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Jean Christophe, Vol. I

R >> Romain Rolland >> Jean Christophe, Vol. I




Alas! if one day he does become the equal of those whom he loves, if he
does achieve that brilliant happiness for which he longs, he will see the
illusion that was upon him....




II

OTTO


One Sunday when Jean-Christophe had been invited by his _Musik Direktor_
to dine at the little country house which Tobias Pfeiffer owned an hour's
journey from the town, he took the Rhine steamboat. On deck he sat next to
a boy about his own age, who eagerly made room for him. Jean-Christophe
paid no attention, but after a moment, feeling that his neighbor had never
taken his eyes off him, he turned and looked at him. He was a fair boy,
with round pink cheeks, with his hair parted on one side, and a shade of
down on his lip. He looked frankly what he was--a hobbledehoy--though he
made great efforts to seem grown up. He was dressed with ostentatious
care--flannel suit, light gloves, white shoes, and a pale blue tie--and he
carried a little stick in his hand. He looked at Jean-Christophe out of
the corner of his eye without turning his head, with his neck stiff, like
a hen; and when Jean-Christophe looked at him he blushed up to his ears,
took a newspaper from his pocket, and pretended to be absorbed in it, and
to look important over it. But a few minutes later he dashed to pick up
Jean-Christophe's hat, which had fallen. Jean-Christophe, surprised at
such politeness, looked once more at the boy, and once more he blushed.
Jean-Christophe thanked him curtly, for he did not like such obsequious
eagerness, and he hated to be fussed with. All the same, he was flattered
by it.

Soon it passed from his thoughts; his attention was occupied by the view.
It was long since he had been able to escape from the town, and so he had
keen pleasure in the wind that beat against his face, in the sound of the
water against the boat, in the great stretch of water and the changing
spectacle presented by the banks--bluffs gray and dull, willow-trees half
under water, pale vines, legendary rocks, towns crowned with Gothic towers
and factory chimneys belching black smoke. And as he was in ecstasy over it
all, his neighbor in a choking voice timidly imparted a few historic facts
concerning the ruins that they saw, cleverly restored and covered with ivy.
He seemed to be lecturing to himself. Jean-Christophe, roused to interest,
plied him with questions. The other replied eagerly, glad to display his
knowledge, and with every sentence he addressed himself directly to
Jean-Christophe, calling him "_Herr Hof Violinist_."

"You know me, then?" said Jean-Christophe.

"Oh yes," said the boy, with a simple admiration that tickled
Jean-Christophe's vanity.

They talked. The boy had often seen Jean-Christophe at concerts, and his
imagination had been touched by everything that he had heard about him. He
did not say so to Jean-Christophe, but Jean-Christophe felt it, and was
pleasantly surprised by it. He was not used to being spoken to in this tone
of eager respect. He went on questioning his neighbor about the history
of the country through which they were passing. The other set out all the
knowledge that he had, and Jean-Christophe admired his learning. But that
was only the peg on which their conversation hung. What interested them was
the making of each other's acquaintance. They dared not frankly approach
the subject; they returned to it again and again with awkward questions.
Finally they plunged, and Jean-Christophe learned that his new friend was
called Otto Diener, and was the son of a rich merchant in the town. It
appeared, naturally, that they had friends in common, and little by little
their tongues were loosed. They were talking eagerly when the boat arrived
at the town at which Jean-Christophe was to get out. Otto got out, too.
That surprised them, and Jean-Christophe proposed that they should take
a walk together until dinner-time. They struck out across the fields.
Jean-Christophe had taken Otto's arm familiarly, and was telling him his
plans as if he had known him from his birth. He had been so much deprived
of the society of children of his own age that he found an inexpressible
joy in being with this boy, so learned and well brought up, who was in
sympathy with him.

Time passed, and Jean-Christophe took no count of it. Diener, proud of the
confidence which the young musician showed him, dared not point out that
the dinner-hour had rung. At last he thought that he must remind him of
it, but Jean-Christophe, who had begun the ascent of a hill in the woods,
declared that they most go to the top, and when they reached it he lay down
on the grass as though he meant to spend the day there. After a quarter
of an hour Diener, seeing that he seemed to have no intention of moving,
hazarded again:

"And your dinner?"

Jean-Christophe, lying at full length, with his hands behind his head, said
quietly:

"Tssh!"

Then he looked at Otto, saw his scared look, and began to laugh.

