Chapter 72 Part Two (2)

When he got to Paris he was very sad.This was the first time Christophe had come back since Olivier's death.He had never wanted to see the city again.On the way from the station to the hotel, he hardly dared to look out of the carriage in his carriage.In the first few days, he always hid in the room and was unwilling to go out.He felt a pang of sadness as he thought of the memories that awaited him outside the door.But what kind of pathos?Have you figured it out yourself?He thinks that he is afraid of seeing the past jumping out alive, or seeing the face of the past dead, which makes him more painful:—is his sorrow caused by this fear? ... In fact, for the pain of reliving old dreams, a person's instinct has unknowingly mobilized all his wits and defenses.So he picked a hotel that was - (maybe he didn't think so) - far from the area where he used to live.When he took a walk on the street for the first time, when he went to the concert hall to conduct the recital, and when he reconnected with life in Paris, he still closed his eyes first, unwilling to see the scene in front of him, and insisted on seeing only the scene in the past.He said to himself repeatedly: "Yes, this is what I know, I know..."

The worlds of art and politics are still so imperious and chaotic.The square is still the same market.Only the role of the actor has changed: the revolutionary party has become a bourgeois, and Superman has become a fashionable figure.Former independents are oppressing present independents.The youth of twenty years ago are now more conservative than the old men they attacked; their critics do not recognize the newcomer's right to life.On the surface nothing has changed. But actually everything has changed... "My friend, I beg your pardon! It is very kind of you not to complain that I have not written to you for so long. Your letter has given me great comfort. I have been in a state of confusion for weeks. People and things are dead and things are old. You are not here. It made me feel lost. People who were separated from me created a terrible emptiness around me. All the old friends I told you about were gone. The nightingale—(You remember her song,—just On that sad and happy night, I was wandering among the crowd, and I saw your eyes looking at me in a mirror.)——Nightingale realized her ideal, which was not too high, and got a small inheritance , went to Normandy; she managed a farm there. Monsieur Arnaud was old, and the couple returned to their south, to live in a small town near Angers. The famous people of my time are dead. , fell down; only a few old wooden figures, who had just made their debut in art and politics twenty years ago, are still performing their plays, always wearing that mask. Apart from these masks, I don’t even have one person. I don't recognize them anymore. I feel like they're standing on graves and grimacing. It's a horrible feeling.—And when I first came here, I was physically uncomfortable: leaving your bright sunshine, running here The gloomy north! It pains me now to see the ugliness of things, dark houses, vulgar lines on certain vaults and certain monuments, which I never noticed before. And the spiritual atmosphere does not necessarily I am happier.

"But I have no reason to complain about the Parisians. They treat me differently. It's as if I've become a celebrity in the few years I've been away from Paris. I won't say much about that, I know what it is. I am very moved by the kind words spoken about me in the article, and I am grateful for them. But let me tell you: I feel closer to the people who attacked me in the past than the people who compliment me now... It is my fault, I I know. Don't blame me! There was a time when I was a little confused. That's how it should be. It's all right now. I see. Yes, you were right to send me back into society. My loneliness then Buried me in the sand. Playing the part of Zarathustra is unhygienic. The current of life has passed away, passed away from us. There must come a time when we can only be a desert. To Digging a new channel under the sand to reach the river will take many days of hard work.—This has been done now. I don't feel dazzled. I catch up with the river again. I look, I see...

"Oh, my friend, what a queer people the French are! Twenty years ago I thought they were lost...and they looked forward again. My dear Olivier once prophesied to me, and I suspect he was deceiving himself. How could I have believed it then? What about his words? France, like its Paris, is full of mounds and rubble, and has been demolished here and there. I once said: They destroy everything... What is not a people of moths!— —But it is a beaver-like people. When people think they are clinging to the broken bricks, they use these broken bricks to lay the foundation of their new capital. Now I see that everywhere is being built. House, this is really called: When a thing is successful, even a fool will understand...

