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Jean Christophe, Vol. I

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




Without saying anything they saw each other less often. They tried writing
to each other, but they set a watch upon their expressions. Their letters
became cold and insipid. They grew disheartened. Jean-Christophe excused
himself on the ground of his work, Otto on the ground of being too busy,
and their correspondence ceased. Soon afterwards Otto left for the
University, and the friendship which had lightened a few months of their
lives died down and out.

And also, a new love, of which this had been only the forerunner, took
possession of Jean-Christophe's heart, and made every other light seem pale
by its side.




III

MINNA


Four or five months before these events Frau Josephs von Kerich, widow of
Councilor Stephan von Kerich, had left Berlin, where her husband's duties
had hitherto detained them, and settled down with her daughter in the
little Rhine town, in her native country. She had an old house with a
large garden, almost a park, which sloped down to the river, not far from
Jean-Christophe's home. From his attic Jean-Christophe could see the heavy
branches of the trees hanging over the walls, and the high peak of the red
roof with its mossy tiles. A little sloping alley, with hardly room to
pass, ran alongside the park to the right; from there, by climbing a post,
you could look over the wall. Jean-Christophe did not fail to make use of
it. He could then see the grassy avenues, the lawns like open meadows, the
trees interlacing and growing wild, and the white front of the house with
its shutters obstinately closed. Once or twice a year a gardener made the
rounds, and aired the house. But soon Nature resumed her sway over the
garden, and silence reigned over all.

That silence impressed Jean-Christophe. He used often stealthily to climb
up to his watch-tower, and as he grew taller, his eyes, then his nose, then
his mouth reached up to the top of the wall; now he could put his arms over
it if he stood on tiptoe, and, in spite of the discomfort of that position,
he used to stay so, with his chin on the wall, looking, listening, while
the evening unfolded over the lawns its soft waves of gold, which lit up
with bluish rays the shade of the pines. There he could forget himself
until he heard footsteps approaching in the street. The night scattered its
scents over the garden: lilac in spring, acacia in summer, dead leaves in
the autumn. When Jean-Christophe, was on his way home in the evening from
the Palace, however weary he might be, he used to stand by the door to
drink in the delicious scent, and it was hard for him to go back to the
smells of his room. And often he had played--when he used to play--in
the little square with its tufts of grass between the stones, before the
gateway of the house of the Kerichs. On each side of the gate grew a
chestnut-tree a hundred years old; his grandfather used to come and sit
beneath them, and smoke his pipe, and the children used to use the nuts for
missiles, and toys.

One morning, as he went up the alley, he climbed up the post as usual. He
was thinking of other things, and looked absently. He was just going to
climb down when he felt that there was something unusual about it. He
looked towards the house. The windows were open; the sun was shining into
them and, although no one was to be seen, the old place seemed to have been
roused from its fifteen years' sleep, and to be smiling in its awakening.
Jean-Christophe went home uneasy in his mind.

At dinner his father talked of what was the topic of the neighborhood: the
arrival of Frau Kerich and her daughter with an incredible quantity of
luggage. The chestnut square was filled with rascals who had turned up to
help unload the carts. Jean-Christophe was excited by the news, which, in
his limited life, was an important event, and he returned to his work,
trying to imagine the inhabitants of the enchanted house from his father's
story, as usual hyperbolical. Then he became absorbed in his work, and had
forgotten the whole affair when, just as he was about to go home in the
evening, he remembered it all, and he was impelled by curiosity to climb
his watch-tower to spy out what might be toward within the walls. He saw
nothing but the quiet avenue, in which the motionless trees seemed to be
sleeping in the last rays of the sun. In a few moments he had forgotten why
he was looking, and abandoned himself as he always did to the sweetness of
the silence. That strange place--standing erect, perilously balanced on the
top of a post--was meet for dreams. Coming from the ugly alley, stuffy and
dark, the sunny gardens were of a magical radiance. His spirit wandered
freely through these regions of harmony, and music sang in him; they lulled
him and he forgot time and material things, and was only concerned to miss
none of the whisperings of his heart.

So he dreamed open-eyed and open-mouthed, and he could not have told how
long he had been dreaming, for he saw nothing. Suddenly his heart leaped.
In front of him, at a bend in an avenue, were two women's faces looking at
him. One, a young lady in black, with fine irregular features and fair
hair, tail, elegant, with carelessness and indifference in the poise of her
head, was looking at him with kind, laughing eyes. The other, a girl of
fifteen, also in deep mourning, looked as though she were going to burst
out into a fit of wild laughter; she was standing a little behind her
mother, who, without looking at her, signed to her to be quiet. She covered
her lips with her hands, as if she were hard put to it not to burst out
laughing. She was a little creature with a fresh face, white, pink, and
round-cheeked; she had a plump little nose, a plump little mouth, a plump
little chin, firm eyebrows, bright eyes, and a mass of fair hair plaited
and wound round her head in a crown to show her rounded neck and her smooth
white forehead--a Cranach face.