"It is too good here," he explained. "I shan't go. Let them wait for me!"

He half rose.

"Are you in a hurry? No? Do you know what we'll do? We'll dine together. I
know of an inn."

Diener would have had many objections to make--not that any one was waiting
for him, but because it was hard for him to come to any sudden decision,
whatever it might be. He was methodical, and needed to be prepared
beforehand. But Jean-Christophe's question was put in such a tone as
allowed of no refusal. He let himself be dragged off, and they began to
talk again.

At the inn their eagerness died down. Both were occupied with the question
as to who should give the dinner, and each within himself made it a point
of honor to give it--Diener because he was the richer, Jean-Christophe
because he was the poorer. They made no direct reference to the matter,
but Diener made great efforts to assert his right by the tone of authority
which he tried to take as he asked for the menu. Jean-Christophe understood
what he was at and turned the tables on him by ordering other dishes of a
rare kind. He wanted to show that he was as much at his ease as anybody,
and when Diener tried again by endeavoring to take upon himself the choice
of wine, Jean-Christophe crushed him with a look, and ordered a bottle of
one of the most expensive vintages they had in the inn.

When they found themselves seated before a considerable repast, they were
abashed by it. They could find nothing to say, ate mincingly, and were
awkward and constrained in their movements. They became conscious suddenly
that they were strangers, and they watched each other. They made vain
efforts to revive the conversation; it dropped immediately. Their first
half-hour was a time of fearful boredom. Fortunately, the meat and drink
soon had an effect on them, and they looked at each other more confidently.
Jean-Christophe especially, who was not used to such good things, became
extraordinarily loquacious. He told of the difficulties of his life, and
Otto, breaking through his reserve, confessed that he also was not happy.
He was weak and timid, and his schoolfellows put upon him. They laughed
at him, and could not forgive him for despising their vulgar manners.
They played all sorts of tricks on him. Jean-Christophe clenched his
fists, and said they had better not try it in his presence. Otto also was
misunderstood by his family. Jean-Christophe knew the unhappiness of that,
and they commiserated each other on their common misfortunes. Diener's
parents wanted him to become a merchant, and to step into his father's
place, but he wanted to be a poet. He would be a poet, even though he had
to fly the town, like Schiller, and brave poverty! (His father's fortune
would all come to him, and it was considerable.) He confessed blushingly
that he had already written verses on the sadness of life, but he could not
bring himself to recite them, in spite of Jean-Christophe's entreaties.
But in the end he did give two or three of them, dithering with emotion.
Jean-Christophe thought them admirable. They exchanged plans. Later on they
would work together; they would write dramas and song-cycles. They admired
each other. Besides his reputation as a musician, Jean-Christophe's
strength and bold ways made an impression on Otto, and Jean-Christophe was
sensible of Otto's elegance and distinguished manners--everything in this
world is relative--and of his ease of manner--that ease of manner which he
looked and longed for.

Made drowsy by their meal, with their elbows on the table, they talked and
listened to each other with softness in their eyes. The afternoon drew
on; they had to go. Otto made a last attempt to procure the bill, but
Jean-Christophe nailed him to his seat with an angry look which made it
impossible for him to insist. Jean-Christophe was only uneasy on one
point--that he might be asked for more than he had. He would have given his
watch and everything that he had about him rather than admit it to Otto.
But he was not called on to go so far. He had to spend on the dinner almost
the whole of his month's money.

They went down the hill again. The shades of evening were beginning to fall
over the pine-woods. Their tops were still bathed in rosy light; they swung
slowly with a surging sound. The carpet of purple pine-needles deadened the
sound of their footsteps. They said no word. Jean-Christophe felt a strange
sweet sadness welling through his heart. He was happy; he wished to talk,
but was weighed down with his sweet sorrow. He stopped for a moment, and
so did Otto. All was silence. Flies buzzed high above them in a ray of
sunlight; a rotten branch fell. Jean-Christophe took Otto's hand, and in a
trembling voice said:

"Will you be my friend?"

Otto murmured:

"Yes."

They shook hands; their hearts beat; they dared hardly look at each other.

After a moment they walked on. They were a few paces away from each other,
and they dared say no more until they were out of the woods. They were
fearful of each other, and of their strange emotion. They walked very fast,
and never stopped until they had issued from the shadow of the trees; then
they took courage again, and joined hands. They marveled at the limpid
evening falling, and they talked disconnectedly.