-- ① Zarathustra was a religious revivalist in Iran in the seventh century.Nietzsche used his name to promote the philosophy of superman, and wrote "Thus Spoke Zarathustra", assuming that he lived in seclusion in the mountains for ten years, and then enlightened. ②Beavers are good at destroying trees on land to build their nests in the sea. "Actually, the turmoil of the French is still the same. You have to get used to it before you can distinguish the laborers doing their jobs in the noise. These people, you know, can't do a thing without crawling on the ground. Shouting things out from the house, and being unable to do one's own business without blaming the neighbor's. Indeed, such a style would confuse the clearest minds. But I've spent ten years among them like I did. After that, you won't be fooled by their yelling. You will find that it is a way for them to stimulate work. Although they are chattering non-stop, their hands are also busy; The factory is building its houses, and the whole city has been renovated. The most remarkable thing is that all the buildings are not so out of harmony. Although each insists on his own theory, everyone's brains look the same. Don't Look at their confusion, with their common instincts at their core, and their national logic, which works like a discipline which, after all, is perhaps more reliable than that of a Prussian regiment.

"Everywhere there is interest and enthusiasm for construction: in politics, socialists and nationalists are competing to work to consolidate a loose regime; in art, some want to rebuild an ancient palace of aristocrats for the privileged class , some want to build a mansion for the masses, to sing to the collective soul: on the one hand to restore the past, on the other hand to create the future. And no matter what they do, those clever animals are always building the same cells. Their beaver style The instincts, or bee-like, have led them to perform the same acts and find the same forms through the centuries. The most violent revolutionaries are perhaps (unconsciously) most closely bound up with the oldest traditions. In the work Among the best young writers in the league organization, I found that many people have the soul of the Middle Ages.

"Now that I'm reaccustomed to their tumultuous ways, it's a real pleasure to watch them work. I'll be honest: I'm too old and lonely to feel comfortable in their room; I need to be free." air. But they are excellent workers after all. This is their highest virtue. It exalts even the most mediocre and corrupt people in general. How sensitive their artistic sense is! I was not a child Attention. That's you who woke me up. The sun in Rome opened my eyes. You Renaissance figures made me understand the writers here. A sheet of music by Debussy, a bust by Rodin, Shua A line of Lay's prose is of the same blood as your characters in the 1500s.

"It's not that I don't have a lot of unpleasant things here. I've met again my acquaintances from the festivals, people who have aroused my righteous indignation. They haven't changed. But I, I have changed, and dare not be harsh with them. When it came to the point where I couldn't help but criticize this kind of person relentlessly, I said to myself: You don't have this right. You think you are strong, but what you do is worse than these people.—— At the same time I also learned that there is nothing in the world that is useless, even the lowest people have their part in tragedy. Corrupt hedonists, unreliable amoralists, complete their That termite task; the ramshackle house that must be torn down before it can be rebuilt. The Jews also fulfilled their sacred mission, which was to be a race among all other peoples, from one end of the world to the other. Weaving a web of human unity. They tear down the barriers of knowledge among the nations, and open up a free world for psychic reason. The lowest corruptor, the saboteur of cynicism, is destroying our belief in the past , when killing our dear dead, they are also working for a sacred cause, for a new life. Although international bankers have caused more or less disasters to satisfy their murderous desires, they can't help but fight with those who want to overthrow the dead. Their revolutionaries are on the same line, working for a future world unity, and their contributions are more practical than naive pacifists.

"You see, I'm old, I can't bite anymore, my teeth are blunt. At the theater I don't curse actors and traitors like the innocent spectators do. "Goddess of Mercy, I only talk to you about me, but I only think about you. You don't know how angry I am with myself! That self oppresses me and drowns me. That's God hanging around my neck I would love to put it under your feet! Poor gift of course...your feet are made for soft earth and crisp sand, and I see these dear feet Lazily stepping on the lawn covered with hyacinths... (Have you ever been to Taoli Abiezhuang?)...Your feet are already tired after walking for a long time! Now you are lying on your back My favorite place is at the far end of the living room. I rest my chin in my hand and hold a book, but I don’t read it. You listened to me so kindly that you didn’t pay much attention to what I said: because I bore you. In order to increase your patience, you sometimes think about your own thoughts; but you are diligent and considerate, and you are careful not to make me angry. Occasionally, when a word or a word calls you back from a far away place, your bewildered Ruoshu's eyes will immediately pretend to be attentive. And I, speaking with my mouth, is actually as absent-minded as you are, and I don't hear my own voice very much; while I pay attention to the reaction my words cause on your face, While I heard another set of words in my heart; that I didn't say it to you, it was the exact opposite of what I said, but you, goddess of mercy, you heard it clearly, and you just pretended not to hear.

