in the midst of beautiful and harmonious verse .Such a form can only be applied to certain limited subjects, to certain special moments of the mind, to the realm of intimate contemplation: only in this way can it give people a poetic charm.No art is more subtle and aristocratic than this.Therefore, in the age of nouveau riche artists who are pretentious but actually vulgar, this kind of art has little chance to develop.

① Refer to Volume 4: "Resistance". ——Original note Perhaps Christophe was no more suited to this art than anyone else; his strength, his plebeian power, was a great hindrance.He could only imagine such an art, and with the help of Françoise, he made some prototypes. In this way he put the words of the Bible to music, almost word for word,—such as the immortal story of Joseph and his brothers reunited, after Joseph tried many methods, It was so moved, so gently, and said a few words that made the old Tolstoy cry: "I can't help it...I tell you, I am Joseph; is your father still alive? I am your brother, your lost brother...I am Joseph..."①

This beautiful and free union cannot last.Although they have some very fulfilling time together, their personalities are too far apart.Both parties were very irritable, and there were frequent conflicts, not for trivial matters: because Jean-Christophe had always respected Françoise.And Françoise, who might have been cruel, was kind to all those who had treated her kindly, and was unwilling to do him any harm.And they are very happy by nature.She often laughed at herself, but it was still painful: because the old passion always occupied her heart, she still thought of the villain she loved; Dove suspected this matter.

① "Old Testament" records: Joseph is the son of Jacob, the patriarch of Hebrew; he was sold to Egypt by his brothers when he was young, and he died as the administrator of Egypt, and finally returned to Hebrew to reunite with his father and brothers. Christophe wondered why she was unhappy when she saw that she was silent, nervous, and dazed in depression all day long.Hasn't she achieved her goal now and has become a great artist admired by everyone? ... "Yes," she said, "I'm sorry that I'm not like that kind of female actress, who doesn't have the mind of a proprietress, who regards acting as a business. Once such people climb to a certain position, they marry a rich woman. Bourgeois, and reaching the pinnacle, when I get a medal, of course I am satisfied. I, I want more than that. As long as one is not a fool, being famous is more empty than not being famous. You should know this!" "I know," said Christophe. "Ah! God! The ideal glory of my childhood was definitely not like this. How I yearned for it at that time! How bright it looked in my eyes! I worshiped it from afar and regarded it as a sacred thing; how can I know the reality? That's not the case at all...but it doesn't matter! Your fame has a wonderful effect, and it does people good." "What's the good? Victory is a victory. But what's the use? It's the same. The theaters, the concerts, are they the same? It's just a new trend that replaces the old one. They don't know you, or they're just passing by." Look at you; and they're already distracted and thinking about other things... It's yourself, don't you know other artists? At least you are not known by other artists. How far away is the person you love most from you ! Have you forgotten about you and Tolstoy? . . . " Christophe once wrote to Tolstoy; he admired his works very much, wanted to compose one of his popular short stories into music, asked his permission, and sent him his song book at the same time.Tolstoy did not answer, as Schubert and Berlioz had sent Goethe their masterpieces.He taught someone to play Christophe's music, but he didn't understand it at all, and was very annoyed.He thinks Beethoven is decadent and Shakespeare is quack.On the contrary, he was fascinated by hypocritical