Chapter 68 Part Two (4)

Because of the painful training, he left life alive, and was ravaged by human selfishness, he saw the victims persecuted by human beings, and saw the battlefield where human beings triumphantly slaughtered other creatures. Compassion and disgust.Even when he was happy, he had always liked animals, could not bear to see them mistreated, and had a strong dislike for hunting, which he did not dare to express, perhaps to himself, for fear of being laughed at; but he did not want to It was at the heart of being close to some people for that reason; he could never be friends with a man who killed animals for pleasure.This is not for sentimentalism: he understands better than anyone that life is based on pain and cruelty, and that one cannot live without making other creatures suffer.That's not something that can be solved by closing your eyes and talking empty words.You can't live a peaceful life because of this, sobbing like a child.If there is no other way to live today, one must kill to live.But a man who kills for the sake of killing is a murderer.Although it is unconscious, it is the murderer after all.Humanity should strive to reduce suffering and cruelty: this is our most important responsibility.

Usually these thoughts are deeply buried in Christophe's heart.He doesn't want to think about it.What's the use of thinking?what else can we do?He should become Christophe, complete his career, survive at any cost, even at the cost of sacrificing some of the weak... He didn't make the world... Don't think about it, don't think about it! But when he also suffered disasters and lost the battle, he had to think about it!In the past, he blamed Olivier for not having unnecessary sympathy for what others suffered and for the sufferings suffered by others, and it was even more unnecessary to feel remorse for it.Now he has gone one step further than Olivier: because he is full of vitality, he can see the tragedy in the universe very thoroughly under impulse.He felt all the pain in the world, as if his flesh and blood had been stripped from him.He shuddered at the thought of the animals; he was terribly sad and angry.He knew all about the look in the eyes of the beasts, and saw that they had a soul like his own, a soul that could not be spoken of.Their eyes shouted there: "I didn't violate you, why make me suffer?"

He couldn't stand the most ordinary sights he was used to every day:—or a wailing calf in a fence, with big protruding eyes with blue whites, pink eyelids, and white eyelashes, The curly hair piled on the forehead, the purple face, the knees bent inward;—or a lamb is held upside down by a countryman, looking up desperately, like a child Humming, chirping, gray tongue sticking out, bleating;—or a hen huddled in a cage;—or a slaughtered pig wailing in the distance;—or in a kitchen The fish whose stomachs had been ripped apart on the table... the torture humans inflicted on these innocent animals tightly held his heart.What a terrible nightmare the world would be to them, if they had any reason at all!Those insensitive, blind and deaf people cut their throats, pinched their stomachs, cut them in half, burned them alive, and watched them twitch in pain.Even among the cannibals of Africa, there is nothing more cruel than this.To an unprejudiced man, the sight of animal suffering is more unbearable than human suffering.For human suffering is at least considered undeserved, and the one who causes suffering is considered a sinner.But thousands of animals are needlessly slaughtered every day, and we don't have a little bit of a pimple in our hearts.Anyone who mentions this will be a joke. —yet it is an unforgivable sin.As long as this crime is committed, no matter what suffering human beings suffer, they deserve it.This is his blood debt.If there is a God who tolerates such evil, it is God's blood debt.If God is merciful, the humblest soul should be saved.If God has mercy only on the strong, but no justice on the weak, on the inferior beings who sacrificed to man, then there is no mercy at all, no justice at all...

The massacre of poor human beings is nothing compared to the massacre of the universe.Animals are also devouring each other.The plants of peace, the trees of silence, are among them equal to savage beasts.The so-called tranquility of the forest is just a fancy word for scholars of letters, because they only know the universe in books... There is a terrible struggle in the forest next to Christophe's house.The murderous beech fell upon the beautiful pines, suffocating them with their slender waists like Greek capitals.At the same time they threw themselves upon the oaks, and broke their arms and legs.The gigantic hundred-armed zelkova, a single tree worth ten, destroyed everything around it.When there were no enemies, they would kill each other and wrestle with each other, like giant beasts in the prehistoric era.In the woods below the slope, there are saponin trees creeping in from the edge of the forest, attacking the young pines, crushing the roots of the enemy, and poisoning them to death with gum.It was a life-and-death struggle, victoriously annexing the enemy's territory and wreckage.The big demon has not finished cleaning up, and there are little demons to clean up.The fungi growing on the roots try their best to suck the sick and weak tree, slowly consuming its vitality.Black ants attack trees that are already rotting.Millions of invisible insects eat away everything, pierce holes, and turn life into dust... And these battles are all played out in silence! ... Isn't harmony in nature just a tragic mask, and isn't the pain and cruelty of life under the mask?

