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Jean Christophe, Vol. I

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




Jean Michel took his usual place in the first row behind the orchestra. He
leaned on the balustrade, and began a long conversation with the
contra-bass. He was at home there; there he was listened to because of his
authority as a musician, and he made the most of it; it might almost be
said that he abused it. Jean-Christophe could hear nothing. He was
overwhelmed by his expectation of the play, by the appearance of the
theater, which seemed magnificent to him, by the splendor of the audience,
who frightened him terribly. He dared not turn his head, for he thought
that all eyes were fixed on him. He hugged his little cap between his
knees, and he stared at the magic curtain with round eyes.

At last three blows were struck. His grandfather blew his nose, and drew
the _libretto_ from his pocket. He always followed it scrupulously, so much
so that sometimes he neglected what was happening on the stage. The
orchestra began to play. With the opening chords Jean-Christophe felt more
at ease. He was at home in this world of sound, and from that moment,
however extravagant the play might be, it seemed natural to him.

The curtain was raised, to reveal pasteboard trees and creatures who were
not much more real. The boy looked at it all, gaping with admiration, but
he was not surprised. The piece set in a fantastic East, of which he could
have had no idea. The poem was a web of ineptitudes, in which no human
quality was perceptible. Jean-Christophe hardly grasped it at all; he made
extraordinary mistakes, took one character for another, and pulled at his
grandfather's sleeve to ask him absurd questions, which showed that he had
understood nothing. He was not bored: passionately interested, on the
contrary. Bound the idiotic _libretto_ he built a romance of his own
invention, which had no sort of relation to the one that was represented on
the stage. Every moment some incident upset his romance, and he had to
repair it, but that did not worry him. He had made his choice of the people
who moved upon the stage, making all sorts of different sounds, and
breathlessly he followed the fate of those upon whom he had fastened his
sympathy. He was especially concerned with a fair lady, of uncertain age,
who had long, brilliantly fair hair, eyes of an unnatural size, and bare
feet. The monstrous improbabilities of the setting did not shock him. His
keen, childish eyes did not perceive the grotesque ugliness of the actors,
large and fleshy, and the deformed chorus of all sizes in two lines, nor
the pointlessness of their gestures, nor their faces bloated by their
shrieks, nor the full wigs, nor the high heels of the tenor, nor the
make-up of his lady-love, whose face was streaked with variegated
penciling. He was in the condition of a lover, whose passion blinds him to
the actual aspect of the beloved object. The marvelous power of illusion,
natural to children, stopped all unpleasant sensations on the way, and
transformed them.

The music especially worked wonders. It bathed the whole scene in a misty
atmosphere, in which everything became beautiful, noble, and desirable. It
bred in the soul a desperate need of love, and at the same time showed
phantoms of love on all sides, to fill the void that itself had created.
Little Jean-Christophe was overwhelmed by his emotion. There were words,
gestures, musical phrases which disturbed him; he dared not then raise his
eyes; he knew not whether it were well or ill; he blushed and grew pale by
turns; sometimes there came drops of sweat upon his brow, and he was
fearful lest all the people there should see his distress. When the
catastrophe came about which inevitably breaks upon lovers in the fourth
act of an opera so as to provide the tenor and the _prima donna_ with an
opportunity for showing off their shrillest screams, the child thought he
must choke; his throat hurt him as though he had caught cold; he clutched
at his neck with his hands, and could not swallow his saliva; tears welled
up in him; his hands and feet were frozen. Fortunately, his grandfather was
not much less moved. He enjoyed the theater with a childish simplicity.
During the dramatic passages he coughed carelessly to hide his distress,
but Jean-Christophe saw it, and it delighted him. It was horribly hot;
Jean-Christophe was dropping with sleep, and he was very uncomfortable. But
he thought only: "Is there much longer? It cannot be finished!" Then
suddenly it was finished, without his knowing why. The curtain fell; the
audience rose; the enchantment was broken.

They went home through the night, the two children--the old man and the
little boy. What a fine night! What a serene moonlight! They said nothing;
they were turning over their memories. At last the old man said:

"Did you like it, boy?"

Jean-Christophe could not reply; he was still fearful from emotion, and he
would not speak, so as not to break the spell; he had to make an effort to
whisper, with a sigh:

"Oh yes."

The old man smiled. After a time he went on:

"It's a fine thing--a musician's trade! To create things like that, such
marvelous spectacles--is there anything more glorious? It is to be God on
earth!"

The boy's mind leaped to that. What! a man had made all that! That had not
occurred to him. It had seemed that it must have made itself, must be the
work of Nature. A man, a musician, such as he would be some day! Oh, to be
that for one day, only one day! And then afterwards ... afterwards,
whatever you like! Die, if necessary! He asked:

"What man made that, grandfather?"

The old man told him of François Marie Hassler, a young German artist who
lived at Berlin. He had known him once. Jean-Christophe listened, all ears.
Suddenly he said:

"And you, grandfather?"

The old man trembled.

