Christophe no longer thinks of disappearing for years. A drop of a drop of water is emptying the cup of life. But his life is elsewhere. It no longer has a history. Its history has created a job. Undressed, pulsating music fills the soul and makes it insensitive to the outside world.
Christophe has won. His name has conquered its place. Age grows. His forehead is white. He doesn’t care about it; his heart is still young; his power has not wavered, he has not cursed his faith. His soul is calm again; but the serenity is not the same as when he had not yet passed through the burning Shrub. At the bottom of his essence are the traces of the storm and the feeling that the roared sea has shown him his depth. Christophe knows that no one can be praised for being the lord of his life except with the permission of the prevailing God. There are two souls in his soul. The other is the plateau, where the winds swell and clouds. The other is still up, snowy, sun-bathing peak. You can’t live there; but when the worms coming down from the bottom clothe, there is a way that leads toward the sun. In his misty soul, Christophe is not alone. He knows the intimacy of his invisible friend, the mighty Holy Cecilia, the goddess with the eyes, the spacious and the heavenly eyes; and he is silent, as the Apostle Paul on the board of Rafael, and dreams of leaning on his sword, no more accelerated, has left the battle; he dreams and molds his sleep.
Christophe wrote piano and chamber music compositions during this lifetime. In such, there is an opportunity to venture more than others; there are fewer intermediaries from the idea to the realization: realization has not had time to weaken on the way. Frescobaldi, Couperin, Schubert, and Chopin have been for fifty years ahead of the orchestra’s revolutionaries for their courageous expressions and style. From the obscure pulp that Christophe’s robust hands wrinkled, there was still a completely unrecognizable harmony of cigar, dizzying chord sets, the bottom of which was so distant that it was hardly related to modern sensation; they captured the soul with sorrowful sorcery. But the public needs long time before getting used to wins, The great artist has reached the darkest wings of his ocean. Very few people were following Christoph for his enduring excursions to his last compositions. His reputation was entirely based on his first works. Consciousness that he was not understood, even though he had success on his side, that consciousness, even more bitter, because it was not of any help to him, had increased Christophes’s tendency to isolate himself from the world he had developed after his only friend died.
Meanwhile, the German doors had opened to him. In France it was completely forgotten to bring his tragic street noise. He was free to walk wherever he wanted. But he was afraid of the memories he had in Paris, and even though he went to Germany for a few months and went there later to lead the performance of his compositions, he did not settle there. There were many who hurt him there. It was not particularly characteristic of Germany; it was elsewhere. But man is more demanding than his own country than his own and suffers most from its weaknesses. Moreover, Germany was the biggest syntax of Europe on the shoulders of Germany. When there is a winner, he is also a responsible person and has a debt that he has won; has made a non-verbal agreement to visit them before, showing them the way. The triumphant Ludvig XIV gave France a glimpse of reason. What light has Sedan Germany donated to the world? The gloss of the connectors? An impolite idea, an energetic work that has no glory, unscrupulous realism that is not defended by the fact that it is a view of healthy people; it has power to serve its interests: the Mars god as a merchant. Forty years, Europa was shaking overnight and afraid. The sun was injected under the winner’s helmet. If the winners who are too weak to take out the candle hat have no right to get anything but pity, and maybe a particle despise, then what deserves that horned man? unscrupulous realism, which is not defended by the fact that it is seen by healthy people; it has power to serve its interests: the Mars god as a merchant. Forty years, Europa was shaking overnight and afraid. The sun was injected under the winner’s helmet. If the winners who are too weak to take out the candle hat have no right to get anything but pity, and maybe a particle despise, then what deserves that horned man? unscrupulous realism, which is not defended by the fact that it is seen by healthy people; it has power to serve its interests: the Mars god as a merchant. Forty years, Europa was shaking overnight and afraid. The sun was injected under the winner’s helmet. If the winners who are too weak to take out the candle hat have no right to get anything but pity, and maybe a particle despise, then what deserves that horned man?
Some time ago the day started to dawn; the flicker of light got through the clouds. Since Christophe was first dropped out of the helmet, he also saw the sun as the first; he always returned to the country he was recently forced to visit: Switzerland. Like so many other liberating spirits at that time, he was also starving each other in the midst of hostile nations and looking for a land where he could breathe as if he were above Europe. In Goethe’s days, Rome was the island of free popes, where an entire generation of humans sought security from birds like a storm. What was the asylum now? The island just mentioned was a sea covered. That Rome no longer exists. The birds are “seven cities of the hill” fled. – The Alps are still there for them. There is still (for how long yet?) Four-thirds of the canon Saarelma in the heart of Europe. However, it does not stir up the poetic prayers of the “eternal city”; history has not given the spirits of gods and heroes to the air that penetrates our nostrils; but in all nudity, there is great music; the hills of the mountains have heroes; and here he feels better in primitive forces than elsewhere. Christophe did not come back to find romantic fun in his travels. A small field surrounded by trees, a little creek, an open sky, would have been enough for her outward life. His native face was more familiar to him than the Gigantomach of the Alps. But he couldn’t forget his past except here: he had found his strength again, here was God appeared to him in Palava Pensa. He always came here with gratitude for the gratitude and filled with faith. He was not alone. How many life-fighters, the world’s murderers, have found that country that has allowed them to fight again and believe in their battle!