Christophe sank straight down.But he's not one to sit back and let himself drown.He wanted to die in his heart, but in fact he tried his best to survive.Mozart said, "There is a class of people who will always struggle, unless there is no other way." Christophe is such a person.He felt that he was about to be wiped out, so he waved his arms while falling down, scratching here and there, looking here and there, trying to find a backing for him to hang on.He thought he had found it.Only then did he think of Olivier's child, and immediately put all his will to survive on him, and desperately caught him.Well, he must look for this child, ask someone to give him, let him nurture, let him love, take the place of the father,-he wants to make Olivier regenerate in the son.Since he has become selfish because of pain, why didn't he think of this earlier?So he wrote to Cecil, who was raising the child, and waited anxiously for a reply.He put all his energy into thinking about this idea, and taught himself to be calm:—ah, there is still hope.And he was very sure, because he knew that Cecil's heart was very good.

Here comes the reply.Cécile told him that three months after Olivier's death, a lady in mourning came to her house and said, "Give me back my child!" This was the woman who had left Olivier and the child, Jacqueline, but she had changed beyond recognition.It didn't take long for her crazy love to end.Before her lover got tired of her, she got tired of him first, and returned to her mother's house, extremely depressed, disgusted with everything, and aged a lot.Many friends cut off her because of the scandalous affair.The most misbehaving people are not the most forgiving.Even her mother showed such contempt for her that she could not live.She saw through the hypocrisy in society.Olivier's death was an even greater blow.Her look of despair made Cecil unable to refuse her request.Of course it is very painful to return a child who is regarded as your own, but is it not more painful to be separated from a person who has more rights and less misfortune than yourself?She originally wanted to write to Christophe and ask for his advice.But Christophe never answered her letter, and she no longer knew his correspondence address, and she didn't even know if he was still alive... The joy of life is lost again, what can I do?There is only forbearance.The main thing is that children can be happy and be loved by others...

The reply arrived in the evening.It snowed again in the long-delayed winter, and it fell all night.In the woods that had grown new leaves, the branches were broken by the snow again, and there was a sound of splitting and clapping, like the sound of a battlefield.Christophe stayed alone in the house without a light, and in the shadows of flickering white lights, he jumped with fright every time he heard a tragic sound in the woods. Like the trees, he was weighed down by the heavy burden. ringing.he thinks: "It's all over now." After the night, it was day again; the trees were not broken.All that day, all that night, and the next few days and nights, the trees continued to be oppressed, and the crackling and clapping sounded, but it never stopped.Christophe lost all meaning in existence, but he lived on.He had no reason to fight anymore, but he fought as usual, punching and kicking, hand to hand with the invisible enemy that was eating away at his spine, like Jacob fighting the gods.He hoped nothing of the struggle, but waited for an end: there he was forever fighting, crying:

"You just knock me down! Why don't you knock me down?" A few days later.Christophe's hard struggle came to an end, and all his vitality was exhausted.But he still braced himself and walked out the door.Alas, happy are those who have a strong racial support in the void of life.The grandfather's and father's legs supported the body of the son who was about to fall; the strong ancestors supported the exhausted soul with a single move of their hands, as if the soldier died, his mount Still carry him. He walked on a high sloping road between two muddy depressions, and then walked down a path full of sharp stones, and some underdeveloped oak roots grew intertwined among the stones; he didn't know where he was going, but his footsteps A sane person is more stable.He didn't sleep, hadn't eaten anything for several days, and his eyes were covered with a layer of fog, and he walked towards the valley below. —It was just a few days before Easter.The sky is cloudy.The last cold wave of winter has receded, and a warm spring is brewing.From many small villages below came the sound of bells.First, they came up from a bell tower in the soil depression at the foot of the mountain; the top of the bell tower was covered with dry grass of various colors, some black, some yellow, and covered with a layer of moss, like velvet.Then there is the invisible bell tower in the belly of another mountain.Then came those on the river plain.And far away, there was a vague sound from a village in the mist... Christophe stopped and almost fainted.Those voices seemed to say to him:

"Come to us! There is only peace and no pain. Not only pain is gone, but thought is gone too. We can lull your soul to sleep in our arms. Come, rest, and you will won't wake up..." How weary he felt!I really want to sleep.But he shook his head and replied: "It's not peace I'm looking for, it's life." He went on again, walking several miles without knowing it.Because the body is weak, dizzy, and the simplest feeling has unexpected repercussions.His thoughts reflected many strange and feeble lights in heaven and earth.Ahead of him, on the desolate sunny road, a shadow came from nowhere, startling him.