"Good-bye. I think you'll see me again soon. I'm not going to slouch here. The concert's over, what's there to do?—I kiss your two children, dear Their lovely faces. That's your product: shouldn't I be satisfied after I kissed them? … Christopher" The reply from the "Goddess of Mercy" reads: "My friend, I received your letter in the corner of the living room where you recall it so clearly; I read it for a while, let your letter rest for a while, and let me rest for a while like the letter! Don't laugh at me! This method makes your letter look longer. I spent the rest of the day with it. The children asked me what I was looking at. I said it was a letter from you. Aurora looked at the letter. , said sympathetically: Whew! What a pain to write such a long letter! I explained to her that this is not my punishment for you, but that we are talking together. She listened silently, I took my brother and slipped to the next room to play; after a while, while Leonaro was shouting loudly, I heard Aurora say: Don't shout; mother is talking to Monsieur Christophe.

"I am not surprised what you say about the French. You will remember that I complained that you were unfair to them. One may dislike them, but one must admit what a clever man they are." Peoples! Some mediocre peoples are redeemed by kindness or physical strength. The French are all clever. Cleverness washes away all their weaknesses and regenerates them. They are thought to have subverted, depraved, and corrupted. Unexpectedly, their inexhaustible wisdom rejuvenated them. "But I still have to blame you. You beg me to forgive you for talking only about yourself: it's nonsense. You don't tell me anything about yourself, what you've done, what you've seen. Until I didn't know about your success until my cousin Coleland—why didn't you go see her?—sent me the newspaper clippings about your concert, and you only mentioned one thing in your letter. Do you See all the codes?... I don't think so. You should tell me that those things make you... and should make you happy, because number one, I do. I don't like how you take everything so coldly. The tone of the letter was bleak and undeserved. It's all well and good that you be fair to others, but it must never make you feel inferior and say you are worse than the worst of them. Good Christians may praise you. I think No. I'm not a devout Christian, but an honest Italian girl, and don't like people to worry about the past. It's enough to worry about the present. I don't know much about what you did before. You just I have mentioned a few words, and I can probably guess the rest. Of course it is not very respectable; but I still think of you very much. Poor Christophe! A woman of my age can never be ignorant. A man is often very weak. If she didn't know his weakness, she wouldn't love him so much. Stop thinking about what you did. Think about what you will do. Regret is useless. It's just hope Go backwards. And in everything, good or bad, always look forward. Always go forward, Savoy! . . . If you think I will let you come back to Rome, you are mistaken It's none of your business here. Stay in Paris and create, move, and participate in the artistic life. I don't want you to be resigned. I want you to make beautiful things. I want them to be successful. I want you to be more In order to help the new Christophes to start the same struggle and break through the same difficulties. You should visit them, help them, and treat your younger generations well, not like your predecessors treated you at the beginning.— —and I want you to be strong, let me know you are strong: you can't imagine how much strength this gives me. ---- ① The Italian unification movement in the nineteenth century had this slogan.Because at that time, the royal family of Savoy was the core of the founding of the country. "I go up to Bowersville almost every day with the boys. The day before yesterday we rode up to Bond Moor and walked around the Maryville Hills. You look down on my poor legs. They do You are very angry: ——what did he say, this gentleman? Does he say that we will be tired after walking a dozen steps in Taoli Abiezhuang? He doesn't know us. We don't want to work hard because we are lazy, isn't it? Can't do it...