It felt as if the world had chosen the most kangtai pharm



Kulo, who lives in the woods of the peoples of Europe, began to warp in the flame. If it was tried to shut it down at once, it ignited further; the smoke clouds were rotating and the spark of a hundred jumped from one place to another and burned dry tails. In the East, the fortunes were already predicting a great war between the nations. The whole of Europa, yesterday, like a dead tree, skeptical and apathetic Europa, got into the fire. The spirit of struggle captured all souls. Every moment there was a war outbreak. It was shut down, it lit up again. Even the excuse for doing so can do it. The world felt overwhelmed by chance, which could let go of the rage of rage. It waited. Even the most tranquil was the feeling of the necessity of fate. And the ideologists praised Proudhon Cyclops in the shadow of a strong shadow of human supremacy of war…

So that was the end result of the physical and moral resurrection of the peoples of the West! The streams of intense action and faith took them to the slaughter. Only a Napoleonic genius would have been able to give this blind person a clear and useful main goal. But the genius of action did not appear in Europe anywhere. It felt as if the world had chosen the most medieval ones to rule. The intellectual power of human life where it may have been. – Then there was no other advice than to throw into the rapids. They both managed and controlled. Europa was like an enormously armed nightstand.

Christophe remembered a night of similar expectations; then he was close to Olivier Jeannin’s worried face. But at that time, the threat of war was just a thunderstorm. Now it was born under the guise of the whole of Europe. And Christophe’s heart had changed since then. Nowadays, he could not agree with this kind of hate among the peoples. His mood was the same as in Goethe in 1813. How could you fight if you didn’t hate it? And how to hate when not young? He had already escaped the atmosphere of anger. Which of those great peoples was not as dear to him as the other? Christophe had learned the merits of each of them and knew what the world was for everyone in the debt of gratitude. When one has reached a stage of spirit development, “he no longer knows the nations; he only knows the happiness or misfortune of his neighbors as his own . “The clouds are then at his feet. There is only the sky around him,” the whole sky, the kingdom of Kotka . ”

Sometimes Christophea was troubled by the national-like hostility surrounding him. It was too clear to him in Paris that he was an enemy; and not even such a beloved creature as Georges was able to say without hearing his opinions about Germany, which made Christophe sad. Then Christophe left Paris for a while; he took an excuse to see his daughter in Graz; he traveled to Rome for some time. But there was no more air there. The evil plague of national pride had also spread. It had revolutionized the Italian character. The people that Christophe had previously seen as indifferent and sluggish, dreamed of today as the glory of warfields, the fighting, the conquests, the eagles of Rome that would fly over the Libyan Stools; they thought they had returned to the Roman Empire! The strangest thing was that all opposing parties, the socialists as well as the church-minded and the monarchists, all lamented the same in sacred innocence; none of them thought they were unfaithful to their own cause. It shows how little state power or human reason weighs, when the winds of great, passionate passions are blowing over the nations. Those passions do not try to suppress each person’s personal feelings; they just use them for their own sake: everything goes to the same end point. The epochs of the work have always been so. In the armies of Henry IV and the councils of Ludvig XIV, who created the greatness of France, there were as many sensible and earnestly believers as those who were encouraged by vanity, Capture your self and cheap epicureanism. Jansenists and libertines, Puritans and female bosses have served a common purpose in satisfying their own personal instincts. In future wars, internationalists will surely rival and pacifist as cruel and believe, as their adult ancestors of the Convention, do their work for the benefit of peoples and eternal peace.

Christophe looked at the Janiculus terrace a little ironically, smiling at the same time, bringing both a fused and a harmonious city, a symbol of the world that it ruled: crumbling ruins, “baroque” phases, modern buildings, cypresses and roses mixed up, under the intellectual light. So the rays of the intellect radiated into the battling universe are the order and the light of their being.

Christophe was very little in Rome. The influence of that city on her was too strong: she was afraid of it. To gain such harmony, he had to listen to it from a distance; he felt that if he had stayed there, he would have been threatened by a bad danger: that city could have swallowed him like many other strangers. – Occasionally, he would also inject you in Germany. But most of all, she was attracted by her, despite the fact that the French-German collision became more credible. Of course, Christophea took her son Georges to Paris. But such a reason was not the only one. Others, intellectuals, were equally powerful. The artist, who had been used to a completely free life and to share the suffering of all mankind, was no longer difficult to adapt to living in Germany. There was no shortage of artists there. But the artists lacked the air. They were fenced off from the rest of the nation; it didn’t care about them; Other people, social, or practical, took the public as a whole. The poets closed their despair to their despised art; they were honored to cut off the last ties that united them into the lives of their people; they wrote only for a few and chosen ones: they formed a small, fairly talented, sophisticated and infertile aristocracy; the supremacy itself was divided into competing groups, each of which held their worth alone; they were blinded in the cramped space they had closed; when they couldn’t expand, they tried to dig deep; they turned the same land until all the power was gone. Then they fell into the hibernation of their anarchist dreams and didn’t even care that they had talked about their dreams to others. Each one struggled alone, in the fog. There is no common light. Everyone had to wait only for their own light.