Jean-Christophe was turned to stone by this apparition. He could not go
away, but stayed, glued to his post, with his mouth wide open. It was only
when he saw the young lady coming towards him with her kindly mocking smile
that he wrenched himself away, and jumped--tumbled--down into the alley,
dragging with him pieces of plaster from the wall. He heard a kind voice
calling him, "Little boy!" and a shout of childish laughter, clear and
liquid as the song of a bird. He found himself in the alley on hands and
knees, and, after a moment's bewilderment, he ran away as hard as he could
go, as though he was afraid of being pursued. He was ashamed, and his shame
kept bursting upon him again when he was alone in his room at home. After
that he dared not go down the alley, fearing oddly that they might be lying
in wait for him. When he had to go by the house, he kept close to the
walls, lowered his head, and almost ran without ever looking back. At the
same time he never ceased to think of the two faces that he had seen; he
used to go up to the attic, taking off his shoes so as not to be heard,
and to look his hardest out through the skylight in the direction of the
Kerichs' house and park, although he knew perfectly well that it was
impossible to see anything but the tops of the trees and the topmost
chimneys.

About a month later, at one of the weekly concerts of the _Hof Musik
Verein_, he was playing a concerto for piano and orchestra of his own
composition. He had reached the last movement when he chanced to see in
the box facing him Frau and Fräulein Kerich looking at him. He so little
expected to see them that he was astounded, and almost missed out his
reply to the orchestra. He went on playing mechanically to the end of
the piece. When it was finished he saw, although he was not looking in
their direction, that Frau and Fräulein Kerich were applauding a little
exaggeratedly, as though they wished him to see that they were applauding.
He hurried away from the stage. As he was leaving the theater he saw Frau
Kerich in the lobby, separated from him by several rows of people, and she
seemed to be waiting for him to pass. It was impossible for him not to see
her, but he pretended not to do so, and, brushing his way through, he left
hurriedly by the stage-door of the theater. Then he was angry with himself,
for he knew quite well that Frau Kerich meant no harm. But he knew that in
the same situation he would do the same again. He was in terror of meeting
her in the street. Whenever he saw at a distance a figure that resembled
her, he used to turn aside and take another road.

* * * * *

It was she who came to him. She sought him out at home.

One morning when he came back to dinner Louisa proudly told him that a
lackey in breeches and livery had left a letter for him, and she gave him
a large black-edged envelope, on the back of which was engraved the Kerich
arms. Jean-Christophe opened it, and trembled as he read these words:

"Frau Josepha von Kerich requests the pleasure of _Hof Musicus_
Jean-Christophe Krafft's company at tea to-day at half-past five."

"I shall not go," declared Jean-Christophe.

"What!" cried Louisa. "I said that you would go."

Jean-Christophe made a scene, and reproached his mother with meddling in
affairs that were no concern of hers.

"The servant waited for a reply. I said that you were free to-day. You have
nothing to do then."

In vain did Jean-Christophe lose his temper, and swear that he would not
go; he could not get out of it now. When the appointed time came, he got
ready fuming; in his heart of hearts he was not sorry that chance had so
done violence to his whims.

Frau von Kerich had had no difficulty in recognizing in the pianist at the
concert the little savage whose shaggy head had appeared over her garden
wall on the day of her arrival. She had made inquiries about him of her
neighbors, and what she learned about Jean-Christophe's family and the
boy's brave and difficult life had roused interest in him, and a desire to
talk to him.

Jean-Christophe, trussed up in an absurd coat, which made him look like a
country parson, arrived at the house quite ill with shyness. He tried to
persuade himself that Frau and Fräulein Kerich had had no time to remark
his features on the day when they had first seen him. A servant led him
down a long corridor, thickly carpeted, so that his footsteps made no
sound, to a room with a glass-paneled door which opened on to the garden.
It was raining a little, and cold; a good fire was burning in the
fireplace. Near the window, through which he had a peep of the wet trees
in the mist, the two ladies were sitting. Frau Kerich was working and her
daughter was reading a book when Jean-Christophe entered. When they saw him
they exchanged a sly look.

"They know me again," thought Jean-Christophe, abashed.