——My friend, you forgot that I was born as a country girl... "You should go and see my cousin Coleland. Do you still hold a grudge against her? She is an honest person in her heart, and she admires you. It seems that Parisian girls are turned upside down by your music. The Swiss savage is about to become A celebrity in Paris, if he likes it. Have any ladies written you love letters? They don't even mention a woman. Will you still be in love? Tell me about it, I'm not jealous. your friend G." "Drink! Do you think I will appreciate the last sentence of your letter? Be jealous, goddess of ridicule, and don't expect me to make you jealous. I have nothing against those Parisian women who are crazy about me. Tempted. Crazy! They do want to, but they are the least crazy people. Don't expect me to be charmed by them. If they don't care about my music, maybe I can. But they do love my music ;How can I still be angry? Once someone tells you that he understands you, you can be sure that he will never understand you... "But don't take my words of laughter and cursing too seriously. My affection for you does not make me unfair to other women. Since I no longer look at them with the eyes of a lover, my affection for them can be It has never been said. We men are too stupid, only know selfishness, oppress women, make them live a kind of wronged, unhealthy, almost servant life, the result is that both men and women suffer. For thirty years they I think the painstaking efforts to get rid of that kind of life are a major event in this era. In such a city, we cannot help admiring the women of this generation, regardless of so many obstacles, conquering knowledge with innocent enthusiasm, A diploma of conquest—that which they thought would liberate them, open to them the secret vaults of the strange world, and put them on an equal footing with men! .But progress of any kind is never achieved in the way we would like it to be; progress is the same progress though different ways.The efforts of modern women will never be in vain.It can make women more complete and human, like those women of the great age.They ceased to be indifferent to the great problems of the world: that indifference is not at all human, for even a woman who values ​​family responsibilities above all else should not be unaware of her responsibilities in the modern city.Their great-grandmothers, in the days of Joan of Arc and Catherine Sforza, did not think so.From that time until now, women have become anemic.We skimp on their air and sunlight.And now they're trying to take the sun and the air back from us, hey, that's great! . . . Naturally, among these struggling women today, many will die young, and many will lose their minds and bodies.These are the times when disease is at the point of death.The effort is too violent for a man who is too enfeebled.A long-dried plant may be all right with the first rain.But there is no such thing as progress without paying a price.People in the future will surely prosper and prosper through these sufferings.The poor virgins now generally devoted to battle, many of whom will never wed, will have more fruit for the future than generations of child-bearing women: for the women of the new golden age will grow from Born out of their sacrifices. ---------- ①Catherine Sforza was an Italian nobleman in the fifteenth century, and was famous for defending the family in the feudal wars at that time. "These industrious bees must not be met in your cousin Goland's salon. Why must you make me go there? I am obliged to obey your orders; but this is wrong, and you are abusing your authority. I turned her down three times and got two letters with no reply. So she came to one of my pre-recitals—(they were auditioning my Sixth Symphony)—and nailed me. During the break , I saw her coming towards me, sniffing her nose and breathing