Jean-Christophe In Paris — THE MARKET-PLACE, III, part 3

* * * * * He had left the modest room--it was too expensive--which he occupied and taken an attic in the Montrouge district.

It was well aired, though it had no other advantage.

There was a continual draught.

But he wanted to breathe.

From his window he had a wide view over the chimneys of Paris to Montmartre in the background.

It had not taken him long to move: a handcart was enough: Christophe pushed it himself.

Of all his possessions the most precious to him, after his old bag, was one of those casts, which have lately become so popular, of the death-mask of Beethoven.

He packed it with as much care as though it were a priceless work of art.

He never let it out of his sight.

It was an oasis in the midst of the desert of Paris.

And also it served him as a moral thermometer.

The death-mask indicated more clearly than his own conscience the temperature of his soul, the character of his most secret thoughts: now a cloudy sky, now the gusty wind of the passions, now fine calm weather.

He had to be sparing with his food.

He only ate once a day, at one in the afternoon.

He bought a large sausage, and hung it up in his window: a thick slice of it, a hunk of bread, and a cup of coffee that he made himself were a feast for the gods.

He would have preferred two such feasts.

He was angry with himself for having such a good appetite.

He called himself to task, and thought himself a glutton, thinking only of his stomach.

He lost flesh: he was leaner than a famished dog.

But he was solidly built, he had an iron constitution, and his head was clear.

He did not worry about the morrow, though he had good reason for doing so.

As long as he had in hand money enough for the day he never bothered about it.

When he came to the end of his money he made up his mind to go the round of the publishers once more.

He found no work.

He was on his way home, empty, when, happening to pass the music-shop where he had been introduced to Daniel Hecht by Sylvain Kohn, he went in without remembering that he had already been there under not very pleasant circumstances.

The first person he saw was Hecht.

He was on the point of turning tail: but he was too late: Hecht had seen him.

Christophe did not wish to seem to be avoiding him: he went up to Hecht, not knowing what to say to him, and fully prepared to stand up to him as arrogantly as need be: for he was convinced that Hecht would be unsparingly insolent.

But he was nothing of the kind.

Hecht coldly held out his hand, muttered some conventional inquiry after his health, and, without waiting for any request from Christophe, he pointed to the door of his office, and stepped aside to let him pass.

He was secretly glad of the visit, which he had foreseen, though he had given up expecting it.

Without seeming to do so, he had carefully followed Christophe's doings: he had missed no opportunity of hearing his music: he had been at the famous performance of the _David_: and, despising the public, he had not been greatly surprised at its hostile reception, since he himself had felt the beauty of the work.

There were probably not two people in Paris more capable than Hecht of appreciating Christophe's artistic originality.

But he took care not to say anything about it, not only because his vanity was hurt by Christophe's attitude towards himself, but because it was impossible for him to be amiable: it was the peculiarly ungracious quality of his nature.

He was sincerely desirous of helping Christophe: but he would not have stirred a finger to do so: he was waiting for Christophe to come and ask it of him.

And now that Christophe had come,--instead of generously seizing the opportunity of wiping out the memory of their previous misunderstanding by sparing his visitor any humiliation, he gave himself the satisfaction of hearing him make his request at length: and he even went so far as to offer Christophe, at least for the time being, the work which he had formerly refused.

He gave him fifty pages of music to transpose for mandoline and guitar by the next day.

After which, being satisfied that he had made him truckle down, he found him less distasteful work, but always so ungraciously that it was impossible to be grateful to him for it: Christophe had to be ground down by necessity before he would ever go to Hecht again.

In any case he preferred to earn his money by such work, however irritating it might be, than accept it as a gift from Hecht, as it was once more offered to him:--and, indeed, Hecht meant it kindly: but Christophe had been conscious of Hecht's original intention to humiliate him: he was forced to accept his conditions, but nothing would induce him to accept any favor from him: he was willing to work for him:--by giving and giving he squared the account:--but he would not be under any obligation to him.

Unlike Wagner, that impudent mendicant where his art was concerned, he did not place his art above himself: the bread that he had not earned himself would have choked him.

--One day, when he brought some work that he had sat up all night to finish, he found Hecht at table.

Hecht, remarking his pallor and the hungry glances that involuntarily he cast at the dishes, felt sure that he had not eaten that day, and invited him to lunch.

He meant kindly, but he made it so apparent that he had noticed Christophe's straits that his invitation looked like charity: Christophe would have died of hunger rather than accept.