He bobbed awkwardly, and went on bobbing.

Frau von Kerich smiled cheerfully, and held out her hand.

"Good-day, my dear neighbor," she said. "I am glad to see you. Since I
heard you at the concert I have been wanting to tell you how much pleasure
you gave me. And as the only way of telling you was to invite you here, I
hope you will forgive me for having done so."

In the kindly, conventional words of welcome there was so much cordiality,
in spite of a hidden sting of irony, that Jean-Christophe grew more at his
ease.

"They do not know me again," he thought, comforted.

Frau von Kerich presented her daughter, who had closed her book and was
looking interestedly at Jean-Christophe.

"My daughter Minna," she said, "She wanted so much to see you."

"But, mamma," said Minna, "it is not the first time that we have seen each
other."

And she laughed aloud.

"They do know me again," thought Jean-Christophe, crestfallen.

"True," said Frau von Kerich, laughing too, "you paid us a visit the day we
came."

At these words the girl laughed again, and Jean-Christophe looked so
pitiful that when Minna looked at him she laughed more than ever. She could
not control herself, and she laughed until she cried. Frau von Kerich tried
to stop her, but she, too, could not help laughing, and Jean-Christophe,
in spite of his constraint, fell victim to the contagiousness of it. Their
merriment was irresistible; it was impossible to take offense at it. But
Jean-Christophe lost countenance altogether when Minna caught her breath
again, and asked him whatever he could be doing on the wall. She was
tickled by his uneasiness. He murmured, altogether at a loss. Frau von
Kerich came to his aid, and turned the conversation by pouring out tea.

She questioned him amiably about his life. But he did not gain confidence.
He could not sit down; he could not hold his cup, which threatened to
upset; and whenever they offered him water, milk, sugar or cakes, he
thought that he had to get up hurriedly and bow his thanks, stiff, trussed
up in his frock-coat, collar, and tie, like a tortoise in its shell,
not daring and not being able to turn his head to right or left, and
overwhelmed by Frau von Kerich's innumerable questions, and the warmth of
her manner, frozen by Minna's looks, which he felt were taking in his
features, his hands, his movements, his clothes. They made him even more
uncomfortable by trying to put him at his ease--Frau von Kerich, by her
flow of words, Minna by the coquettish eyes which instinctively she made at
him to amuse herself.

Finally they gave up trying to get anything more from him than bows and
monosyllables, and Frau von Kerich, who had the whole burden of the
conversation, asked him, when she was worn out, to play the piano. Much
more shy of them than of a concert audience, he played an adagio of Mozart.
But his very shyness, the uneasiness which was beginning to fill his heart
from the company of the two women, the ingenuous emotion with which his
bosom swelled, which made him happy and unhappy, were in tune with the
tenderness and youthful modesty of the music, and gave it the charm of
spring. Frau von Kerich was moved by it; she said so with the exaggerated
words of praise customary among men and women of the world; she was none
the less sincere for that, and the very excess of the flattery was sweet
coming from such charming lips. Naughty Minna said nothing, and looked
astonished at the boy who was so stupid when he talked, but was so eloquent
with his fingers. Jean-Christophe felt their sympathy, and grew bold under
it. He went on playing; then, half turning towards Minna, with an awkward
smile and without raising his eyes, he said timidly:

"This is what I was doing on the wall."

He played a little piece in which he had, in fact, developed the musical
ideas which had come to him in his favorite spot as he looked into the
garden, not, be it said, on the evening when he had seen Minna and Frau von
Kerich--for some obscure reason, known only to his heart, he was trying to
persuade himself that it was so--but long before, and in the calm rhythm of
the _andante con moto_, there were to be found the serene impression of the
singing of birds, mutterings of beasts, and the majestic slumber of the
great trees in the peace of the sunset.

The two hearers listened delightedly. When he had finished Frau von Kerich
rose, took his hands with her usual vivacity, and thanked him effusively.
Minna clapped her hands, and cried that it was "admirable," and that to
make him compose other works as "sublime" as that, she would have a ladder
placed against the wall, so that he might work there at his case. Frau von
Kerich told Jean-Christophe not to listen to silly Minna; she begged him to
come as often as he liked to her garden, since he loved it, and she added
that he need never bother to call on them if he found it tiresome.

"You need never bother to come and see us," added Minna. "Only if you do
not come, beware!"

She wagged her finger in menace.

Minna was possessed by no imperious desire that Jean-Christophe should come
to see her, or should even follow the rules of politeness with regard to
herself, but it pleased her to produce a little effect which instinctively
she felt to be charming.