desperately, shouting in her mouth: Oh, it's really a breath of love!...Ah! I like this music so much!... "Her appearance changed; only her catlike eyes and wriggling nose remained the same. The face became broad, firm, well-coloured, and very healthy. As a result of her physical activity, she was not what she had been before. She's crazy about it. You know her husband's a big man in the Auto Club and the Aero Club. All the air races, all the water, land, and air sports, Stefan Tellesdrat Not once. They're always traveling here and there. It's impossible to talk to them; they talk about races, boats, balls, horses. They're a new breed of fashion. Sadly. The age of Aspen is over. People don't pay attention to fashion in the spiritual aspect nowadays. What girls pursue is the bright red skin color that runs around in the open air and in the sun. When they look at you, their eyes are like men The smile is the same as mine, the smile is very rough, and the tone is more violent and presumptuous. Sometimes your cousin will say some wild words as if nothing happened. She used to eat neither this nor that, but now she has become the one at the dinner table She also complained of a bad stomach, because she was used to saying it, and it didn't actually make her move a fork. She didn't even read a book. In her society, no one read books anymore. Only music And thanks to their scorn, and at the same time it's been smeared by the fall of literature. By the time these guys are tired and paralyzed, the music is their hammam, warm steam, massage, oriental pipes... completely out of their minds Between physical activity and love, music is a transitional game and is also a sport. But of all aesthetic entertainments, the most popular sport today is dancing. Russian dance, Greek dance, Swiss dance , American dance, in Paris everything can be danced: Beethoven's symphonies, Aeschylus' tragedies, Bach's "Twelve Temperament", antiquities in the Vatican, Gluck's opera "Auer Vladimir, Wagner's Tristan...these people are suffering from a strange dream. ----- ①Aeschylus is the tragic poet of ancient Greece. "The most interesting thing is to see how your cousin reconciles it all. Her aestheticism, her physical activity, her shrewdness—(Because of her mother's business skills and her daily authoritarian style, she all inherited),—together it must be an inexplicable mixture; but she feels comfortable; her wildest eccentricities do not hinder her clear mind, just as she drives a fast car without being dazzled She will not be in a hurry. She is really a wonderful woman; her husband, guests, and servants are all at her disposal. She also participates in politics and supports His Highness; I don't believe she is a royalist, but in this way, ② Another excuse for her fuss. And she ran for election to the Academy, though she couldn't read ten pages of a book.—She volunteered to be my backer. You know it doesn't taste good to me. Worst of all. Yes, I went to see her to obey your words, but she thought she had some influence on me... I naturally wanted to deceive her and expose her to her face. She just smiled when she heard it; she even talked back to me with a cheeky face You say she's honest at heart; yes, when she has something to do. She admits it herself: If the machine has nothing to grind, it can make anything for material.— I've been to her house twice. I won't now. To you, that's enough proof of my obedience. You won't kill me, will you? I come out of her exhausted, dead tired. I'll go When I came back from seeing her for the first time, I had a terrible nightmare at night: I became her husband, and my whole life was turned upside down... A real husband would never have such absurd dreams; Among the people I met on the Internet, he was the one who got along with her the least; even when they met, they only talked about sports. The two of them were very speculative. --- ②During the writing period of this book, the descendant of the French royal family was the Duke of Louis Philippe Lauber Oleon (1869-1926).Since the