little writers, and believed that "Confessions of a Handmaid" was very Christian. "The big men don't need us," said Christophe. "We should think of others." "Others? Who? The bourgeois masses, those ghostly shadows? To write, to act for these people? It would be miserable to waste one's life for them!" "Yes! I feel the same way about them as you do, and I'm not discouraged. They're not all that bad!" "What a happy German you are!" "They are also people like me, why can't they understand me? ... And when they don't understand me, do I worry about it? Among these thousands of people, there are always one or two who agree with me Yes...that's it, as long as there is a skylight to breathe the outside air...you have to think of those innocent spectators, those young people, those simple old people, and save them from their mediocre days because of your tragic beauty People who came out. You have to think back to your own childhood! It’s good to transfer the benefits and happiness that they gave you before to others—even if it’s only for one person.” "Do you really think anyone will appreciate it? I can't believe it... how do the best of those who love us love us? Praise us in a way that humiliates us; they see any charlatan with the same interest! They put us in the team of fools we despise. All who are popular are equal in their eyes of." "However, it is indeed the greatest that can be passed on to future generations and become the greatest person." "That's just the effect of distance. The farther away you are, the higher the mountain appears. The height of the mountain is clearly seen, but you are farther away from it... And who can say that these are indeed the greatest? Do you recognize all the unknown ancients?" "Never mind him!" said Christophe. "Even if not even one person feels who I am, I'm still me. I have my music, I love it, I believe in it; it's truer than anything else." "In your art you are free, you can do whatever you want. But what about me? I have to play what people want me to play, and play it again and again until you do evil in your heart. Some actors in the United States put the "The Strange" or "Robert Mackel" has been performed 10,000 times, but for twenty-five years in a lifetime, we have played a boring role. Although we have not yet reached the point of being a horse in France, we have also embarked on this road. Way to go. Poor theatre! The genius that the crowd can tolerate is a tiny amount, modified and cut, with fashionable perfume... a fashionable genius! Doesn't it make you sick?... Wasted energy I don't know How many! See what people do with Manan? What has he got to play in his life? Only two or three characters are worth keeping: an Oedip, a Brianket. The rest is nonsense! But just think, what a great and wonderful character he could have created!... Outside France, the situation is not much better. How is Duce arranged? What is her life spent for? For how much? Boring horns!" - ① "Ricky" is a comic opera, and the story can be found in Washington Irving's short story "Ricky's Big Dream". "Robert Mackel" is a popular comedy in the 19th century, and the character Robert Mackel is a typical example of a licentious and shameless villain. ②Duss (1859-1924) was a famous Italian actress. "Your real task is to force society to accept powerful works of art." "It was a waste of effort and not worth it. As soon as these powerful works are on the stage, they lose their poetry and turn into lies. The breath of the crowd destroys it. The crowd in the suffocating and stinking city no longer knows what the wild is." , what is nature, what is sound poetry; it needs a poetry that fades like our faces.