At the exit of a forest, he found a village nearby. Afraid of seeing people, he immediately turned back, but he had to approach a lonely house at the top of the village: it leaned on the mountainside, like a sanatorium, surrounded by a In the large sunny garden, there are a few people walking on the sandy path with unsteady steps.Christophe didn't pay attention; but at the corner of the path, he met a pale-eyed man sitting limply on a stool under two poplars, with a fat and yellow face and staring eyes. Front.There was another person sitting behind him.Neither of them said a word.Christophe had already passed in front of them, and suddenly stopped, feeling that he knew those eyes, and looked back.The man remained motionless, staring ahead, as if he had a fixed target.The one next to him saw Christophe waving, and came over.

"Who is he?" asked Christophe. "A patient in a nursing home," the man replied, pointing to the room. "I seem to know him." "Possibly. He's a very famous writer in Germany." Christophe said a name. ——Sure enough.Christophe had met him before when he was writing articles for the Mannheim magazine.At that time they were in a hostile position.Christophe has just emerged, and the other party has already become famous.He has a strong personality and is very confident. He looks down on anything other than his works.His realistic and sensual novels are not as vulgar as the popular works.Although Christophe hated him, he couldn't help secretly admiring his worldly, sincere, narrow, but perfect art. "He has been ill for a year," said the watchman. "After being treated for a while, everyone thought he was cured, and sent him back. Unexpectedly, it happened again. One night, he jumped out of the window. When he first came here, he was agitated and shouting; now he is very Be quiet and just sit like this all day." "What is he looking at there?" asked Christophe. He approached the stool and looked at the man who had been defeated by the disease with great pity. His face was bloodless, his eyelids were thick, and one eye was almost closed.The lunatic didn't seem to know that Christophe was beside him.Christophe called his name and held his hand—it felt soft and damp, powerless, like a dead thing; he dared not hold it in his hand again.The lunatic looked at Christophe with his upturned eyes, stared forward again, and smiled stupidly. "What are you looking at?" "I'll wait," the man replied in a low voice, motionless. "Waiting for what?" "Wait for the resurrection." Christophe shuddered and ran away.The words shot into his heart like a rocket. He looked at the forest without thinking, and climbed up the hillside towards home. Because his mind was very confused, he lost his way and walked into a big pine forest.All shadows, all silence.Spots of fiery yellow sunlight coming from nowhere penetrated the thick shadows.Christophe was hypnotized by these lights, and felt that the surroundings were dark.He stepped on a thick needle felt, and the roots protruding like veins often tripped his feet.Not a single plant, not a single piece of fresh moss under the tree.No birdsong on the branches.The lower branches of the tree have withered, and all life is hiding in the sunny place above.Looking forward, even this little business has gone out.It was the middle part of the woods that had been infested by some mysterious disease.Slender lichens of all kinds wrapped the red pine branches like cobwebs, bound them from head to foot, spread from tree to tree, and choked the forest.They are like seaweed under the water, with tentacles everywhere.The surroundings were as quiet as the depths of the ocean.The high sun dimmed.Somehow, the lifeless forest slipped into a fog, which surrounded Christophe.Everything is gone; nothing is left.He ran around for half an hour; the white mist was getting thicker and thicker, and it became black and thick, piercing his throat; he thought he was going straight ahead, but he was actually circling there, and there were huge cobwebs hanging on the pine trees, The mist leaves crumbling droplets of water on the net as it passes by.At the end, there was a gap in the maze like a net of heaven and earth, allowing Christophe to walk out of the underwater forest, and saw some vigorous trees again, the silent struggle between pine trees and beech trees.But