He could not refuse to sit down at the table--(Hecht said he wanted to talk to him):--but he did not touch a morsel: he pretended that he had just had lunch.

His stomach was aching with hunger.

Christophe would gladly have done without Hecht: but the other publishers were even worse.

--There were also wealthy amateurs who had conceived some scrap of a musical idea, and could not even write it down.

They would send for Christophe, hum over their lucubrations, and say: "Isn't it fine?"

Then they would give them to him for elaboration,--(to be written):--and then they would appear under their own names through some great publishing house.

They were quite convinced that they had composed them themselves.

Christophe knew such a one, a distinguished nobleman, a strange, restless creature, who would suddenly call him "Dear friend," grasp him by the arm, and burst into a torrent of enthusiastic demonstrations, talking and giggling, babbling and telling funny stories, interlarded with cries of ecstatic laughter: Beethoven, Verlaine, Fauré, Yvette Guilbert....

He made him work, and failed to pay.

He worked it out in invitations to lunch and handshakes.

Finally he sent Christophe twenty francs, which Christophe gave himself the foolish luxury of returning.

That day he had not twenty sous in the world: and he had to buy a twenty-five centimes stamp for a letter to his mother.

It was Louisa's birthday, and Christophe would not for the world have failed her: the poor old creature counted on her son's letter, and could not have endured disappointment.

For some weeks past she had been writing to him more frequently, in spite of the pain it caused her.

She was suffering from her loneliness.

But she could not bring herself to join Christophe in Paris: she was too timid, too much attached to her own little town, to her church, her house, and she was afraid of traveling.

And besides, if she had wanted to come, Christophe had not enough money: he had not always enough for himself.

He had been given a great deal of pleasure once by receiving a letter from Lorchen, the peasant girl for whose sake he had plunged into the brawl with the Prussian soldiers:[Footnote: See _Jean-Christophe_--I, "Revolt."

] she wrote to tell him that she was going to be married: she gave him news of his mother, and sent him a basket of apples and a piece of cake to eat in her honor.

They came in the nick of time.

That evening with Christophe was a fast, Ember Days, Lent: only the butt end of the sausage hanging by the window was left.

Christophe compared himself to the anchorite saints fed by a crow among the rocks.

But no doubt the crow was hard put to it to feed all the anchorites, for he never came again.

In spite of all his difficulties Christophe kept his end up.

He washed his linen in his basin, and cleaned his boots, whistling like a blackbird.

He consoled himself with the saying of Berlioz: "Let us raise our heads above the miseries of life, and let us blithely sing the familiar gay refrain, _Dies iræ_...."

--He used to sing it sometimes, to the dismay of his neighbors, who were amazed and shocked to hear him break off in the middle and shout with laughter.

He led a life of stern chastity.

As Berlioz remarked: "The lover's life is a life for the idle and the rich."

Christophe's poverty, his daily hunt for bread, his excessive sobriety, and his creative fever left him neither the time nor the taste for any thought of pleasure.

He was more than indifferent about it: in his reaction against Paris he had plunged into a sort of moral asceticism.

He had a passionate need of purity, a horror of any sort of dirtiness.

It was not that he was rid of his passions.

At other times he had been swept headlong by them.

But his passions remained chaste even when he yielded to them: for he never sought pleasure through them but the absolute giving of himself and fulness of being.

And when he saw that he had been deceived he flung them furiously from him.

Lust was not to him a sin like any other.

It was the great Sin, that which poisons the very springs of life.

All those in whom the old Christian belief has not been crusted over with strange conceptions, all those who still feel in themselves the vigor and life of the races, which through the strengthening of an heroic discipline have built up Western civilization, will have no difficulty in understanding him.

Christophe despised cosmopolitan society, whose only aim and creed was pleasure.

--In truth it is good to seek pleasure, to desire pleasure for all men, to combat the cramping pessimistic beliefs, that have come to weigh upon humanity through twenty centuries of Gothic Christianity.

But that can only be upon condition that it is a generous faith, earnestly desirous of the good of others.

But instead of that, what happens?

The most pitiful egoism.

A handful of loose-living men and women trying to give their senses the maximum of pleasure with the minimum of risk, while they take good care that the rest shall drudge for it.

--Yes, no doubt, they have their parlor Socialism!...

But they know perfectly well that their doctrine of pleasure is only practicable for "well-fed" people, for a select pampered few, that it is poison to the poor....

"The life of pleasure is a rich man's life."

* * * * * Christophe was neither rich nor likely to become so.