—ah! ..." "You still think about him." "miss who?" "That rascal." "yes." "If you're with that guy, if he loves you, you've got to admit you're never going to be happy, you're still going to be looking for trouble." "That's right... oh! I can't figure it out myself... In the past life, I had to struggle too much. I suffered too much. I can never regain my peace of mind. My heart is always troubled and turbulent... ..." "That's what you had before you were tortured." "Maybe it is... Yes, I had troubles when I was a child." "Then what exactly do you want?" "How can I tell? What I want is not what I can do." "I know this state," said Christophe. "It was the same in my teenage years." "But you're a man. I'll always be a teenager, not a complete human being at all." "No one is perfect. The so-called happiness consists in recognizing one's limitations and being content with them." "That's out of the question for me. I've crossed the line. Life has pushed me, ruined me, and crippled me. But I feel like I could be a normal, healthy, beautiful woman without Like those foolish people." "You can still do it. Let me see how good you are now!" "Tell me, what do you think of me?" He assumes that she has developed in natural and harmonious circumstances, is very happy, loving and being loved.She felt very comfortable listening, but later said: "It's impossible now." "Then you should say to yourself as old Handel did when he was blind, He played on the piano for her again.She hugged him, hugged her dear crazy optimist.He consoled her; she distressed him, or at least was afraid of distressing him.She was often attacked by despair like a sickness, and she could not hide it from him; love made her weak.At night, when the two of them were lying on the bed and she was suffering quietly, he guessed it and asked this friend who seemed close but far away to share some of the burden on her with him; In his arms, she cried and said what was in her heart; Christophe comforted her all night, very patient, not angry at all.But as time goes on, this endless trouble is bound to hit him.Françoise feared that he might infect his own disturbances.She loved him too much to let him suffer for himself.She was asked to go on stage in America; she compelled herself to do so by saying yes.She broke up with him, to the great humiliation of his heart.And she felt the same way herself.What a pity that two people cannot make each other happy! "Poor friend," she said with a sad yet tender smile. "We're stupid! We'll never have such a wonderful opportunity, never find such a friendship. But there's no way, there's no way. We're stupid! . . . " They looked at each other, downcast, terribly sad, laughing so as not to cry, embraced, and parted with tears in their eyes.Never had they loved each other so much as when they parted. After she left, he went back to his old companion—art... Oh!The stars are densely covered, and the sky is peaceful! ... Not long after, Christophe received a letter from Jacqueline.It was only the third time she had written to him; the tone of her letter was very different from her usual ones.She expressed her great regret at seeing him no more, and kindly asked him to go, if he would not grieve two friends who loved him.Christophe was extremely happy, but it was not surprising.He had long expected that Jacqueline's unfair treatment of him would not last forever.He liked to read a joke from his old grandfather: "Sooner or later, a woman will have a kind heart, as long as you wait patiently." He therefore returned to Olivier's side, and they were very pleased to see him.Jacqueline was particularly attentive, and she hid her usual harsh tone, and never said anything that could hurt Christophe. She cared about his work and talked about some serious issues with wisdom.Christophe thought she had changed.In fact, she changed only to please him.When Jacqueline heard about Christophe's love affair with a fashionable actress--the news had already spread all over Paris--she could not help being curious about Christophe, and she looked at him differently.After reuniting after a long absence this time, she felt that he was indeed much cuter than before, even his