Jean-Christophe blushed delightedly. Frau von Kerich won him completely by
the tact with which she spoke of his mother and grandfather, whom she had
known. The warmth and kindness of the two ladies touched his heart; he
exaggerated their easy urbanity, their worldly graciousness, in his desire
to think it heartfelt and deep. He began to tell them, with his naïve
trustfulness, of his plans and his wretchedness. He did not notice that
more than an hour had passed, and he jumped with surprise when a servant
came and announced dinner. But his confusion turned to happiness when Frau
von Kerich told him to stay and dine with them, like the good friends that
they were going to be, and were already. A place was laid for him between
the mother and daughter, and at table his talents did not show to such
advantage as at the piano. That part of his education had been much
neglected; it was his impression that eating and drinking were the
essential things at table, and not the manner of them. And so tidy Minna
looked at him, pouting and a little horrified.

They thought that he would go immediately after supper. But he followed
them into the little room, and sat with them, and had no idea of going.
Minna stifled her yawns, and made signs to her mother. He did not notice
them, because he was dumb with his happiness, and thought they were like
himself--because Minna, when she looked at him, made eyes at him from
habit--and finally, once he was seated, he did not quite know how to get up
and take his leave. He would have stayed all night had not Frau von Kerich
sent him away herself, without ceremony, but kindly.

He went, carrying in his heart the soft light of the brown eyes of Frau von
Kerich and the blue eyes of Minna; on his hands he felt the sweet contact
of soft fingers, soft as flowers, and a subtle perfume, which he had never
before breathed, enveloped him, bewildered him, brought him almost to
swooning.

* * * * *

He went again two days later, as was arranged, to give Minna a
music-lesson. Thereafter, under this arrangement, he went regularly twice a
week in the morning, and very often he went again in the evening to play
and talk.

Frau von Kerich was glad to see him. She was a clever and a kind woman. She
was thirty-five when she lost her husband, and although young in body and
at heart, she was not sorry to withdraw from the world in which she had
gone far since her marriage. Perhaps she left it the more easily because
she had found it very amusing, and thought wisely that she could not both
eat her cake and have it. She was devoted to the memory of Herr von Kerich,
not that she had felt anything like love for him when they married; but
good-fellowship was enough for her; she was of an easy temper and an
affectionate disposition.

She had given herself up to her daughter's education; but the same
moderation which she had had in her love, held in check the impulsive and
morbid quality which is sometimes in motherhood, when the child is the only
creature upon whom the woman can expend her jealous need of loving and
being loved. She loved Minna much, but was clear in her judgment of her,
and did not conceal any of her imperfections any more than she tried to
deceive herself about herself. Witty and clever, she had a keen eye for
discovering at a glance the weakness, and ridiculous side, of any person;
she took great pleasure in it, without ever being the least malicious, for
she was as indulgent as she was scoffing, and while she laughed at people
she loved to be of use to them.

Young Jean-Christophe gave food both to her kindness and to her critical
mind. During the first days of her sojourn in the little town, when her
mourning kept her out of society, Jean-Christophe was a distraction
for her--primarily by his talent. She loved music, although she was no
musician; she found in it a physical and moral well-being in which thoughts
could idly sink into a pleasant melancholy. Sitting by the fire--while
Jean-Christophe played--a book in her hands, and smiling vaguely, she took
a silent delight in the mechanical movements of his fingers, and the
purposeless wanderings of her reverie, hovering among the sad, sweet images
of the past.

But more even than the music, the musician interested her. She was clever
enough to be conscious of Jean-Christophe's rare gifts, although she was
not capable of perceiving his really original quality. It gave her a
curious pleasure to watch the waking of those mysterious fires which she
saw kindling in him. She had quickly appreciated his moral qualities, his
uprightness, his courage, the sort of Stoicism in him, so touching in
a child. But for all that she did mot view him the less with the usual
perspicacity of her sharp, mocking eyes. His awkwardness, his ugliness, his
little ridiculous qualities amused her; she did not take him altogether
seriously; she did not take many things seriously. Jean-Christophe's antic
outbursts, his violence, his fantastic humor, made her think sometimes
that he was a little unbalanced; she saw in him one of the Kraffts, honest
men and good musicians, but always a little wrong in the head. Her light
irony escaped Jean-Christophe; he was conscious only of Frau von Kerich's
kindness. He was so unused to any one being kind to him! Although his
duties at the Palace brought him into daily contact with the world, poor
Jean-Christophe had remained a little savage, untutored and uneducated. The
selfishness of the Court was only concerned in turning him to its profit
and not in helping him in any way. He went to the Palace, sat at the
piano, played, and went away again, and nobody ever took the trouble to
talk to him, except absently to pay him some banal compliment. Since his
grandfather's death, no one, either at home or outside, had ever thought
of helping him to learn the conduct of life, or to be a man. He suffered
cruelly from his ignorance and the roughness of his manners. He went
through an agony and bloody sweat to shape himself alone, but he did not
succeed. Books, conversation, example--all were lacking. He would fain have
confessed his distress to a friend, but could not bring himself to do so.
Even with Otto he had not dared, because at the first words he had uttered,
Otto had assumed a tone of disdainful superiority which had burned into him
like hot iron.