Great Revolution in the 18th century, the royalist movement in France has always existed. The party members of each era took the person who should inherit the throne in the royal lineage at that time as the imaginary king, and called it "His Royal Highness". "How do all these people get my music? I don't want to know. From what I can see, it's probably a new stimulus for them. They like my music rough. They're loving a greasy art at the moment. As for the soul in the fat, they never even thought about it. They will change from being intoxicated today to turning a blind eye tomorrow, and from turning a blind eye tomorrow to criticizing and slandering the day after tomorrow. In fact, they have never known anyone. This kind of It happens to all artists. I have no illusions about my popularity, it will not last long, and I will pay for it.—I just look at these strange phenomena with cold eyes. Adoration to me The hottest (guess who? . . . ) was our friend Levy Ge, that handsome fellow with whom I once had a ridiculous duel, do you remember? Now he is educating those who used to The one who doesn't know me, and is a good guide. He's the smartest of all who talk about me. You can imagine what the rest is. You see, what am I to be proud of? "And I have no such intentions. I am ashamed to hear my works praised by others. I see my own face, but I don't think I am beautiful. For a person with eyes, a piece of music is What a pitiless mirror! Luckily they are both blind and deaf. I have put so much of my own turmoil and weakness into my work that I sometimes feel that I have done a bad thing by putting these devils into the world. Until I was relieved when I saw that the crowd was very quiet: they were wearing triple armor, and nothing could hurt them, otherwise I would have to go to hell... You blame me for being too strict with myself. That is because you do not know me well. I know myself as I know myself. People only see what we are now, but not what we might become; what people praise us is mostly the change of our times and the power that dominates us, but seldom the achievements of our self-cultivation. .Let me tell you a story. "I went into a café the night before. There are some cafés in Paris that play pretty good music, though in a strange way; the one I went to was one of those. They played five or six instruments, plus a piano. All the symphonies, the masses, the oratorios. Just as the marble shops of Rome sell the little Medicis altarpieces for mantelpieces. It seems to do art good. To make The circulation of art must be made into copper. Besides, the concerts are genuine: the program is very rich, and the players are very dedicated. I met a cellist there who I have known for a long time; His eyes are very similar to my father's. He told me his life experience. His grandfather was a farmer, and his father was a clerk in a village office in the north. They wanted to train him to be a gentleman and a lawyer, so they sent him to a nearby He went to secondary school in the city. The boy was strong and brutish, not the fine stuff for a little notary. He couldn't keep his feet, he jumped from walls, he ran about in fields, he chased girls, he followed with force. or else loafing about, dreaming of things he could never do. There was only one thing that attracted him, and that was music. God knows why! There wasn't a single musician in the family, except a mad uncle. That kind of monster, There are plenty in the outback, often very clever and gifted, but aloof and self-important, who wear out their talents for some queer nonsense. The great-uncle invented a new notation,—(You see, another !) - can lead to a musical revolution①; he also thought he had invented a shorthand technique, which could record the lyrics, tune, and accompaniment at the same time; but once he wrote it down, he couldn't recognize it. Family While laughing at the old man, he was also very proud, thinking to himself: ——He is an old lunatic. But who knows? Maybe he is really talented... ——Maybe his nephew’s love for music was