When he made a little money he spent it at once on music: he went without food to go to concerts.

He would take cheap seats in the gallery of the _Théâtre du Châtelet_: and he would steep himself in music: he found both food and love in it.

He had such a hunger for happiness and so great a power of enjoying it that the imperfections of the orchestra never worried him: he would stay for two or three hours, drowsy and beatific, and wrong notes or defective taste never provoked in him more than an indulgent smile: he left his critical faculty outside: he was there to love, not to judge.

Around him the audience sat motionless, with eyes half closed, letting itself be borne on by the great torrent of dreams.

Christophe fancied them as a mass of people curled up in the shade, like an enormous cat, weaving fantastic dreams of lust and carnage.

In the deep golden shadows certain faces stood out, and their strange charm and silent ecstasy drew Christophe's eyes and heart: he loved them: he listened through them: he became them, body and soul.

One woman in the audience became aware of it, and between her and Christophe during the concert there was woven one of those obscure sympathies, which touch the very depths, though never by one word are they translated into the region of consciousness, while, when the concert is over and the thread that binds soul to soul is snapped, nothing is left of it.

It is a state familiar to lovers of music, especially when they are young and do most wholly surrender: the essence of music is so completely love, that the full savor of it is not won unless it be enjoyed through another, and so it is that, at a concert, we instinctively seek among the throng for friendly eyes, for a friend with whom to share a joy too great for ourselves alone.

Among such friends, the friends of one brief hour, whom Christophe marked out for choice of love, the better to taste the sweetness of the music, he was attracted by one face which he saw again and again, at every concert.

It was the face of a little grisette who seemed to adore music without understanding it at all.

She had an odd little profile, a short, straight nose, almost in line with her slightly pouting lips and delicately molded chin, fine arched eyebrows, and clear eyes: one of those pretty little faces behind the veil of which one feels joy and laughter concealed by calm indifference.

It is perhaps in such light-hearted girls, little creatures working for their living, that one finds most the old serenity that is no more, the serenity of the antique statues and the faces of Raphael.

There is but one moment in their lives, the first awakening of pleasure: all too soon their lives are sullied.

But at least they have lived for one lovely hour.

It gave Christophe an exquisite pleasure to look at her: a pretty face would always warm his heart: he could enjoy without desire: he found joy in it, force, comfort,--almost virtue.

It goes without saying that she quickly became aware that he was watching her: and, unconsciously, there was set up between them a magnetic current.

And as they met at almost every concert, almost always in the same places, they quickly learned each other's likes and dislikes.

At certain passages they would exchange meaning glances: when she particularly liked some melody she would just put out her tongue as though to lick her lips: or, to show that she did not think much of it, she would disdainfully wrinkle up her pretty nose.

In these little tricks of hers there was a little of that innocent posing of which hardly any one can be free when he knows that he is being watched.

During serious music she would sometimes try to look grave and serious: and she would turn her profile towards him, and look absorbed, and smile to herself, and look out of the corner of her eye to see if he were watching.

They had become very good friends, without exchanging a word, and even without having attempted--at least Christophe did not--to meet outside.

At last by chance at an evening concert they found themselves sitting next each other.

After a moment of smiling hesitation they began to talk amicably.

She had a charming voice and said many stupid things about music: for she knew nothing about it and wanted to seem as if she knew: but she loved it passionately.

She loved the worst and the best, Massenet and Wagner: only the mediocre bored her.

Music was a physical pleasure to her: she drank it in through all the pores of her skin as Danaë did the golden rain.

The prelude of _Tristan_ made her blood run cold: and she loved feeling herself being carried away, like some warrior's prey, by the _Symphonia Eroica_.

She told Christophe that Beethoven was deaf and dumb, and that, in spite of it all, if she had known him, she would have loved him, although he was precious ugly.

Christophe protested that Beethoven was not so very ugly: then they argued about beauty and ugliness: and she agreed that it was a matter of taste: what was beautiful for one person was not so for another: "We're not golden louis and can't please every one."

He preferred her when she did not talk: he understood her better.

During the death of Isolde she held out her hand to him: her hand was warm and moist: he held it in his until the end of the piece: they could feel life coursing through the veins of their clasped hands.

They went out together: it was near midnight.

They walked back to the Latin Quarter talking eagerly: she had taken his arm and he took her home: but when they reached the door, and she seemed to suggest that he should go up and see her room, he disregarded her smile and the friendliness in her eyes and left her.