And now with Frau von Kerich it all became easy. Of her own accord, without
his having to ask anything--it cost Jean-Christophe's pride so much!--she
showed him gently what he should not do, told him what he ought to do,
advised him how to dress, eat, walk, talk, and never passed over any fault
of manners, taste, or language; and he could not be hurt by it, so light
and careful was her touch in the handling of the boy's easily injured
vanity. She took in hand also his literary education without seeming to be
concerned with it; she never showed surprise at his strange ignorance, but
never let slip an opportunity of correcting his mistakes simply, easily, as
if it were natural for him to have been in error; and, instead of alarming
him with pedantic lessons, she conceived the idea of employing their
evening meetings by making Minna or Jean-Christophe read passages of
history, or of the poets, German and foreign. She treated him as a son of
the house, with a few fine shades of patronizing familiarity which he never
saw. She was even concerned with his clothes, gave him new ones, knitted
him a woolen comforter, presented him with little toilet things, and all so
gently that he never was put about by her care or her presents. In short,
she gave him all the little attentions and the quasi-maternal care which
come to every good woman instinctively for a child who is intrusted to
her, or trusts himself to her, without her having any deep feeling for
it. But Jean-Christophe thought that all the tenderness was given to him
personally, and he was filled with gratitude; he would break out into
little awkward, passionate speeches, which seemed a little ridiculous to
Frau von Kerich, though they did not fail to give her pleasure.

With Minna his relation was very different. When Jean-Christophe met her
again at her first lesson, he was still intoxicated by his memories of
the preceding evening and of the girl's soft looks, and he was greatly
surprised to find her an altogether different person from the girl he had
seen only a few hours before. She hardly looked at him, and did not listen
to what he said, and when she raised her eyes to him, he saw in them so
icy a coldness that he was chilled by it. He tortured himself for a long
time to discover wherein lay his offense. He had given none, and Minna's
feelings were neither more nor less favorable than on the preceding day;
just as she had been then, Minna was completely indifferent to him. If on
the first occasion she had smiled upon him in welcome, it was from a girl's
instinctive coquetry, who delights to try the power of her eyes on the
first comer, be it only a trimmed poodle who turns up to fill her idle
hours. But since the preceding day the too-easy conquest had already lost
interest for her. She had subjected Jean-Christophe to a severe scrutiny
and she thought him an ugly boy, poor, ill-bred, who played the piano well,
though he had ugly hands, held his fork at table abominably, and ate his
fish with a knife. Then he seemed to her very uninteresting. She wanted to
have music-lessons from him; she wanted, even, to amuse herself with him,
because for the moment she had no other companion, and because in spite of
her pretensions of being no longer a child, she had still in gusts a crazy
longing to play, a need of expending her superfluous gaiety, which was, in
her as in her mother, still further roused by the constraint imposed by
their mourning. But she took no more account of Jean-Christophe than of
a domestic animal, and if it still happened occasionally during the days
of her greatest coldness that she made eyes at him, it was purely out of
forgetfulness, and because she was thinking of something else, or simply
so as not to get out of practice. And when she looked at him like that,
Jean-Christophe's heart used to leap. It is doubtful if she saw it; she was
telling herself stories. For she was at the age when we delight the senses
with sweet fluttering dreams. She was forever absorbed in thoughts of love,
filled with a curiosity which was only innocent from ignorance. And she
only thought of love, as a well-taught young lady should, in terms of
marriage. Her ideal was far from having taken definite shape. Sometimes she
dreamed of marrying a lieutenant, sometimes of marrying a poet, properly
sublime, _à la_ Schiller. One project devoured another and the last
was always welcomed with the same gravity and just the same amount of
conviction. For the rest, all of them were quite ready to give way before
a profitable reality, for it is wonderful to see how easily romantic girls
forget their dreams, when something less ideal, but more certain, appears
before them.

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