inherited from him. He was there What music can be heard in a small place? . . . But the love aroused by bad music is as pure as that aroused by good music. - ①Many Europeans have invented new notation methods and think that the staff is not perfect enough. "Unfortunately, this kind of enthusiasm seems to be ulterior in his environment, and the child does not have the stubbornness of his uncle. He can only secretly flip through the works of the old lunatic who vomited his painstaking efforts, as a guide to his deformed music education In front of his father and public opinion, he was vain and timid, and never dared to propose other aspirations until he succeeded. The honest boy was oppressed by his family, like all French bourgeois, because of cowardice, he dared not fight with him. The will of the family members resists, obediently obeys on the surface, but actually lives a sneaky life forever. He does not follow the path he likes, but does the work assigned by others without interest: he can neither achieve well, nor He failed quickly. He passed the exam so-so. The advantage of passing the exam is that he can escape the dual supervision of the mainland and his parents. He has a headache when he sees the law, and he is determined not to work in this industry in the future; but as long as his father is alive , he dared not say what he wanted. Perhaps he would have liked to wait a little longer before deciding to take it. People like him spend their lives dreaming about what they will do, what they might do, and do nothing at present. Intoxicated by his new life in Paris, he derailed and, with the vigor of a country youth, gave himself over to two passions: women and music; He wasted a few years on it, trying nothing to supplement his musical education. Pride, irascibility, independence, and suspicious temper prevented him from learning from any teacher, and he would not learn from any teacher. People ask for advice. "After his father's death he threw away his law books. Having no courage to acquire the requisite art, he first began to compose music. His old habit of idleness, wandering, and pleasure-seeking prevented him from laboring. .He has a lot of emotion in his heart, but he never got hold of his thoughts and forms, and ended up writing boring clichés. The worst thing is, there is something great in this mediocre fellow. I saw two of his In the previous works, there were fragments of rather moving ideas, but only a few clues were revealed, and then they changed immediately. It was like some fires on the mud pit... and his brain is so weird! He wanted to explain Bedo to me. Fern's sonata, I saw some childish and ridiculous stories in it. But what enthusiasm and seriousness he held! He was crying while speaking. He could give his life away for what he loved. As soon as you see him, you find him charming and funny. Just when I was about to laugh at him, I wanted to hug him... Really honest to the core. He despises the fraud of the Parisian literary society, and despises the empty celebrities ——On the other hand, I still can't help but admire the popular people naively like the little bourgeois... "He got a small inheritance, ate it up in a few months, and when he was penniless, like so many others like him, he became honest and married a woman whom he had seduced." A woman with no money. She has a good voice, and she does not like music but makes music. The two live only on her voice and his poor cello performance. Naturally, they soon discovered each other's love The mediocrity is unbearable. They had a daughter, and the father dreamed of her, thinking that she could achieve what he couldn't do. The little girl, like her mother, could only become an innocent She was a very good pianist; she loved her father very much, and worked hard to win his favor. For several years, they went to hotels in famous cities and resorts, and the money they earned was not as good as the humiliation. Delicate and overworked The child died. The desperate wife became more and more bad-tempered. It was a