On the boat, sitting at the bows in the brilliant twilight, they tried to
talk of trivial matters, but they gave no heed to what they were saying.
They were lost in their own happiness and weariness. They felt no need to
talk, or to hold hands, or even to look at each other; they were near each
other.

When they were near their journey's end they agreed to meet again on the
following Sunday, Jean-Christophe took Otto to his door. Under the light
of the gas they timidly smiled and murmured _au revoir_. They were glad to
part, so wearied were they by the tension at which they had been living for
those hours and by the pain it cost them to break the silence with a single
word.

Jean-Christophe returned alone in the night. His heart was singing: "I have
a friend! I have a friend!" He saw nothing, he heard nothing, he thought of
nothing else.

He was very sleepy, and fell asleep as soon as he reached his room; but he
was awakened twice or thrice during the night, as by some fixed idea. He
repeated, "I have a friend," and went to sleep again at once.

Next morning it seemed to be all a dream. To test the reality of it, he
tried to recall the smallest details of the day. He was absorbed by this
occupation while he was giving his lessons, and even during the afternoon
he was so absent during the orchestra rehearsal that when he left he could
hardly remember what he had been playing.

When he returned home he found a letter waiting for him. He had no need to
ask himself whence it came. He ran and shut himself up in his room to read
it. It was written on pale blue paper in a labored, long, uncertain hand,
with very correct flourishes:

DEAR HERR JEAN-CHRISTOPHE--dare I say HONORED FRIEND?--

I am thinking much of our doings yesterday, and I do thank you tremendously
for your kindness to me. I am so grateful for all that you have done, and
for your kind words, and the delightful walk and the excellent dinner! I am
only worried that you should have spent so much money on it. What a lovely
day! Do you not think there was something providential in that strange
meeting? It seems to me that it was Fate decreed that we should meet. How
glad I shall be to see you again on Sunday! I hope you will not have had
too much unpleasantness for having missed the _Hof Musik Direktor's_
dinner. I should be so sorry if you had any trouble because of me.

Dear Herr Jean-Christophe, I am always

Your very devoted servant and friend,

OTTO DIENER.

P.S.--On Sunday please do not call for me at home. It would be better, if
you will, for us to meet at the _Schloss Garten_.

Jean-Christophe read the letter with tears in his eyes. He kissed it; he
laughed aloud; he jumped about on his bed. Then he ran to the table and
took pen in hand to reply at once. He could not wait a moment. But he was
not used to writing. He could not express what was swelling in his heart;
he dug into the paper with his pen, and blackened his fingers with ink; he
stamped impatiently. At last, by dint of putting out his tongue and making
five or six drafts, he succeeded in writing in malformed letters, which
flew out in all directions, and with terrific mistakes in spelling:

"MY SOUL,--

"How dare you speak of gratitude, because I love you? Have I not told you
how sad I was and lonely before I knew you? Your friendship is the greatest
of blessings. Yesterday I was happy, happy!--for the first time in my life.
I weep for joy as I read your letter. Yes, my beloved, there is no doubt
that it was Fate brought us together. Fate wishes that we should be friends
to do great things. Friends! The lovely word! Can it be that at last I have
a friend? Oh! you will never leave me? You will be faithful to me? Always!
always!... How beautiful it will be to grow up together, to work together,
to bring together--I my musical whimsies, and all the crazy things that go
chasing through my mind; you your intelligence and amazing learning! How
much you know! I have never met a man so clever as you. There are moments
when I am uneasy. I seem to be unworthy of your friendship. You are so
noble and so accomplished, and I am so grateful to you for loving so coarse
a creature as myself!... But no! I have just said, let there be no talk of
gratitude. In friendship there is no obligation nor benefaction. I would
not accept any benefaction! We are equal, since we love. How impatient
I am to see you! I will not call for you at home, since you do not
wish it--although, to tell the truth, I do not understand all these
precautions--but you are the wiser; you are surely right....

"One word only! No more talk of money. I hate money--the word and the thing
itself. If I am not rich, I am yet rich enough to give to my friend, and it
is my joy to give all I can for him. Would not you do the same? And if I
needed it, would you not be the first to give me all your fortune? But that
shall never be! I have sound fists and a sound head, and I shall always be
able to earn the bread that I eat. Till Sunday! Dear God, a whole week
without seeing you! And for two days I have not seen you! How have I been
able to live so long without you?