flaws were not without charm.She found that Christophe had a genius, and she should teach him to love herself. The living conditions of young couples have not improved, or even worsened.Jacqueline was bored to death... How lonely a woman is!Nothing can hold her but the child; and the child is not enough to hold her forever: for if she is not only a woman, but a real woman, rich in soul and exacting in life, she will naturally need Do many things that cannot be done alone without help! ... Men are not so lonely, even in the loneliest time, they are not as lonely as women.The soliloquies in his mind are enough to embellish his desert; and if he is alone with another person, he is more adaptable, because he pays less attention to solitude and talks to himself all the time.He didn't expect that he would speak by himself in the desert without any trouble, making the women around him feel that her silence was more cruel, and her desert was more terrible, because for her, all languages ​​were dead, and love could not make it reborn.He didn't notice this; he didn't put his whole life on love like women, he was concerned about other things... But who cares about women's lives and endless desires?These trillions of beings, with a burning force, have been burning fruitlessly for four thousand years since the beginning of human beings, dedicating themselves to two idols: love and motherhood. The beginning of the game, for thousands of women, but not for it, for the other part of the women, it just enriched their lives for a few years... Jacqueline suffered from disappointment.The terror she sometimes felt was like a knife piercing her heart.she thinks: "Why am I alive? Why am I in the world?" This made her miserable. "My God! I'm dying! My God! I'm dying!" This thought haunted her often at night.She dreamed that she was saying, "This year is 1889." "No," someone answered her, "it's 1909." She was very sad to think that her actual age was twenty years older than she thought. "Life is almost over, and I haven't lived it yet! How have I lived these twenty years? What have I done with my life?" She dreamed that she had become four little girls, living in the same room and sleeping in separate beds.All four are of the same figure and face, one is eight years old, one is fifteen years old, one is twenty years old, and one is thirty years old.All three were infected with the plague and died.The fourth, looking in the mirror, was suddenly frightened; she saw her nose thinning, her face lengthening... She was going to die too,—it was all over... "...What did I do with my life?..." She woke up in tears; the nightmare did not disappear with the coming of the day, the day was a nightmare.What did she do with her life?Who spoiled it? ... She began to hate Olivier as an innocent accomplice--(innocence is irrelevant, it's killing people anyway!)--as an accomplice of the blind law that oppressed her.She regretted it afterwards, because her heart was good; but she was in too much pain; and the person who oppressed her life was also in pain, and she couldn't help but make him more painful as revenge.Afterwards she felt even worse, loathing herself; she felt that if she couldn't save herself, she would add to the suffering of others.As for the way to save herself, she groped around and searched for it, just like a person drowning in water, no matter what she wanted to catch; she tried to pay attention to some things, a piece of work, a character, so that she could bring it Become your own thing, your own work, your own character.She managed to do some cultural work again, learn a foreign language, write a critical essay, a short story, engage in painting, compose music... But it was useless: she lost heart on the first day.It's too difficult.And "books, works of art, what are they? I don't know if I love them, I don't know if they exist..."