In the south, on the other side of the Rhine, in the country of the western neighbor of Germany, on the other hand, there was occasionally a breeze of collective enthusiasm, worrying global ideas in art. And there shone, like the French Eiffel Tower over the plateau and Paris, far beyond the never-ending lighthouse of the Classical Tradition, a torch that was the achievement of hundreds of years of work and glory and moved from hand to hand without enslaving or forcing the streets and showing them the way thousands of years are traveled; it united an entire people around the same light. Many German souls, – a bird that was lost in the night – joined with all this power towards this distant beacon. But who does the French think of the great sympathy of driving the noblest spirits of the neighboring nation to France? From there, the hands are loyal to the French, Just war! It does not tear our hands apart and does not prevent our brother’s ideas from appreciating “. Just war! It does not tear our hands apart and does not prevent our brother’s ideas from appreciating “.

That’s what Christophe thought. He knew how much these two peoples complement each other and how lucky their spirit, their art, their aspirations would be if: they didn’t help each other. He who was born in the Rhine region, in those two cultures, intertwined, he had foretold that the connection between France and Germany would be necessary for both countries; that thought had survived through his life; the treasure of his treasures was to maintain the balance of the two foreign states and the strong posture of both. The more he had Germanic dreams, the more he needed Latin intelligence and order. That was why France was so dear to her. There he got the good thing that he knew there and managed himself best.

Christophe had learned to benefit from all the spiritual things that were trying to harm him. He melted away foreign powers. When the strong soul is in perfect condition, it swallows the powers of all others, those who are hostile to it, and melt them into their own muscle. Finally, it is time for him not to be liked by anyone who is the least like him: for it has the most abundant new food for him.

And Christophe really liked more of the works of his contemplated artists than his mates: – because he also had a mate. They said they were his disciples. They were good boys, deeply respected by him, diligent, wings, with all virtues. Christophe would have wanted to keep their compositions from the bottom of his heart; but – (fortunately for him!) – he could not: they were overwhelmed by him. A thousand times more attracted him to other musical abilities that were personally antipathetic to him and whose art had some kind of reluctant features to his art. Those men at least lived! Life alone is such a virtue that if it is not for anyone, he is not a perfectly decent man even if he had all the other virtues; for then he is not yet a full man. Christophe said with a playfulness that he did not recognize his students as those who fought against him. And when a young artist came to talk to him about his musical vocation, and thought he was going to get his lust by flattering him, Christophe asked:

– So my composition will satisfy you? In this way do you express your love or anger?

– Yeah, master.

– Well, then keep your mouth closed. You have nothing to say to yourself.

Christophe’s horror for enslaved souls, witches who have created to obey, his invincible longing to breathe in other thoughts as his own, pulled him most favorably into circles whose world of divorce was the sharpest of his own. He had friends as men, for whom his art, his wonderful blessings, and his moral concepts were merely dead words; they had their own way of seeing life, love, marriage, family, all social relationships: – very decent men, but as if they were already part of another generation of moral development; those great spiritual pains in which part of Christophe’s life has passed seemed unimaginable to them. Good for them, of course! Christophe didn’t want to get them to understand them. He did not insist that others should have confirmed his point of view by thinking in the same way as he did: he was in his own mind you are certain. He wanted them new ideas to get to know them, new souls to love them. Love, feel more! See and learn to see. In his last years, he had begun to accept in others the opinions he had fought against before, and even enjoy them: for he was a sign of the fertility of the universe. He was the best of Georges as he was, so that he didn’t understand life tragically as Christophe himself did. Humanity would have been too poor and gray if it had been all dressed in the same moral and heroic compulsion, where Christophe was armored. The world also needed joy, frivolity, bold disrespect for the idols, all idols, even the saints. Long live “The skepticism and faith are both equally important. up close, insulted each other!