At first she was amazed, then furious: then she laughed aloud at the thought of his stupidity: and then, when she had reached her room and began to undress, she felt hurt and angry, and finally wept in silence.

When next she met him at a concert she tried to be dignified and indifferent and crushing.

But he was so kind to her that she could not hold to her resolution.

They began to talk once more: only now she was a little reserved with him.

He talked to her warmly but very politely and always about serious things, and the music to which they were listening and what it meant to him.

She listened attentively and tried to think as he did.

The meaning of his words often escaped her: but she believed him all the same.

She was grateful to Christophe and had a respect for him which she hardly showed.

By tacit agreement they only spoke to each other at concerts.

He met her once surrounded with students.

They bowed gravely.

She never talked about him to any one.

In the depths of her soul there was a little sanctuary, a quality of beauty, purity, consolation.

And so Christophe, by his presence, by the mere fact of his existence, exercised an influence that brought strength and solace.

Wherever he passed he unconsciously left behind the traces of his inward light.

He was the last to have any notion of it.

Near him, in the house where he lived, there were people whom he had never seen, people who, without themselves suspecting it, gradually came under the spell of his beneficent radiance.

For several weeks Christophe had no money for concerts even by fasting: and in his attic under the roof, now that winter was coming in, he was numbed with the cold: he could not sit still at his table.

Then he would get up and walk about Paris, trying to warm himself.

He had the faculty of forgetting the seething town about him, and slipping away into space and the infinite.

It was enough for him to see above the noisy street the dead, frozen moon, hung there in the abysm of the sky, or the sun, like a disc, rolling through the white mist; then Paris would sink down into the boundless void and all the life of it would seem to be no more than the phantom of a life that had been once, long, long ago ...

ages ago ...

The smallest tiny sign, imperceptible to the common lot of men, of the great wild life of Nature, so sparsely covered with the livery of civilization, was enough to make it all come rushing mightily up before his gaze.

The grass growing between the stones of the streets, the budding of a tree strangled by its cast-iron cage, airless, earthless, on some bleak boulevard: a dog, a passing bird, the last relics of the beasts and birds that thronged the primeval world, which man has since destroyed: a whirling cloud of flies: the mysterious epidemic that raged through a whole district:--these were enough in the thick air of that human hothouse to bring the breath of the Spirit of the Earth up to slap his cheeks and whip his energy to action.

During those long walks, when he was often starving, and often had not spoken to a soul for days together, his wealth of dreams seemed inexhaustible.

Privation and silence had aggravated his morbid heated condition.

At night he slept feverishly, and had exhausting dreams: he saw once more and never ceased to see the old house and the room in which he had lived as a child: he was haunted by musical obsessions.

By day he talked and never ceased to talk to the creatures within himself and the beings whom he loved, the absent and the dead.

One cold afternoon in December, when the grass was covered with frost, and the roofs of the houses and the great domes were glistening through the fog, and the trees, with their cold, twisted, naked branches, groping through the mist that hung about them, looked like great weeds at the bottom of the sea,--Christophe, who had been shivering all day and could not get warm again, went into the Louvre, which he hardly knew at all.

Till then painting had never moved him much.

He was too much absorbed by the world within himself to grasp the world of color and form.

They only acted on him through their music and rhythm, which only brought him an indistinguishable echo of their truth.

No doubt his instinct did obscurely divine the selfsame laws that rule the harmony of visible form, as of the form of sounds, and the deep waters of the soul, from which spring the two rivers of color and sound, to flow down the two sides of the mountain of life.

But he only knew one side of the mountain, and he was lost in the kingdom of the eye, which was not his.

And so he missed the secret of the most exquisite, and perhaps the most natural charm of clear-eyed France, the queen of the world of light.

Even had he been interested in painting, Christophe was too German to adapt himself to so widely different a vision of things.

He was not one of those up-to-date Germans who decry the German way of feeling, and persuade themselves that they admire and love French Impressionism or the artists of the eighteenth century,--except when they go farther and are convinced that they understand them better than the French.

Christophe was a barbarian, perhaps: but he was frank about it.

The pink flesh of Boucher, the fat chins of Watteau, the bored shepherds and plump, tight-laced shepherdesses, the whipped-cream souls, the virtuous oglings of Greuze, the tucked shirts of Fragonard, all that bare-legged poesy interested him no more than a fashionable, rather spicy newspaper.

He did not see its rich and brilliant harmony; the voluptuous and sometimes melancholy dreams of that old civilization, the highest in Europe, were foreign to him.