"The conductor tried to grumble, but do not bother about it any more than I
do. What are others to me? I care nothing what they think or what they may
ever think of me. Only you matter. Love me well, my soul; love me as I love
you! I cannot tell you how much I love you. I am yours, yours, yours, from
the tips of my fingers to the apple of my eye.

"Yours always,

"JEAN-CHRISTOPHE."

Jean-Christophe was devoured with impatience for the rest of the week. He
would go out of his way, and make long turns to pass by Otto's house. Not
that he counted on seeing him, but the sight of the house was enough to
make him grow pale and red with emotion. On the Thursday he could bear it
no longer, and sent a second letter even more high-flown than the first.
Otto answered it sentimentally.

Sunday came at length, and Otto was punctually at the meeting-place. But
Jean-Christophe had been there for an hour, waiting impatiently for the
walk. He began to imagine dreadfully that Otto would not come. He trembled
lest Otto should be ill, for he did not suppose for a moment that Otto
might break his word. He whispered over and over again, "Dear God, let him
come--let him come!" and he struck at the pebbles in the avenue with his
stick, saying to himself that if he missed three times Otto would not come,
but if he hit them Otto would appear at once. In spite of his care and
the easiness of the test, he had just missed three times when he saw Otto
coming at his easy, deliberate pace; for Otto was above all things correct,
even when he was most moved. Jean-Christophe ran to him, and with his
throat dry wished him "Good-day!" Otto replied, "Good-day!" and they found
that they had nothing more to say to each other, except that the weather
was fine and that it was five or six minutes past ten, or it might be ten
past, because the castle clock was always slow.

They went to the station, and went by rail to a neighboring place which was
a favorite excursion from the town. On the way they exchanged not more than
ten words. They tried to make up for it by eloquent looks, but they were
no more successful. In vain did they try to tell each other what friends
they were; their eyes would say nothing at all. They were just playacting.
Jean-Christophe saw that, and was humiliated. He did not understand how
he could not express or even feel all that had filled his heart an hour
before. Otto did not, perhaps, so exactly take stock of their failure,
because he was less sincere, and examined himself with more circumspection,
but he was just as disappointed. The truth is that the boys had, during
their week of separation, blown out their feelings to such a diapason that
it was impossible for them to keep them actually at that pitch, and when
they met again their first impression must of necessity be false. They had
to break away from it, but they could not bring themselves to agree to it.

All day they wandered in the country without ever breaking through the
awkwardness and constraint that were upon them. It was a holiday. The inns
and woods were filled with a rabble of excursionists--little _bourgeois_
families who made a great noise and ate everywhere. That added to their
ill-humor. They attributed to the poor people the impossibility of again
finding the carelessness of their first walk. But they talked, they
took great pains to find subjects of conversation; they were afraid of
finding that they had nothing to say to each other. Otto displayed his
school-learning; Jean-Christophe entered into technical explanations of
musical compositions and violin-playing. They oppressed each other; they
crushed each other by talking; and they never stopped talking, trembling
lest they should, for then there opened before them abysses of silence
which horrified them. Otto came near to weeping, and Jean-Christophe was
near leaving him and running away as hard as he could, he was so bored and
ashamed.

Only an hour before they had to take the train again did they thaw. In the
depths of the woods a dog was barking; he was hunting on his own account.
Jean-Christophe proposed that they should hide by his path to try and see
his quarry. They ran into the midst of the thicket. The dog came near them,
and then went away again. They went to right and left, went forward and
doubled. The barking grew louder: the dog was choking with impatience in
his lust for slaughter. He came near once more. Jean-Christophe and Otto,
lying on the dead leaves in the rut of a path, waited and held their
breath. The barking stopped; the dog had lost the scent. They heard his yap
once again in the distance; then silence came upon the woods. Not a sound,
only the mysterious hum of millions of creatures, insects, and creeping
things, moving unceasingly, destroying the forest--the measured breathing
of death, which never stops. The boys listened, they did not stir. Just
when they got up, disappointed, and said, "It is all over; he will not
come!" a little hare plunged out of the thicket. He came straight upon
them. They saw him at the same moment, and gave a cry of joy. The hare
turned in his tracks and jumped aside. They saw him dash into the brushwood
head over heels. The stirring of the rumpled leaves vanished away like a
ripple on the face of waters. Although they were sorry for having cried
out, the adventure filled them with joy. They rocked with laughter as they
thought of the hare's terrified leap, and Jean-Christophe imitated it
grotesquely. Otto did the same. Then they chased each other. Otto was the
hare, Jean-Christophe the dog. They plunged through woods and meadows,
dashing through hedges and leaping ditches. A peasant shouted at them,
because they had rushed over a field of rye. They did not stop to hear him.
Jean-Christophe imitated the hoarse barking of the dog to such perfection
that Otto laughed until he cried. At last they rolled down a slope,
shouting like mad things. When they could not utter another sound they sat
up and looked at each other, with tears of laughter in their eyes. They
were quite happy and pleased with themselves. They were no longer trying to
play the heroic friend; they were frankly what they were--two boys.