there was still no movement around.After hours of silence simmered, a commotion broke out.Christophe stopped and listened. All of a sudden, a wave came from a distance.A gust of wind blew up from the depths of the woods, and it reached the top of the tree like a galloping horse. The tops of the trees fluctuated like water waves.The gust of wind was like the god in Michael Angelo's painting surging in the turbulent waves and rolling over Christophe's head.The forest trembled, and Christophe's heart trembled.That is the harbinger of the earth's rejuvenation... Then everything fell silent again.Christophe rushed home stunned, his legs trembling, went to the door of the house, looked back and forth as if being chased.The world seemed to be dead.The woods on the hillside were dead asleep.The still air seemed oddly transparent.All was silent.There is only a spring that erodes the rock, whimpering and singing a lament for the earth.Christophe fell into a hot sleep.Cattle as restless as he was stirring in the adjoining barn... At night, he was drowsy and half asleep.Another wave rose in the distance: the wind came again, but this time it was a raging wind—the monsoon in spring, which exhaled scorching breath, warming the sleepy and shivering land; It melted the ice and brought all the rain along the way.In the woods on the other side of the puddle, the wind roared like thunder, getting closer and bigger, rushing up the hillside with the momentum of thousands of horses; the whole mountain forest was full of howling.A horse neighed endlessly in the house, and several cows followed suit.Christophe sat on the bed and listened, his hair standing on end.The strong wind blew, whistling and screaming, the wind needle rattled, the roof tiles flew around, and the house was about to shake.A flower pot was blown in the ground and broke.Christophe's open window rattled open, and a gust of hot wind rushed in, blowing Christophe's face and blowing his bare chest.He jumped out of bed, mouth open, unable to breathe.It was as if a living God had rushed into his empty soul.This is resurrection! ... the air entered his throat, and the waves of new life filled his viscera.He felt like he was going to burst, wanted to scream, to cry out his pain and joy, but all he could get out was a few meaningless sounds.The paper was blown by the strong wind and flew all over the room; he swayed and knocked on the wall with his arms, dancing and shouting in the room: "Oh! You, you, you are finally back!" "You're back, you're back! Oh, you, haven't I lost you?  … Why did you lose me? " "In order to complete my mission, complete the mission you gave up." "What mission?" "Fight." "Why do you still fight? Aren't you the master of all things?" "no." "Aren't you everything?" "I am not everything. I am the life that conquers nothing. I am not nothing. I am the fire that consumes nothing in the night. I am not the night. I am the eternal battle. I am free will that is always struggling. Fight with me, Let's burn together." "I'm defeated. It's useless." "You beat? Do you think it's over? Then someone else will win. Don't think about yourself, think about your team." "I am alone and alone; I have no team." "You are not alone, you are not yours. You are one of my many voices, one of my many arms. Speak for me, fight for me. If the arm is broken and the voice dies, I still stand; I can fight with other voices, with other arms. Even when you are defeated, you belong to a team that will never be defeated. Remember my words, you will win even if you die." "Lord, how miserable I am!" "Do you think I'm not in pain? For thousands of years, death has pursued me and nothingness has been waiting for me. Only by winning battles again and again can I fight my way out. The river of life is stained red with my blood." "Fight, always fight?" "Yes. God fights there too. God is a conqueror, a lion that devours all. Nothingness surrounds God, and God subdues nothingness. The rhythm of battle is the most beautiful harmony. This harmony is not for you Those human ears listen. Just know it exists. Do your duty quietly and let the gods arrange everything." "I'm out of strength." "Sing for the strong." "My throat is cracked." "Pray then." "My heart is not clean." "Throw it away and take mine." "Lord, it's all right to forget myself, to throw