Christophe’s eyes were open to the infinite diversity of both the material and the spiritual world. It was his biggest victory on the first trip to Italy. In Paris he had surrendered closely, especially to the painters and sculptors; in his opinion, the French side had the best side in them. The triumphant courage with which they pursued their goal and dragged their tremors of motion and life into their powers, and clinging to the veils of life around the reality of life, made Christophe’s heart swell with joy. How endlessly rich is a man who can see, one single drop of light, one second of life! How trivial are the controversy of people and the waves of warfare over such pleasures of the spirit!… But even the controversy and wars are the creators of its enjoyment. Must surrender to everything, boldly, happily, throw and deny the powers of our hearts, throw us both the hostile and on our side, all the metal of life. The final result is the statue, which is gradually being made within us, the divine fruit of spirit; and all that can make it more beautiful, even at the expense of our bitter victims, is good. What does matter about the creator of the book? It is nothing more than what we create … You do not get us into your hands, the enemies who are willing to hurt us. Your strikes aren’t going to happen to us … You reach our empty diaper. Long ago we have already been elsewhere. The final result is the statue, which is gradually being made within us, the divine fruit of spirit; and all that can make it more beautiful, even at the expense of our bitter victims, is good. What does matter about the creator of the book? It is nothing more than what we create … You do not get us into your hands, the enemies who are willing to hurt us. Your strikes aren’t going to happen to us … You reach our empty diaper. Long ago we have already been elsewhere. The final result is the statue, which is gradually being made within us, the divine fruit of spirit; and all that can make it more beautiful, even at the expense of our bitter victims, is good. What does matter about the creator of the book? It is nothing more than what we create … You do not get us into your hands, the enemies who are willing to hurt us. Your strikes aren’t going to happen to us … You reach our empty diaper. Long ago we have already been elsewhere. Your strikes aren’t going to happen to us … You reach our empty diaper. Long ago we have already been elsewhere. Your strikes aren’t going to happen to us … You reach our empty diaper. Long ago we have already been elsewhere.

Christophe’s artistic creation had reached a more obedient shape. It was no longer a spring storm, a thunderstorm that collects, falls and suddenly disappears. It was white, summer clouds, a glittering snow lining, big light beams that quietly floated to fill space… Create! Ripe cereals in August in the calm sunshine…

First, the vague and strong horror, the twilight of the rich grape, the joy of the blooming crescent, the heavy woman who carries her mature fruit in her womb. Organ humor; on the bottom of the nest, the whimsical bees singing… Such dark and golden music, golden as the autumn honey; gradually separating the ear from the leading rhythm; the star dance of the planets appears, it starts to swing…

Then the will appears. It despises on the back of an overwhelming, horrible dream ride, and squeezes its knees into its humps. The mind knows the laws of the rhythm that commends it; it dominates the disorderly forces and determines their path and purpose. The symphony of reason and instinct is formed. Twilight brightens. Forward-opening, long, extending from the band on the road to notice the two sides of the glowing bonfires, which will in turn vertebrae in the creation of small tähtimaailmain chain in the world who align themselves with a circle around the solar system …

The big features of the board are now drawn. Now, its forms will become clearer about the uncertainty. Details are checked: color harmony and personality. All the stocks of the essence are needed to accomplish the work. The memory smokehouse is opened and the scents begin to spread. The Spirit releases the senses; it gives them their time to be spoiled and is silent; but it lurks next to you, flies them and chooses them to catch …

Everything is ready; The series of activities performs the work of the spirit-commanded matter. A great architect and good workers are required who know their profession and do not spare their strength. The cathedral rises.

“And God looked upon all his works. And behold, they were not yet good .”

The master looks at his creation; and his hands complement the harmony…

The dream is full. Te Deum …

The white clouds of the summer, the big birds of light, float slowly; and their wings spread over the heavens.

But Christophe’s life was not limited to his art; far from it. A man of his kind cannot be content with not loving; and not just settle for the parallel love that the artist’s view usually spreads to everything: no, he must love something more than others; he wants to give himself to his chosen ones. It has the roots of the tree of his life. Thus his heart blood is renewed.

The blood of Christophe was not close to exhaustion. His essence was threatened by love, and it was his best pleasure. Double love for Grazia’s daughter and Olivier Jeannin’s son. In his thoughts they were always the same. He was soon uniting them.