boundless sea of ​​suffering, with no hope of jumping out. At the same time, he held an ideal in his heart that he could not achieve, which added to his pain... "Alas, my friend, when I saw the poor good-for-nothing chap, whose life was but a succession of regrets, I thought to myself:—See, that's what I might be. There is something alike in our childhood minds. Even our musical thoughts have something in common; but his stopped halfway. What is the reason why I didn't fall like him? No problem is due to me Will. But also by chance. And as far as my will is concerned, is that all by my own efforts? Is it not mostly by my race, by my friends, by that which helped me Is it the power of God?…—Thinking of this, I become humbled. A person feels that all those who love art and suffer for art are brothers with themselves. From the lowest to the first, the distance is not very big... “在这一点上，我想到了你信上的话。你说得对：一个艺术家只要还能帮助别人的时候，决不该独善其身。所以我留在这里了，我要强迫自己每年在这儿住几个月，或是在维也纳，或是在柏林，虽然我已经住不惯这些都市。可是我不应该离开岗位。即使这种逗留不能有益于人，——那是我很有理由担心的，——至少可能对我自己有点儿好处。而且想到这是你的愿望，我还可以觉得安慰。再说……（我不愿意扯谎）……我在这儿也渐渐感到愉快了。再会罢，专制的王后，你胜利了。我不但做了你要我做的事，并且喜欢做了。 Christopher" 这样他就留在巴黎，一部分是为讨她喜欢，一部分也因为他艺术家的好奇心觉醒之下，被新生的艺术界景象迷住了。他精神上把所见所为的一切都献给葛拉齐亚，写信告诉她。他很知道，希望她对这些感到多大兴趣未免是妄想；也许她还有点儿漠不关心呢。但他感激她并不过于表示出来。 她经常每半个月复他一封信，都是措辞亲切而极有节度的，象她的动作一样。提到自己的生活的时候，她始终保持着温柔，高傲，矜持的态度。她知道她的话会在克利斯朵夫心中引起何等剧烈的反响，所以宁可表示得冷淡一点而不愿意挑动他的热情，因为她不愿意跟着他一起兴奋。可是她凭着女性的聪明，自有办法不让朋友的爱情感到失意，倘使她有何冷淡的话扫了对方的兴，她会立刻用几句甜蜜的话把伤口包扎起来。克利斯朵夫不久就看透这种策略，便也使出爱情的狡计，努力压制自己的冲动，把信写得更有节制，使葛拉齐亚复信的时候减少一点儿警惕。 他在巴黎越住下去，对于大家忙忙碌碌的新的活动越感到兴味。特别因为青年人对他的好感比较少，所以他觉得更有意思。他没有看错；他的走红不过是昙花一现。十年退隐之后再回到巴黎来，他不免在社会上轰动一时。可是命运弄人，这一回捧他的竟是他从前的敌人——时髦朋友和上流人物；一般艺术家倒反暗中对他抱着敌意，或者存着猜忌的心。他的权威是靠着他年代悠久的名字，数量巨大的作品，热烈肯定的语气，不顾一切的真诚。固然大家不得不承认他是个人物，不得不佩服他或敬重他，可是不了解他，不喜欢他。他已经站在当代的艺术潮流之外了。他是个怪物，是个不合时宜的活榜样。那他一向是的。十年的孤独更加强了这一点。他不在的那个时期，在欧洲，尤其在巴黎，就象他亲眼看到的，完成了一番复兴的事业。一个新的秩序产生了。一代新人兴起来了，——爱行动甚于爱了解，爱占有甚于爱真理的一代。它要生活，要抓住生活，哪怕要用谎言去换取也有所不顾。骄傲的谎言，——各式各种骄傲的谎言：种族的骄傲，阶级的骄傲，宗教的骄傲，文化与艺术的骄傲，——对它都是好的，只要是一副铁的蓝甲，只要能供给它刀剑盾牌，保护它踏上胜利之路。所以这一代的人最讨厌听到响亮的苦恼的声音，使他们想起世界上还有怀疑与痛苦：那仿佛是飓风，曾经扰乱那个才溜掉不久的黑夜的；而且大家虽然否认，虽然想忘记，那些飓风还继续威胁着世界。距离太近了，要不听见是不可能的；于是青年们恨恨的掉过头去，大声疾呼的嚷着，想震聋自己的耳朵。但那个声音比他们的更响。所以他们恨克利斯朵夫。 反之，克利斯朵夫倒很友善的望着他们，看到大家不顾一切的向着一个切实的目标，一个新的秩序攀登，不由得表示敬意。他们在这个潮流中故意做得胸襟狭窄，并不使他惊骇。一个人向着目标迈进的时候应当笔直的朝前望的。至于他，坐在一个世界的拐角儿上，能够回头瞧瞧那个惊心动魄的黑夜，向前瞻望那年轻的笑容可掬的希望，对着清新而狂热的黎明体会一下那种不可捉摸的美，觉得挺有意思。他站的地位是钟摆的轴心上稳定的一点，钟摆却又在望一边荡过去了。他虽然不跟着钟摆一起动作，却非常高兴的听着人生的节奏跳动。那般人否认他过去的悲怆，他可是和他们一同希望着。要来的一定会来的，就象他所梦想的一样。十年以前，奥里维在黑暗与痛苦中——那可怜的高卢小公鸡——曾经用他脆弱的歌声报告天将破晓的消息；歌唱的人不在了，歌的精神却是实现了。法兰西园子里的鸟都已经醒过来。突然之间，克利斯朵夫听见奥里维的声音复活了，盖过了别的啼声，更响亮，更清楚。 他在一家书铺的柜子上随便翻着一本诗集。作者的姓名很陌生。但有些字句引起了他注意，使他不忍释手。他在没有裁开的书页中间慢慢的读下去，仿佛认出了一个很熟的声音，一些很熟悉的特点……既不能确定他的感觉是怎么回事，又不忍把书丢开，便买了下来。回到家里，他继续念着，不料那执着的念头占据着他的思想。诗中剽悍强劲的气息，清清楚楚的令人想起那些广大无边的古老的灵魂，——想起那些冬天的树木（人类只是它们的枝叶与果实），——想起那些人类的祖国。字里行间跃现出母性的超人的面目，——现在、过去、将来、永久存在的面目，君临着世界，有如中世纪艺术上的圣母，象山一般高，虫蚁似的人类在她们脚下祈祷。诗人颂赞这些伟大的女神作着英勇的决斗，从有史以来就在那里短兵相接：这些几千年的伊利亚特史诗之于特洛伊战迹，就好比阿尔卑斯山脉之于希腊岗峦。 象这样一部骄傲与战斗的史诗，对于克利斯朵夫那样的欧罗巴灵魂，思想上当然距离很远。可是在法国诗人的幻象中，——（妩媚的处女雅典娜拿着盾牌，蓝眼睛在黑暗中发光；她是劳动的女神，盖世无双的艺术家，高于一切的理性，用她毫光四射的长矛把蠢动的蛮族制服了），——克利斯①朵夫在闪烁的光明中瞥见一道目光，一副笑容，是他认识的，爱过的；但正要去抓握的时候，幻景消失了。他因为追逐不到而非常懊恼，不料翻过一页，读到了一桩奥里维去世以前不久讲给他听的故事。 ----- ①希腊神话以雅典娜为童贞的女神，代表战争，代表艺术，代表聪明，代表劳动，保护农业，保护城市。她的德性与职责多至不胜枚举。 他大为惊愕，马上跑到出版者那里去问诗人的住址。人家照例不肯说。他生了气，可是没用。后来他想也许可以在年鉴中找到，果然不错；他立刻奔到作者家里。他的脾气是想做什么就做什么，从来不肯等的。 在巴底诺区里，他爬到一座屋子的最高一层楼上。公共走道里有好几扇门，克利斯朵夫依着人家的指点敲了一扇。可是开的倒是隔壁的门。一个并不好看的年轻的女人，额上覆着深褐色的头发，皮色乌七八糟的，抽搐的脸配着一对炯炯有神的眼睛，带着猜疑的神气问他来意。克利斯朵夫把访问的目的说明了，对方又提出别的问话，便报了自己的姓名。于是她走出屋子，从身上掏出钥匙开了另外一扇门，并不请克利斯朵夫进去，先教他在过道里等着。她自己进去之后重新把门关上。后来他终于踏进了戒备森严的屋子，先穿过一间空荡荡的做餐室用的房间，里头摆着几件破烂的家具，靠近没有窗帘的窗口放着一个笼子，有十几只鸟在那里乱叫。隔壁房内，一张破破烂烂的便榻上躺着一个男人。他抬起身子迎接克利斯朵夫。那张灵光四射的瘦削的脸，那对火辣辣的，秀美的，绒样的眼睛，那双长长的细致的手，那个残废的身体，那种带点儿沙的尖锐的声音……克利斯朵夫马上认出来了……那不是爱麦虞限吗？就是那残废的小工人，无意之间断送了……爱麦虞限也突然站了起来，认出了克利斯朵夫。 他们俩一言不发，同时都看到了奥里维的影子……不敢马上伸出手来。爱麦虞限往后退了一步。那种连自己也不承认的怨恨，从前对克利斯朵夫的妒意，过了十年又在暧昧的本能深处抬起头来。他站在那里，存着戒心，抱着敌意。——可是看到克利斯朵夫那么感动，看到他们俩心里都想着的名字（奥里维……）快要被克利斯朵夫说出来的时候，他忍不住了，立刻扑在对他张开着的臂抱里。 “我知道你在巴黎，可是你，你怎么能找到我的？” 克利斯朵夫回答：“我读了你最近的著作：我听到了他的声音。” “是吗？你认出了他是不是？我现在的一切都是他赐给我的。” （他避免说出名字。） 停了一忽，他沉着脸又说：“你我之间，他更喜欢你呢。” 克利斯朵夫笑了笑：“真正爱的人没有什么爱得多爱得少的；他是把自己整个儿给他所爱的人的。”