"Your real task," said Christophe, "is to force great works of art on the world."
"We should exhaust ourselves in a vain endeavor. It isn't worth it. As soon as a great work of art is brought into the theater it loses its great poetic quality. It becomes a hollow sham. The breath of the public sullies it. The public consists of people living in stifling towns and they have lost all knowledge of the open air, and Nature, and healthy poetry: they must have their poetry theatrical, glittering, painted, reeking.—Ah! And besides … besides, even suppose one did succeed … no, that would not fill one's life, it would not fill my life…."
"You are still thinking of him."
"Who?"
"You know. That man."
"Yes."
"Even if you could have him and he loved you, confess that you would not be happy even then: you would still find some means of tormenting yourself."
"True…. Ah! What is the matter with me?… I think I have had too hard a fight. I have fretted too much: I can't ever be calm again: there is always an uneasiness in me, a sort of fever…."
"It must have been in you even before your struggles."
"Possibly. Yes. It was in me when I was a little girl, as far back as I can remember…. It was devouring me then."