away my dead soul. But how can I throw away my dead, how can I forget my loved ones?" "Throw them away with your own dead soul. Once you find my living soul, you will find that your dead are not dead." "Oh, you once abandoned me, will you abandon me again?" "Yes. Certainly. But you must not leave me." "What if my life goes out?" "Then light up the other lives." "What if my heart dies?" "Then life is somewhere else. Open your windows to meet it. You fool, the house is falling down, and you shut yourself up in it! Come out quickly. There's another place to live." "Oh! life, oh! life! I see... I used to find you in my heart, in my empty and closed soul. My soul was broken; and my wound was like a window through which Into the air; I can breathe again; O life! I have found you again! . . . " "I brought you back...don't talk, just listen." Christophe heard the song of life resounding in his chest like the murmur of a spring.Looking out of the window, yesterday was the dying forest, but today it is surging under the spring breeze and spring sun.A gust of wind, trembling with joy, floats among the trunks; and the bent branches gladly stretch their arms toward the bright sky.The torrent rushes down, like the bells of laughter.The same scene was buried in the tomb yesterday, but today it is resurrected; life returns, and the love in Christophe's heart wakes up.It is nothing short of a miracle for a soul to receive God's favor!The soul awakens from the nightmare and everything regenerates around it.The heart beats again.The dry springs began to flow again. Christophe rejoined the holy battle... His own battle, the human battle, seemed too small in this great melee where the sun was dancing like snowflakes! ...he stripped his soul naked.It is as if a person is often suspended in the air in a dream, and he sees himself from a height, from the vast world; then the meaning of his pain is immediately revealed.His struggle is part of the great struggle of all beings.His failure was only a small incident, and it was immediately remedied.He fought for everyone, and everyone fought for him.They share his sorrows, and he shares their glory. "Companions, enemies, go forward, step on me, let the cannons run over me! I don't think of the iron wheel that hurt my flesh, I don't want those feet that trample on my head, I I only think of the person who avenged me, the master, the leader of thousands of ranks. My blood paves the way for his future victory..." It seemed to him now that God was not a callous creator, a Nero watching from a tower a fire he himself had put down.God is suffering too.God also fights, fights with those who fight, and aids those who suffer.Because it is life, a ray of light in the dark night, it slowly spreads out to engulf the night.But the night is boundless, and the battle of the gods will never end; and no one knows the result.It is a symphony of heroes, and even those dissonant sounds that conflict and mix with each other will turn into clear and quiet music.Just as the zelkova forest is silently and fiercely fighting, life is fighting against it eternally. ------------ ① Nero was the great emperor of the Roman Empire, famous in history for his licentiousness.According to legend, he set the fire in Rome in AD 64. These battles, this peace, echoed in Christophe's heart.He is a shell in which the waves of the ocean can be heard.The call sign of the trumpet, the gust of wind with various sounds, and the heroic cry flew over the rhythm of all the towns.For in this vocal soul everything becomes a voice.It sings for the light, it sings for the night, it sings for life, it sings for death, it sings for the conqueror, and for himself, the vanquished.it sings.Everything sings.It just sings. The torrential music seeps into the cracked soil in winter like spring rain.Shame, sorrow, misery, now reveal their mysterious mission: they decompose and fertilize the soil; the coulter of pain, while cutting your heart, digs new waters of life.The fields were full of flowers again, but not from the previous spring.A new soul is born. It is born all the time.Because its bones are not yet fixed, unlike those souls that are about to die of old age when they have reached the peak of development.It's not a statue, but metal in solution.Every second a new universe manifests in it.Christophe