Christophe had accurately forecast the next change of the wind. The new ideal of the new French music was very different from his own; but while that was a reason the more for Christophe to sympathize with it, its exponents had no sympathy with him. His vogue with the public was not likely to reconcile the most hungry for recognition of these young men to him; they were meagerly fed, and their teeth were long, and they bit. Christophe was not put out by their spite.
"How thoroughly they do it!" he would say. "These boys are cutting their teeth…."
He was inclined to prefer them to the other puppies who fawned on him because of his success—those people of whom D'Aubigné writes, who "when a mastiff plunges his nose into a butter-pot, come and lick his whiskers by way of congratulation."
He had a piece accepted at the Opéra. Almost at once it was put into rehearsal. Through a newspaper attack Christophe learned that a certain young composer's piece had been postponed for it. The writer of the article waxed indignant over such abuse of power, and made Christophe responsible for it.
Christophe went to see the manager, and said:
"Why didn't you tell me? You must not do it. You must put on the opera you accepted before mine."
The manager protested, began to laugh, refused, covered Christophe's character, work, genius, with flattery, and said that the other man's work was beneath contempt, and assured him that it was worthless and would not make a sou.
"Why did you accept it then?"
"One can't always do as one likes. Every now and then one has to throw a sop to public opinion. Formerly these young men could shout as much as they pleased. And no one listened to them. But now they are able to let loose on us the nationalist Press, which roars 'Treason' and calls you a disloyal Frenchman because you happen to have the misfortune to be unable to go into ecstasies over the younger school. The younger school! Let's look at it!… Shall I tell you what I think of it? I'm sick of it! So is the public. They bore us with their Oremus!… There's no blood in their veins; they're like sacristans chanting Mass: their love duets are like the De Profundis…. If I were fool enough to put on the pieces I am compelled to accept, I should ruin my theater. I accept them: that is all they can ask.—Let us talk of something serious. Your work means a full house…."
And he went on with his compliments.