As for the French school of the seventeenth century, he liked neither its devout ceremony nor its pompous portraits: the cold reserve of the gravest of the masters, a certain grayness of soul that clouded the proud works of Nicolas Poussin and the pale faces of Philippe de Champaigne, repelled Christophe from old French art.

And, once more, he knew nothing about it.

If he had known anything about it he would have misunderstood it.

The only modern painter whose fascination he had felt at all in Germany, Boecklin of Basle, had not prepared him much for Latin art.

Christophe remembered the shock of his impact with that brutal genius, which smacked of earth and the musty smell of the heroic beasts that it had summoned forth.

His eyes, seared by the raw light, used to the frantic motley of that drunken savage, could hardly adapt themselves to the half-tints, the dainty and mellifluous harmonies of French art.

But no man with impunity can live in a foreign land.

Unknown to him it sets its seal upon him.

In vain does he withdraw into himself: upon a day he must wake up to find that something has changed.

There was a change in Christophe on that evening when he wandered through the rooms of the Louvre.

He was tired, cold, hungry; he was alone.

Around him darkness was descending upon the empty galleries, and sleeping forms awoke.

Christophe was very cold as he walked in silence among Egyptian sphinxes, Assyrian monsters, bulls of Persepolis, gleaming snakes from Palissy.

He seemed to have passed into a magic world: and in his heart there was a strange, mysterious emotion.

The dream of humanity wrapped him about,--the strange flowers of the soul....

In the misty gilded light of the picture-galleries, and the gardens of rich brilliant hues, and painted airless fields, Christophe, in a state of fever, on the very brink of illness, was visited by a miracle.

--He was walking, numbed by hunger, by the coldness of the galleries, by the bewildering mass of pictures: his head was whirling.

When he reached the end of the gallery that looks on to the river, he stood before the _Good Samaritan_ of Rembrandt, and leaned on the rail in front of the pictures to keep himself from falling: he closed his eyes for a moment.

When he opened them on the picture in front of him--he was quite close to it--and he was held spellbound....

Day was spent.

Day was already far gone; it was already dead.

The invisible sun was sinking down into the night.

It was the magic hour when dreams and visions come mounting from the soul, saddened by the labors of the day, still, musing drowsily.

All is silent, only the beating of the heart is heard.

In the body there is hardly the strength to move, hardly to breathe;

sadness; resignation; only an immense longing to fall into the arms of a friend, a hunger for some miracle, a feeling that some miracle must come....

It comes!

A flood of golden light flames through the twilight, is cast upon the walls of the hovel, on the shoulder of the stranger bearing the dying man, touches with its warmth those humble objects, and those poor creatures, and the whole takes on a new gentleness, a divine glory.

It is the very God, clasping in his terrible, tender arms the poor wretches, weak, ugly, poor, unclean, the poor down-at-heel rascal, the miserable creatures, with twisted haggard faces, thronging outside the window, the apathetic, silent creatures standing in mortal terror,--all the pitiful human beings of Rembrandt, the herd of obscure broken creatures who know nothing, can do nothing, only wait, tremble, weep, and pray.

--But the Master is there.

He will come: it is known that He will come.

Not He Himself is seen: only the light that goes before, and the shadow of the light which He casts upon all men....

Christophe left the Louvre, staggering and tottering.

His head ached.

He could not see.

In the street it was raining, but he hardly noticed the puddles between the flags and the water trickling down from his shoes.

Over the Seine the yellowish sky was lit up, as the day waned, by an inward flame--like the light of a lamp.

Still Christophe was spellbound, hypnotized.

It seemed as though nothing existed: not the carriages rattling over the stones with a pitiless noise: the passers-by were not banging into him with their wet umbrellas: he was not walking in the street: perhaps he was sitting at home and dreaming: perhaps he had ceased to exist....

And suddenly,--(he was so weak!

)--he turned giddy and felt himself falling heavily forward....

It was only for the flash of a second: he clenched his fists, hurled himself backward, and recovered his balance.

At that very moment when he emerged into consciousness his eyes met the eyes of a woman standing on the other side of the street, who seemed to be looking for recognition.

He stopped dead, trying to remember when he had seen her before.

It was only after a moment or two that he could place those sad, soft eyes: it was the little French governess whom, unwittingly, he had had dismissed in Germany, for whom he had been looking for so long to beg her to forgive him.

She had stopped, too, in the busy throng, and was looking at him.