does not want to fix its boundaries.He seemed to have left all his past behind and set out on a long journey: with the blood of a young man, with a heart free from any attachments, breathing the air of the ocean, he thought the journey would never end, and he felt extremely happy. up.He was seized again by the creative power that was running through the world, and he was fascinated by the riches of the world.He loves, he can incarnate, incarnate as his fellow man.And everything is his fellow man, from the grass he steps on to the hands he holds.Or a tree, or the shadow of a cloud reflected on a mountain, or the smell of a lawn, or the buzzing night sky, among which there are as many suns as a swarm of bees... It's just a whirlpool of blood .He didn't want to talk, didn't want to think, just laughed, cried, and melted away in this lively illusion... Writing, why writing?Can you write the unspeakable state? . . . and yet, whether possible or not, he must write.That was something he couldn't avoid.Everywhere, all kinds of thoughts flickered on him.How can we wait?So he writes, no matter what he writes in, no matter what he writes on; often he can't tell what the sentences are rushing in his chest; and before one idea is finished, another one comes.He wrote, wrote, on the cuffs of his shirtsleeves, on the straps of his hat; no matter how fast he wrote, the thoughts always came faster, it required a kind of shorthand... But these are only shapeless fragments.When he wanted to put these thoughts into the general musical form, difficulties came; he found that none of the previous molds were suitable; Forget everything you have written, and overthrow all the formulas and traditional techniques you have learned—that can only be used as a crutch for the spirit of depression, for those who are too lazy to use their own brains to think and seize other people's insights people make a ready-made bed.Once upon a time, when he thought his life and art had matured—(actually only at the end of one of his many lives),—the language he used to express was ordinary language, which was not produced at the same time as his own thoughts. A new language; his feelings developed with ready-made logic, which provided him with a part of the formulaic sentence, and carried him along the old path of his predecessors, to an end that was fixed earlier and that the crowd was waiting for.There is no ready-made path at the moment, it should be opened up by sentiment, and thoughts can only follow.His task is no longer to describe passion, but to become one with passion, so that he can blend with the inner law. At the same time, the contradiction that Christophe had struggled with for a long time and was unwilling to admit disappeared.Because although he is a pure artist, he often worries about issues that have nothing to do with art, and believes that art has a social mission.He didn't realize that he had two personalities: one is an artist who creates, who doesn't care about moral consequences at all; It's very difficult for each other.Now, when he concentrates on creation and is governed by the laws of nature, he puts aside practical thoughts.Of course, he still despises the vile and immoral atmosphere of the day, and always thinks obscene art is the lowest art, a disease of art, a poisonous fungus growing on rotten tree trunks.But even if the art aimed at pleasure is tantamount to sending art into a brothel, Christophe will not overcorrect, advocate vulgar pragmatism, advocate art aimed at morality, castrate the pegasus and teach it to plow the fields.The highest art, the art worthy of the name, is by no means bound by the rules of the day; it is a comet shot out into infinite space.Whether this force is useful, useless, or dangerous in practical terms, it is always force, it is always fire, it is lightning from heaven; and because of this it is holy and good.Its good may be good in the practical world; but its true, divine good, is as supernatural as faith.It is the same as its source - the sun.The sun is neither moral nor immoral. ①It is life.It beats the night.The same is true for art. -------- ①In Greek mythology, Apollo is the god of light who controls the sun, and is also the god of art, symbolizing that art and the sun have the same origin. So Christophe, who was completely immersed in art, was shocked to find that there were many strange and unexpected forces in his heart; neither his lust, nor his sorrow, nor his conscious soul...