Having settled in Switzerland, he had learned to know it. Most of those who travel there do not see anything other than its superficial faults: hotels that dazzle the most beautiful places in that strong country, tourist towns, terrible well-being stores, all of which are gloomy in the world to buy their health, rebellious tables, meat thrown away bumps to the animals, casino music, the bustle of which fits with the carousel, the foolish Italians, who have a rousing scowl that gets rich and old-fashioned hunger heads to bathe in the heavenly bliss, the stupid goods of the shop stalls: wooden bears, shepherds called chalet, all kinds of little ones, always and always alike; without any new ingenuity; and cool bookstores of which the traveler has the opportunity to buy impassioned books. So, they only see the whole moral low, where thousands of people every year grumble, joylessly wasting millions on their laziness, unable to find the best amusements for them as the lowest crowd that enjoys more lush.
These tourists do not know anything about the life of the people they roamed there. They have no idea what moral and civil liberties in the soul of that people have been accumulated over the centuries, the fire of Calvin and Zwingl, which is still shining there under the thousand, the strong democratic spirit that is always strange for the Napoleonic Republic, for example. They do not notice the simplicity or widespread interest in the Swiss social system in its social work; that simplicity and hobby is that Switzerland, the small United States of Europe, could be a model for the West’s three main shows, as a model of the future of Europe. Even less so, they know what kind of Daphne is sleeping in that hard shell: the Böcklin’s lightning and furious dream, Hodler’s heroic heroism, Gottfried Keller’s clear show and brisk straightness. They’re not going to see the traditional traditions in the big folk festivals; And all this young art, which scratches the palate like a rough-leaved tree, when it tastes mundane, like black and blue blueberries, but which has at least the taste of the earth, is all the work of autodidactics, which is not distinguished from their own people by traditional culture, they read the same book of life with their people.
Christophea liked the country that is trying less to appear than it really is; a country where some of the most reassuring signs of ancient peasant and bourgeois european culture can still be seen under the most modern industrial surface polish. He had been there for a couple of three good friends, serious and loyal men, isolated beings of sad past memories; they looked at the slow disappearance of old Switzerland somehow religiously-fatalist, Calvinist-pessimistic: in the way of the great gray eyes. Christophe didn’t see them often. His former wounds were seemingly scarred, but they were too deep to fully heal. He was afraid to join the people again. She was afraid to get caught up in a stroll of love or pain. That’s why he enjoyed the country well, where he was easy to alive, stranger among strangers. Besides, he rarely stayed in the same locality; he densely moved there. He was an old migratory bird that needed changing air and whose fatherland was in the air … “Mein Reich ist in der Luft… ”
It was summer.
Christophe walked in the mountains, on a hill above a village. He walked in the hat on the mountain, bending up the rising road. On a hill, the road made almost a full turn, between the two hills that closed it; the two sides of the road increased by walnut trees and fir trees. The place was completely isolated. On each leg, the road seemed to break off, as if your cliff had cut it across. An air-strapped bus from far away, a bright sky shining above. The peace of the evening descended slowly into the ground, a drop of drop like a little creek that played in the moss.
They saw each other at the same time, coming from their own direction. The woman was dressed in black, she clearly stood out from the clear sky; behind him ran two children, a little boy and a little girl, about six or eight years old, playing and picking up flowers. After a few steps they knew each other. Their mind action was visible in their eyes; but they did not express it by any strong word or movement. Christophe was very upset; another… his lips shivered a little. They stopped. Hardly heard:
– You’re here!
They gave each other a hand and did not speak anything. First, Graz tried to get quiet. He said where he lived and asked where Christophe was. The rigid and distracted responses they barely listened to and heard only when they had already divorced: they were now deepening to see each other. The children had come to them. Grazia told them to greet Christoph. Christophe had almost a hostile feeling about them. He glanced at them with a cold eye, and did not shake anything; his soul was just Grazia, he just wanted to look at his beautiful, somewhat suffering and outdated face, Grazia was confused by his look and said:
– Do you want to come today?
And he mentioned the name of his hotel.
Christophe asked where her husband was. Grazia looked like a grief. Christophe was too moved to continue. He resigned clumsily from Graz. But barely he had gone a couple of steps, he came back to the children who picked up strawberries, dragged them sharply in their arms, embraced them and then ran away.
In the evening, Christophe came to the hotel. Grazia sat on a glass fixture, next to the window. They settled in a remote location. A little crowd; couple, three old women. Christophea angered their presence. Grazia looked at her. Christophe Grazia, repeating his name quite quietly.