Georges and Aurora had met each other with Colette. Aurora lived in that cousin’s home. She stayed for a part of a year in Rome, part of Paris. He was eighteen years old, Georges five years older than him. Aurora was large, clever and elegant; head small and wide face; skin light, refreshed; in the upper lip heard a fine delicate; eyes bright, gaze laughing and not thinking about themselves; chin-like, hands brown, arms firm and round; neck beautiful; Usually she was looking happy, material and proud. He wasn’t very busy at all, and a little bit sentimental. From her mother she had inherited her indecent laziness. He slept his eyes without opening the clock at eleven every morning. The rest of his time he walked idle, laughing at the mouth and half-sleeping.Dornröschen, – Sleeping Beauty. Aurora reminded a little about Christophen Sabina. He sang the earth as he went, sang when he got up from the bed; laughed alinomaa, without any reason, childish, good laughter, swallowing his laughter as if he was tricked. Impossible to understand where his days went! All Colette’s attempts to embellish him with that fancifulness, which is usually easy to smooth the souls of young girls, had been superfluous; Aurora did not learn anything; she had months to read a book she thought was pretty beautiful; and not a week later he remembered anything he read, nor even the name of the book. He made no mistake about spelling mistakes and, when speaking about information matters, he was overwhelmingly stupid. It was refreshing to see Aurora, so young, so happy, he was so innocent without intellectualism; his vikans, his negligence, approaching indifference, and his naive selfishness attracted. He was always quite instantaneous. And that little lady, simple and lazy, was able to experience an innocent way, if necessary: ​​then she made her whole being admire for the young gentlemen; he painted in the open air, played the Chopin nocturne, walked through the poem under the arm, without reading it, talked about ideal things and used equally ideal hats. then he made his whole being admire to admire the young men; he painted in the open air, played the Chopin nocturne, walked through the poem under the arm, without reading it, talked about ideal things and used equally ideal hats. then he made his whole being admire to admire the young men; he painted in the open air, played the Chopin nocturne, walked through the poem under the arm, without reading it, talked about ideal things and used equally ideal hats.

Christophe watched him and laughed at his beard. He felt his fatherly forgiving and playful affection for Aurora in his heart. And yet another secret and holy feeling that was directed at the person he had previously loved and who now appeared in the daughter again, preparing for another love as his. No one knew how deep his attachment to Aurora was. Only Aurora foretold it. From childhood he had seen Christophe almost always in his neighborhood; he considered Christoph to be his own family. When Aurora was loved less than his brother, he had approached Christoph with his grief. Aurora as if he knew Christophe suffered a similar sorrow; he saw it; and they took part in the fate of each other without speaking to each other. Later, Aurora had noticed what emotions Christoph and her mother had joined; Christoph seemed to have known Aurora’s secret, even though he and Graz had never expressed it to him. Aurora understood what those greetings meant by the dead Grazia sent to Christoph through him, and what the ring that was now in Christophe’s hand. Thus, Aurora and Christoph joined the secret ties. Aurora didn’t need to understand them clearly; he guessed their strength. He was sincerely attached to his old friend, even though he had never bothered to call or read his works. Aurora was quite musical; but not even so curious that he would have opened a composition book that Christophe had owned for him. It was fun for Aurora to come and flee with Christophe. – And he came there even more when he heard that he could meet Georges Jeannin there.

The Son of Olivier Jeannin had not kept Christophen following as interesting as he is today.

Nonetheless, for a long time, young people did not realize their true feelings. They had looked at each other first with ivory eyes. They were not the same. The other one was like mercury, another like a sleeping pond. But it did not take long for mercury to look quieter, and the sleeping pond woke up. Georges himself criticized Aurora’s costumes, his Italian taste, – in that respect, the girl was struggling with a slight lack of nuances, some kind of preference for glaring colors. Aurora mocked Georges Jeannin, mocking his lips, hurrying, and all-embracing. But even with their mockery, their fun to be with each other… Was it joy of lulling or real socializing? They also got Christophe playing with them, who didn’t stop them, but they both annoyed them to throw little arrows at each other. The youngsters were not in each other’s injections; but then they discovered that they carried a lot of them; and when neither of them could hide the annoyance, especially Georges, they started as soon as they met each other, retaliated to amaze each other. The injections were always temperate; they were afraid to make each other really bad; and the hitting hand was so dear to each other that they rejoiced more than their strikes. They were curiously looking at each other, looking for defects, and finding a mere charm. But neither of them admitted it to themselves. Both of them assured Christophe, when they came across, that that one was unbearable to him.

One day Aurora was with her old friend; she mentioned that she would come to Christoph to see again the next Sunday morning. Then you also worked for Georges, working like a gust of wind, as usual, and said to Christoph that he would come to Christophe on Sunday afternoon. That Sunday morning Christophe Aurora waited for nothing. But later, at the same time as Georges had promised to come, Aurora also arrived, defending himself, claiming that he had never been able to get past, and beautifying his right with the little chap. Christophea amused her innocent cunning, and she said:

– It was nasty. You would have met Georges Jeannin here, he came here in the morning, we dined together; he could no longer stay in the afternoon.

Aurora was so disappointed that she no longer listened to what Christophe was talking to her. Christophe happily talked about everything. Aurora responded distracted; he was almost angry with Christoph. The doorbell rings. Georges came. Aurora got excited and excited. Christophe watched him with a laugh. Aurora realized that Christophe was lurking at her expense, and she laughed and blushed. Christophe shook his finger at him. Suddenly, Aurora jumped sharply into Christophe’s neck. Christophe bathed her in the ear:

– Biricchina, ladroncella, furbetta …

Aurora pushed her hand to Christophe’s mouth and blocked her words.

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