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How do you manage to live here?" "One does it somehow." "I couldn't never." Christophe unbuttoned his waistcoat and took a long breath. Olivier went and opened the window wide. "You must be very unhappy in a town, M. Krafft. But there's no danger of my suffering from too much vitality. I breathe so little that I can live anywhere.
You see how I had lost control of myself!... But when you see a friend brought to tears, how can you not hate the person who has caused them? And how can one be too hard on a woman who leaves her child to run after her lover?" "Don't talk like that, Christophe. You don't know." "What! You defend her?" "I pity her, too." "I pity those who suffer. Not those who cause suffering." "Well!
Antoinette sat in silent agony through the vagaries of that lamentable concert when Christophe joined issue with the unconcealed hostility of his audience, who were at the time ill-disposed towards German artists, and actively bored by his music.
Christophe spoke to him by name and took his hand a soft, clammy hand, which lay limp in his like a dead thing: he had not the courage to keep it in his: the man raised his glazing eyes to Christophe for a moment, then went on staring straight in front of him with his besotted smile. Christophe asked: "What are you looking at?" The man said, without moving, in a whisper: "I am waiting."
Certain details which it gave were too personal to Christophe, too obviously known only to him, for the article not to be attributed to him in its entirety. Christophe was crushed by this fresh blow. As he read a cold sweat came out on his face. When he had finished he was dumfounded.
He spent it like an emperor. You shall see for yourself, if you look, what Christophe spent in building palaces, but no one shall say how much he spent on his own pleasures. He had a court, like the great courts of Europe, and not a 'white' in them. Ah, he was very rich and powerful, Christophe. But, as even an ignorant like you will know, he did not escape."
She could translate in all their energy the terrible passions which had consumed the artist without being tainted by their poison: she only felt their force and the great weariness that came after its expression. When it was over, she would be all in a sweat, utterly exhausted: she would smile calmly and feel very happy. Christophe heard her one evening, and was struck by her playing.
He looked into his honest eyes: "Oh!" he said, "you are younger than I." Schulz laughed aloud and spoke of his old body and his infirmities. "Ta, ta, ta!" said Christophe, "I don't mean that; I know what I am saying. It is true, isn't it, Kunz?" Kunz agreed emphatically. Schulz tried to find the same indulgence for his piano. "It has still some beautiful notes," he said timidly.
They found a little flat, two or three rooms on the second floor of a house in the Market Street. It was a noisy district in the middle of the town, far from the river, far from the trees, far from the country and all the familiar places. But they had to consult reason, not sentiment, and Christophe found in it a fine opportunity for gratifying his bitter creed of self-mortification.
Christophe had only to hear her voice echoing his thought to think nothing that was not just, pure, and worthy of repetition. The sound of a beautiful instrument is to a musician like a beautiful body in which his dream at once becomes incarnate. Mysterious is the fusion of two loving spirits: each takes the best from the other, but only to give it back again enriched with love.
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