—— But a strange soul, indifferent to his love and suffering, and indifferent to his whole life, a joyful, magical, wild, incomprehensible soul!It drives Christophe like a horse, always kicking him with spurs.Occasionally, when he could take a break to catch his breath, he asked himself while looking at what he had written: "Why, how did this come out of me?" He was then subdued by the frenzy of the mind, that unfettered, independent will which all geniuses have learned, the "enigma of the world and of life," which Oud called "demonic"; He himself was overwhelmed by it, though he was protected by arms. Christophe wrote, wrote, and wrote all day long.There are times when the fullness of the spirit does not need any nourishment, and continues to be there endlessly.Just a little teasing, some pollen brought by the breeze, can make thousands of inner germs grow... Christophe has no time to think, and no time to live.The soul that is busy with creation overwhelms the ruins of life. Then, everything stopped.Christophe was exhausted, ten years old,—but saved.He left Christopher and was born into God. Stars and white hair suddenly appeared on the head, as if autumn flowers bloomed all over the grassland overnight in September.There are new wrinkles on the cheeks.But the peaceful eyes returned, and the expression of the mouth expressed forbearance.He is calm.Now he understands.He understands: his pride, the pride of mankind, is useless once he faces the power that shakes the world.No one is completely autonomous.Must be vigilant.If you were asleep, that force would slip into our breasts and carry us away...into what abyss?To the place where the springs have dried up, and left us in the dry bed of the river.Just being willing to fight is not enough.You should bow your head to the unknown gods!He will give you love, death, or life whenever and wherever he pleases.The will of man alone is useless without the will of God.God can destroy our years of labor and effort in an instant.And when he is happy, he can also turn decay into magic.An artist who can create especially feels that he cannot escape the grasp of God; for a truly great artist speaks only what the gods have inspired him to say. Only then did Christophe understand the wiseness of old Haydn——before he writes every morning, he kneels... beware of trembling, and praying sincerely.So you have to pray to God and ask him to be with you.You have to communicate with the God of Life with a heart of piety and love. At the end of summer, a Parisian friend passed through Switzerland, found Christophe's hermitage, and paid a special visit.He is a music critic, and his work has always been the most appreciated.He also came with a well-known painter who also admired Christophe.They told him that his compositions were being played all over Europe and that they were very welcome.Christophe was not interested in this news, thinking that he was dead in the past, and he no longer took those works to heart.Because of the guest's request, he took out the piece he composed recently.But the other party didn't understand at all, thinking that Christopher was crazy. "No melody, no rhythm, no theme management; just a sap, no cooling liquid, which may adapt to any form and has no fixed form itself; it is like nothing; just a few points in a chaos Shimmer." 克利斯朵夫笑了笑回答：“差不多是这么回事。混沌的眼睛在世界的幕后发光……” 但来客不懂得诺瓦利斯①的这句名言，只暗暗的想：“他才气尽了。” 克利斯朵夫并不希望他了解。 客人告别的时候，他陪着他们走一程，有心带他们看看山上的风光。但他也没有走多少路。看到一片草原，音乐批评家便提起巴黎戏院的装饰；那位画家又认为色调配合得很不高明，完全是瑞士风味，象又酸又无味的大黄饼，霍特娄②一派的东西；并且他对自然界也表示很冷淡。 ----- ①诺瓦利斯为十八世纪德国诗人。 ②霍特娄为十九世纪瑞士历史画家。 “自然界？什么叫做自然界？我就不认识！有了光和色，不就行了吗？我才不理会什么自然呢……” 克利斯朵夫跟他们握了手，让他们走了。他对这些情形都不动心了。他们都是在土洼那一边的。这样倒更好。他不想对人家说：“要到我这里来，应当走同样的路。” 几个月来把他烧着的火低下去了。但克利斯朵夫心中依旧保持着那股暖气，知道火一定还会烧起来，要不是在他身上，就在另外一个人身上。不管它在哪儿，他总是一样的爱它：火总是同样的火。在这个九月的傍晚，他觉得那道火蔓延着整个的自然界。 他望回家的路上走。一阵暴雨过了，又是阳光遍地。草原上冒着烟。苹果树上成熟的果子掉在潮湿的草里。张在松树上的蜘蛛网还有雨点闪闪发光，好比古式的车辆。湿漉漉的林边，啄木鸟格格的笑着。成千成万的小黄蜂在阳光中飞舞，连续而深沉的嗡嗡声充塞着古木成荫的穹窿。 克利斯朵夫站在林中一平空地上：那是土坳中间一片椭圆形的盆地，满照着夕阳；泥土赫红，中间有一小方田，长着晚熟的麦与深黄的灯芯草。周围是一带秋色灿烂的树林：红铜色的榉树，淡黄的栗树，清凉茶树上的果实象珊瑚一般，樱桃树伸着火红的小舌头，叶子橘黄的苔桃，佛手柑，褐色的火绒……整个儿象一堆燃烧的荆棘。在这个如火如荼的树林中，飞出一只吃饱了果实，被阳光熏醉的云雀。 而克利斯朵夫的心就象云雀一样。它知道等会要掉下来的，而且还要掉下无数次。但它也知道永远能够望火焰中飞升，唱出呖呖流转的歌声，向那些留在地下的同伴描写天国的光明。