They came back arm-in-arm, singing senseless songs, and yet, when they were
on the point of returning to the town, they thought they had better resume
their pose, and under the last tree of the woods they carved their initials
intertwined. But then good temper had the better of their sentimentality,
and in the train they shouted with laughter whenever they looked at
each other. They parted assuring each other that they had had a "hugely
delightful" (_kolossal entzückend_) day, and that conviction gained with
them when they were alone once more.

* * * * *

They resumed their work of construction more patient and ingenious even
than that of the bees, for of a few mediocre scraps of memory they
fashioned a marvelous image of themselves and their friendship. After
having idealized each other during the week, they met again on the Sunday,
and in spite of the discrepancy between the truth and their illusion, they
got used to not noticing it and to twisting things to fit in with their
desires.

They were proud of being friends. The very contrast of their natures
brought them together. Jean-Christophe knew nothing so beautiful as Otto.
His fine hands, his lovely hair, his fresh complexion, his shy speech,
the politeness of his manners, and his scrupulous care of his appearance
delighted him. Otto was subjugated by Jean-Christophe's brimming strength
and independence. Accustomed by age-old inheritance to religious respect
for all authority, he took a fearful joy in the company of a comrade in
whose nature was so little reverence for the established order of things.
He had a little voluptuous thrill of terror whenever he heard him decry
every reputation in the town, and even mimic the Grand Duke himself.
Jean-Christophe knew the fascination that he exercised over his friend,
and used to exaggerate his aggressive temper. Like some old revolutionary,
he hewed away at social conventions and the laws of the State. Otto would
listen, scandalized and delighted. He used timidly to try and join in, but
he was always careful to look round to see if any one could hear.

Jean-Christophe never failed, when they walked together, to leap the fences
of a field whenever he saw a board forbidding it, or he would pick fruit
over the walls of private grounds. Otto was in terror lest they should be
discovered. But such feelings had for him an exquisite savor, and in the
evening, when he had returned, he would think himself a hero. He admired
Jean-Christophe fearfully. His instinct of obedience found a satisfying
quality in a friendship in which he had only to acquiesce in the will of
his friend. Jean-Christophe never put him to the trouble of coming to a
decision. He decided everything, decreed the doings of the day, decreed
even the ordering of life, making plans, which admitted of no discussion,
for Otto's future, just as he did for his own family. Otto fell in
with them, though he was a little put aback by hearing Jean-Christophe
dispose of his fortune for the building later on of a theater of his own
contriving. But, intimidated by his friend's imperious tones, he did not
protest, being convinced also by his friend's conviction that the money
amassed by _Commerzienrath_ Oscar Diener could be put to no nobler use.
Jean-Christophe never for a moment had any idea that he might be violating
Otto's will. He was instinctively a despot, and never imagined that his
friend's wishes might be different from his own. Had Otto expressed a
desire different from his own, he would not have hesitated to sacrifice his
own personal preference. He would have sacrificed even more for him. He was
consumed by the desire to run some risk for him. He wished passionately
that there might appear some opportunity of putting his friendship to the
test. When they were out walking he used to hope that they might meet some
danger, so that he might fling himself forward to face it. He would have
loved to die for Otto. Meanwhile, he watched over him with a restless
solicitude, gave him his hand in awkward places, as though he were a girl.
He was afraid that he might be tired, afraid that he might be hot, afraid
that he might be cold. When they sat down under a tree he took off his coat
to put it about his friend's shoulders; when they walked he carried his
cloak. He would have carried Otto himself. He used to devour him with his
eyes like a lover, and, to tell the truth, he was in love.

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