– I have changed a lot, do not you? said Grazia.
The movement filled the heart of Christophe.
– You have suffered, he said.
– So you did, Graz responded with pity and looking at her face, where the pains and passions had exhausted her deep stab.
They didn’t come up with words anymore.
– Please, Christophe started in a moment, we go elsewhere; Do we not get a talk in one of two?
– No, my friend, let’s be here, it’s good; who will notice us?
– I can’t speak freely.
– It’s better.
Christophe didn’t understand why it was better. When he later recalled this scene, he thought that Graz had not trusted him. But it was because Graz was always instinctively afraid of frustrating scenes; without knowing herself, she now sought security against the surprises of their own hearts; and besides, he loved this kind of modesty of the hotel salon; it protected her frustrating secret unrest.
They talked to each other in a quiet voice, interrupting the call a little bit of space, the main features of their life. Count Berény had fallen into a duel a few months ago; and Christophe thought of Grazia’s speech that Graz had not lived with her in a very happy marriage. He had lost one of his children, the first. He did not complain in any way. He turned the thing around and started asking Christophe’s steps; and saw that he profoundly loved his friend when he heard about his suffering.
Church watches are ringing. It was Sunday night. Life on standstill.
Grazia asked her to come back the day after tomorrow. Christophe was sad that Graz wanted to meet him so late. And the feelings of happiness and pain fought in his heart.
The next day, however, Graz asked by letter to Christoph to come back then, to come up with an excuse. That mundane and short letter received Christophe’s charm. Grazia took Christophen this time in a private apartment hall. The kids were with him. Christophe still looked at them, a little puzzled and at the same time very tender. She noticed that the little girl, the older child, reminded her mother; he didn’t want to think who the boy reminded. They talked about the region, the weather, the books that were on the table; – But other things spoke of their eyes. Christophe hoped to speak to Graz more closely. But then a friend of Grazia, a hotel resident, came in. Christophe saw how lovingly politely Grazia received from that guest; there was no difference in his behavior towards that foreign woman and Christoph. It was painful from Christoph; but he was not angry at Graz. Grazia introduced that they would go for a triple trip; that third club, even though he was young and charming, made Christophe ice cold; and his whole day was spoiled.
Christophe then didn’t see Graz until two days later. The two days he just waited and waited to get to Grazia. – This time he wasn’t able to get it better than before talking to Grazia. Even though Graz was good for her, she always remained cautious and cautious. And Christophe unknowingly added some caution to his german-like outbursts, as they brought Grazia into obscurity and made his behavior instinctive.
Christophe wrote to her a letter that moved Grazia. Christophe said that life was so short: their lives were so far gone! Perhaps they didn’t have enough time to see each other: it was painful and almost criminal not to take advantage of these short moments when they could talk freely with each other.
Grazia replied with a short and heartfelt letter: she apologized for being suspicious of her will; it was because life had produced her wounds; he could not get out of his cowardice; all too lively expressions of emotion, even if they were serious, offended, scared him. But he knew the value of this new friendship; and she was as happy as Christophe. She asked Christoph to come to her for dinner that night.
Christophe’s heart was filled with flooding gratitude. In her hotel room, she threw her into her bed, pressed her head into the leashes and wept. That’s how ten years of loneliness emerged. Because from the time of Olivier Jeannin’s death he had been alone. This letter now brought the sweet message of the resurrection to his heart-thirsty heart. Affection!… She thought she’d had to give it up forever: she had to get used to it. Now she felt how much she was without it and how big the longing for her breast was: longing to get to love…
The sweet and sacred night together… Christophe could not talk to Grazia anything but insignificant things, even though they had decided not to conceal anything from each other. But how much good he talked about when Graz asked her to look at the piano and speak to her with music! Graz was amazed at how humble the heart of this man was now, the man he had seen so proudly and fiercely. When they divorced, their hands pushed for a quiet squeeze that they had found each other and would never resign. – Hurried, the wind didn’t breathe. Christophe’s heart sang from happiness.
Graz could not stay in the area any more than a day; he did not postpone his departure for an hour and Christophe dared to ask for it or even complain about his grief. On the last day, they walked in the middle with the children; once Christophe got the feeling of love and happiness that he wanted to say it to Grazia, but in a quiet, gentle movement Graz interrupted his word and said with a smile:
– Silent! I know what you can say.
They sat down beside the road where they were here for the first time. Grazia was still looking at the landscape that opened down to them; but he didn’t think that landscape, that valley. Christophe looked at his gentle face, to which the suffering had left his mark; whitish black logs gleamed whites everywhere. In his heart, a divine and passionate compassion for that suffering man, that body trick to the place where the soulful pains had been stamped, came to light. The soul was visible everywhere from the time of the strikes. – And with a quiet and shaking voice, Christophe asked Grazia the greatest gift … one of his white hats.