Suddenly he saw her try to cross through the crowd of people and step down into the road to come to him.

He rushed to meet her: but they were separated by a block in the traffic: he saw her again for a moment struggling on the other side of that living wall: he tried to force his way through, was knocked over by a horse, slipped and fell on the slippery asphalt, and was all but run over.

When he got up, covered with mud, and succeeded in reaching the other side of the street, she had disappeared.

He tried to follow her, but he had another attack of giddiness, and he had to give it up.

Illness was close upon him: he felt that, but he would not submit to it.

He set his teeth, and would not go straight home, but went far out of his way.

It was just a useless torment to him: he had to admit that he was beaten: his legs ached, he dragged along, and only reached home with frightful difficulty.

Half-way up the stairs he choked, and had to sit down.

When he got to his icy room he refused to go to bed: he sat in his chair, wet through; his head was heavy and he could hardly breathe, and he drugged himself with music as broken as himself.

He heard a few fugitive bars of the _Unfinished Symphony_ of Schubert.

Poor Schubert!

He, too, was alone when he wrote that, feverish, somnolent, in that semitorpid condition which precedes the last great sleep: he sat dreaming by the fireside: all round him were heavy drowsy melodies, like stagnant water: he dwelt on them, like a child half-asleep delighting in some self-told story, and repeating some passage in it twenty times: so sleep comes, then death....

And Christophe heard fleetingly that other music, with burning hands, closed eyes, a little weary smile, heart big with sighs, dreaming of the deliverance of death:--the first chorus in the Cantata of J. S.

Bach: "_Dear God, when shall I die?

_"...

It was sweet to sink back into the soft melodies slowly floating by, to hear the distant, muffled clangor of the bells....

To die, to pass into the peace of earth!...

_Und dann selber Erde werden_....

"And then himself to become earth...."

Christophe shook off these morbid thoughts, the murderous smile of the siren who lies in wait for the hours of weakness of the soul.

He got up, and tried to walk about his room: but he could not stand.

He was shaking and shivering with fever.

He had to go to bed.

He felt that it was serious this time: but he did not lay down his arms: he never was of those who, when they are ill, yield utterly to their illness: he struggled, he refused to be ill, and, above all, he was absolutely determined not to die.

He had his poor mother waiting for him in Germany.

And he had his work to do: he would not yield to death.

He clenched his chattering teeth, and firmly grasped his will that was oozing away: he was like a sturdy swimmer battling with the waves dashing over him.

At every moment, down he plunged: his mind wandered, endless fancies haunted him, memories of Germany and of Parisian society: he was obsessed by rhythms and scraps of melody which went round, and round, and round, like horses in a circus: the sudden shock of the golden light of the _Good Samaritan_: the tense, stricken faces in the shadow: and then, dark nothingness and night.

Then up he would come once more, wrenching away the grimacing mists, clenching his fists, and setting his jaw.

He clung to all those whom he loved in the present and the past, to the face of the friend he had just seen in the street, his dear mother, and to the indestructible life within himself, that he felt was like a rock, impervious to death.

But once more the rock was covered by the tide: the waves dashed over it, and tore his soul away from its hold upon it: it was borne headlong and dashed by the foam.

And Christophe struggled in delirium, babbling strangely, conducting and playing an imaginary orchestra: trombones, horns, cymbals, timbals, bassoons, double-bass,...

he scraped, blew, beat the drum, frantically.

The poor wretch was bubbling over with suppressed music.

For weeks he had been unable to hear or play any music, and he was like a boiler at high pressure, near bursting-point.

Certain insistent phrases bored into his brain like gimlets, pierced his skull, and made him scream with agony.

After these attacks he would fall back on his pillow, dead tired, wet through, utterly weak, breathless, choking.

He had placed his water-jug by his bedside, and he took great draughts of it.

The various noises of the adjoining rooms, the banging of the attic doors, made him start.

He was filled with a delirious disgust for the creatures swarming round him.

But his will fought on, sounded a warlike clarion-note, declaring battle on all devils....

"_Und wenn die Welt voll Teufel wär, und wollten uns verschlingen, so fürchten wir uns nicht so sehr_...."

("And even though the world were full of devils, all seeking to devour us, we should not be afraid...."

).

And over the sea of scalding shadows that dashed over him, there came a sudden calm, glimpses of light, a gentle murmuring of violins and viols, the clear triumphant notes of trumpets and horns, while, almost motionless, like a great wall, there rose from the sick man's soul an indomitable song, like a choral of J. S.

Bach.