——Some days, she was very excited talking and laughing with Olivier, as if Enthusiastic about what he said, she tried to teach herself anesthesia... but in vain: suddenly the interest was gone, her heart was cold, and she had to hide, no tears, no gasps, just downcast. —She had been somewhat successful in corrupting Olivier.He became skeptical, prone to flashiness.But she was not satisfied, feeling that he was as weak as herself.The two went out almost every night; she mingled in various Parisian societies.No one thought that under her sarcasm and always nervous smile, there was a grief-stricken depression.She was looking for someone who could love her, support her, and prevent her from falling into the abyss...but she couldn't find it.Her helpless pleas went unanswered.There was only silence. She absolutely did not love Christophe; she could not bear his rude behavior, his embarrassing frankness, and above all his indifference.She absolutely did not love him; but she felt that he was at least strong,—a rock above death.She wanted to cling to this rock, to this man in the water with his head out of the water, or drag him into the water... And it was not enough to separate the husband from his friends, she had to wrest them from him.The most honest women sometimes have an instinct to force them to exert their power as much as possible, even excessively.As a result of such abuse of power, their weakness reveals their strength.If it is a selfish, haughty woman, she will take an ulterior pleasure in stealing the friendship of her husband's friends.It's easy: just throw a few winks.Regardless of whether the man is honest or not, it is rare for him not to be hooked; although a friend is a confidant, although he can avoid action, he has always deceived his friend in thought.If the friend finds out, the friendship between the two parties is over: each other looks at each other with different eyes. ——The woman who plays this dangerous method often stops at this point and does not take any further actions: she grabs the two men whose friendship has broken together and manipulates them as she pleases. Christophe was not surprised to notice Jacqueline's affection.When he has a good impression of someone, he has a naive tendency to think that others will love him in vain.So seeing Jacqueline being so attentive, he expressed the same attentiveness. He thought she was very cute and had a good time with her.As a result, he had such a good opinion of her that he almost thought that Olivier's unhappiness was due to Olivier's own clumsiness. He accompanied them on a short trip of a few days by car.The Langyeils had an old house in the country of Pogogne, which they kept only as a souvenir of their old home, and which they seldom used to live in: Christophe was a guest there.The house stood alone among the vineyards and the forest; the interior was dilapidated and the windows were not closed properly; there was a musty, shady, sun-heated resinous smell everywhere.After spending a few days with Jacqueline, Christophe gradually felt a sweet mood, but his spirit was not disturbed; he looked at her, listened to her, touched the beautiful body, breathed Her breath is quite innocent, but also has a bit of sensual pleasure.Olivier was a little worried and said nothing.He didn't mean to be suspicious, but he felt vaguely uneasy in his heart, but he didn't dare to admit it.He thought he shouldn't be so worried, so he deliberately let them often be alone together.Jacqueline was moved by what he was thinking, and wanted to say to him: "Well, my friend, don't be sad. I still love you." But she didn't say: the three of them let themselves take risks: Christophe had no suspicions, Jacqueline didn't know what she wanted, and she just wanted to get what she got; Olivier alone has foresight and premonition, but for the sake of self-esteem and love, he is unwilling to think about it.But when the will is silent, the instinct will speak; when the mind is absent, the flesh will act freely. One night, after dinner, everyone thought the night view was so beautiful—there was no moon, the sky was full of stars—and they all wanted to go for a stroll in the garden.Olivier and Christophe had left the house.Jacqueline went upstairs to get a scarf and did not come down for a long time.Christophe, who hated women's slow movements the most, went into the house to find her. ——(Recently he has played the role of husband unconsciously). —He heard her coming over there.But in the room he entered, the shutters were all closed, and nothing could be seen. "Hey! Come on, Mrs. who is always busy," Christophe shouted happily. "You keep looking in the mirror, aren't you afraid of damaging the mirror?" She didn't answer and stopped in her tracks.Christophe felt that she was already in the room, but stood still. "Where are you?" he asked. She remained silent.克利斯朵夫也不说话了，只在暗中摸索；突然他感到一阵骚动，心儿乱跳，也停了下来，听见雅葛丽纳的呼吸就在身边。他又走了一步，又停住了。他知道她就在近旁，但他不愿意再向前。静默了几秒钟。突然之间，两只手抓住了他的手，把他拉着，一张嘴贴在了他的嘴上。他把她紧紧搂着。大家没有一句话，一动也不动。 ——然后嘴巴离开了，彼此挣脱了。雅葛丽纳走出屋子。克利斯朵夫气吁吁的跟着她，两腿索索的发抖。他靠着墙站了一会，让全身奔腾的血平静下去。终于他追上了他们。雅葛丽纳若无其事的和奥里维说着话。他们走在前面，和他相隔几步。克利斯朵夫垂头丧气的跟着。奥里维停下来等他。克利斯朵夫也跟着停下。奥里维亲热的叫他。克利斯朵夫只是不答。奥里维知道朋友的脾气和那种死不开口的脾性，也就不坚持而继续和雅葛丽纳望前走了。克利斯朵夫木头人似的随在后面，隔着十来步，象条狗一样。他们停下，他也停下。他们走，他也走。大家在园中绕了一转，进去了。克利斯朵夫上楼去关在自己房里：不点灯，不睡觉，不思想。到了半夜，他倦极了，把手和脑袋靠在桌上；睡着了。过了一小时，他醒过来，点起蜡烛，性急慌忙的把纸张杂物都收起来，整好了衣箱，倒在床上直睡到天亮。然后他带着行李下楼，动身了。大家整天等着他，找他。雅葛丽纳面上装做很冷淡，心里又气又恼，用一种侮辱的讥讽的神气，故意检点她的银票。直到第二天晚上，奥里维方始接到克利斯朵夫一封信： 好朋友，别怪我象疯子一般的走了。我是疯子，你也知道的。what else can we do?I am who I am.谢谢你亲切的相待。That's great.可是你瞧，我从来不能和别人一平生活。也许我根本不配生活。我只能躲在一边，远远的爱着别人，这样比较妥当。要从近处看人，我会厌恶他们。而这是我不愿意的。我愿意爱别人，爱你们。oh!我多愿意使你们幸福。要是我能够使你们，——使你幸福，我肯牺牲我自己所能有的幸福！ ……但这是不允许的。一个人只能为别人引路，不能代替他们走路。各人应当救出自己。救你罢！救你们罢！我多爱你！ ——耶南太太前起代致意。 克利斯朵夫 “耶南太太”抿着嘴唇，念完了信，带着轻蔑的笑容冷冷的说：“那末听他的劝告。救救你自己罢。” 奥里维伸出手去想收回信来，雅葛丽纳却把信纸搓成一团，摔在地下；两颗眼泪在眼眶中涌了上来。奥思维抓着她的手，慌慌张张的问：“你怎么啦？” “别管我！”她愤愤的叫着。 她出去了，在门口又嚷了一声：“你们这批自私的家伙！” 克利斯朵夫终于把《大日报》方面的保护人变成了仇敌。那是早在意料之中的。克利斯朵夫天生有那种为歌德所称扬的“不知感激”的德性： “不愿意表示感激的脾气是难得的，只有一般出众的人物才会有。他们出身于最贫寒的阶级，到处不得不接受人家的帮忙；而那些恩德差不多老是被施恩的人的鄙俗毒害了……” 克利斯朵夫认为不能为了人家的援助而降低自己的人格，也不能放弃自由，那跟降低人格并无分别。他要给人好处，决不自居为希望收利息的债主，而是把好处整个的送人的。他的恩主们的见解可不是这样。他们认为受恩必报是天经地义，所以克利斯朵夫不肯在报馆主办的一个含有广告性质的游艺会中，替一支荒谬的颂歌写音乐，在他们眼中简直是起有此理。他们暗示克利斯朵夫说他行为不对。克利斯朵夫置之不理。不久他还很不客气的否认报纸所宣传的他的主张，使那些恩主们愈加老羞成怒。 于是报纸开始用各种武器攻击他了。人们又搬出一些血口喷人的古老的武器，那是一切低能的人用来攻击一切创造者而从来杀不死一个人的，可是对于所有的糊涂蛋，的确百发百中，极有效果。他们指控克利斯朵夫的罪名是剽窃。他们割裂他的作品，取出其中的一段，再从一些无名作家的曲子里取出一段来化装一番，证明他偷了别人的灵感，说他想扼杀年轻的艺术家。这一套要是出之于一般以狂吠为职业的人，出之于爬在大人物肩上喊着“我比你更伟大”的下贱的批评家，倒还罢了；可是有才气的人也要互相倾轧，竭力教对方受不了。他们完全不知道：世界之大尽够他们安安静静的各做各的工作，而各人为了发展自己的才具已经需要拚命的奋斗了。 德国有些嫉妒的艺术家常常把武器供给克利斯朵夫的敌人，必要的时候还能发明些武器。这种人在法国也有的是。音乐刊物上的国家主义者——其中不少是外国人，——指出克利斯朵夫出身的种族，也算是对他的一种侮辱。克利斯朵夫的名片已经不小；就因为他走红，连那些毫无成见的人看了也恼了，——其余的更不必说。在音乐会听众里面，此刻有一批上流人物和前进杂志的作家热烈拥护克利斯朵夫，不问他写什么，总一致叫好，说在他以前简直没有音乐。有几个人解释他的作品，发见其中有哲学意义，使克利斯朵夫听了吃惊。又有几个从中看到一种音乐革命，说是对于传统的攻击，不知克利斯朵夫正敬重传统。他尽管分辩也没用。大家会说他根本不知道自己写的是什么。他们这样的佩服他就等于佩服他们自己。所以报纸上对克利斯朵夫的攻击，使他音乐界的同业非常痛快，因为他们相信那虚构的“谎言”是事实而表示愤慨。其实他们不爱他的音乐也用不着这些理由；自己并无思想可以表现，但照着呆板的方式把思想表现得非常流利的大多数人，一朝看到克利斯朵夫思想丰富，而凭着创造的想象力（表面上不免有点儿杂乱）表现得有些笨拙的时候，当然要恼怒了。一般当书记的家伙，只知道所谓风格便是文社学会里的公式，只消把思想放进去，象烹饪时把食物放入模子一样：所以他们一再指责克利斯朵夫不会写作。至于他最好的一批朋友，不想了解他的，或是因为老老实实的爱他（因为他使他们幸福）而真能了解他的，都是在社会上没有发言权的无名的听众。唯一能够替克利斯朵夫作强有力的答复的奥里维，和他分离了，似乎把他忘了。于是克利斯朵夫同时落在他的敌人和他的崇拜者手里；这两种人作着竞争，看谁把他损害得更厉害。他厌恶之余，绝对不加声辩。有一回他在一份大报上读到一个为大众的愚昧与宽纵所造成的艺术界权威，——一个僭越的批评家对他的宣判，他耸耸肩说： “好罢，你批判我罢。我也批判你。一百年以后看你们投降不投降！” 可是眼前到处是对他的毁谤；而群众照例是有一句信一句，对于最荒谬最卑鄙的控诉都信以为真。 克利斯朵夫仿佛觉得自己的处境还不够困难，居然挑了这个时期跟他的出版家反目。其实他没有什么可以抱怨哀区脱的，他依次印行他的新作，跟他的交易也很诚实。固然，这种诚实并不能使他不订立对克利斯朵夫不利的契约；但这些契约他是遵守的，只嫌遵守得太严格。有一天，克利斯朵夫出乎意外的发见他的七重奏被改为四重奏，一支普通的钢琴曲被改为——而且改得很笨拙——四手的钢琴曲，事先都没通知他。他便跑去见哀区脱，把这些违法的乐谱丢在他面前，问：“你知道这个吗？” "of course I know." “你意然敢……竟然敢私自窜改我的作品，不经我的许可！……” “什么许可？”哀区脱静静的说。“你的作品是属于我的。” “也是属于我的！” “不是的，”哀区脱语气很温和的说。 克利斯朵夫跳起来：“怎么，我的作品会不属于我的？” “你把它们卖掉了。” “你这是跟我开玩笑了！我卖给你的是纸。你要拿它去赚钱，尽管去赚罢。但写在纸上的是我的血，是属于我的。” “你什么都卖给我了。以初版每份三十生丁计算，我已经预付你三百法郎，作为你卖绝的代价。在这种条件之下，你把作品的全部权利都让给我了，没有任何限制，也没有任何保留。” “连毁掉它的权利也在内吗？” 哀区脱耸耸肩，按了铃，对一个职员说：“把克拉夫脱先生的案卷给拿来。”