"What?" he asked.

"Did you do things like that--you too?"

"Certainly," said the old man a little crossly.

He was silent, and after they had walked a little he sighed heavily. It
was one of the sorrows of his life. He had always longed to write for the
theater, and inspiration had always betrayed him. He had in his desk one or
two acts written, but he had so little illusion as to their worth that he
had never dared to submit them to an outside judgment.

They said no more until they reached home. Neither slept. The old man was
troubled. He took his Bible for consolation. In bed Jean-Christophe turned
over and over the events of the evening; he recollected the smallest
details, and the girl with the bare feet reappeared before him. As he dozed
off a musical phrase rang in his ears as distinctly as if the orchestra
were there. All his body leaped; he sat up on his pillow, his head buzzing
with music, and he thought: "Some day I also shall write. Oh, can I ever do
it?"

From that moment he had only one desire, to go to the theater again, and he
set himself to work more keenly, because they made a visit to the theater
his reward. He thought of nothing but that; half the week he thought of the
last performance, and the other half he thought of the next. He was fearful
of being ill on a theater day, and this fear made him often, find in
himself the symptoms of three or four illnesses. When the day came he did
not eat; he fidgeted like a soul in agony; he looked at the clock fifty
times, and thought that the evening would never come; finally, unable to
contain himself, he would go out an hour before the office opened, for fear
of not being able to procure a seat, and, as he was the first in the empty
theater, he used to grow uneasy. His grandfather had told him that once
or twice the audience had not been large enough, and so the players
had preferred not to perform, and to give back the money. He watched
the arrivals and counted them, thinking: "Twenty-three, twenty-four,
twenty-five.... Oh, it is not enough ... there will never be enough!" 'And
when he saw some important person enter the circle or the stalls, his heart
was lighter, and he said to himself: "They will never dare to send him
away. Surely they will play for him." But he was not convinced; he would
not be reassured until the musicians took their places. And even then he
would be afraid that the curtain would rise, and they would announce, as
they had done one evening, a change of programme. With lynx eyes he watched
the stand of the contra-bass to see if the title written on his music was
that of the piece announced. And when he had seen it there, two minutes
later he would look again to make quite sure that he had not been wrong.
The conductor was not there. He must be ill. There was a stirring behind
the curtain, and a sound of voices and hurried footsteps. Was there an
accident, some untoward misfortune? Silence again. The conductor was at
his post. Everything seemed ready at last.... They did not begin! What
was happening? He boiled over with impatience. Then the bell rang. His
heart thumped away. The orchestra began the overture, and for a few hours
Jean-Christophe would swim in happiness, troubled only by the idea that it
must soon come to an end.

* * * * *

Some time after that a musical event brought even more excitement into
Jean-Christophe's thoughts. François Marie Hassler, the author of the
first opera which had so bowled him over, was to visit the town. He was to
conduct a concert consisting of his compositions. The town was excited. The
young musician was the subject of violent discussion in Germany, and for a
fortnight he was the only topic of conversation. It was a different matter
when he arrived. The friends of Melchior and old Jean Michel continually
came for news, and they went away with the most extravagant notions of the
musician's habits and eccentricities. The child followed these narratives
with eager attention. The idea that the great man was there in the town,
breathing the same air as himself, treading the same stones, threw him into
a state of dumb exaltation. He lived only in the hope of seeing him.

Hassler was staying at the Palace as the guest of the Grand Duke. He hardly
went out, except to the theater for rehearsals, to which Jean-Christophe
was not admitted, and as he was very lazy, he went to and fro in
the Prince's carriage. Therefore, Jean-Christophe did not have many
opportunities of seeing him, and he only succeeded once in catching sight
of him as he drove in the carriage. He saw his fur coat, and wasted hours
in waiting in the street, thrusting and jostling his way to right and left,
and before and behind, to win and keep his place in front of the loungers.
He consoled himself with spending half his days watching the windows of the
Palace which had been pointed out as those of the master. Most often he
only saw the shutters, for Hassler got up late, and the windows were closed
almost all morning. This habit had made well-informed persons say that
Hassler could not bear the light of day, and lived in eternal night.

At length Jean-Christophe was able to approach his hero. It was the day of
the concert. All the town was there. The Grand Duke and his Court occupied
the great royal box, surmounted with a crown supported by two chubby
cherubim. The theater was in gala array. The stage was decorated with
branches of oak and flowering laurel. All the musicians of any account made
it a point of honor to take their places in the orchestra. Melchior was at
his post, and Jean Michel was conducting the chorus.

When Hassler appeared there was loud applause from every part of the house,
and the ladies rose to see him better. Jean-Christophe devoured him with
his eyes. Hassler had a young, sensitive face, though it was already rather
puffy and tired-looking; his temples were bald, and his hair was thin on
the crown of his head; for the rest, fair, curly hair. His blue eyes looked
vague. He had a little fair mustache and an expressive mouth, which was
rarely still, but twitched with a thousand imperceptible movements. He was
tall, and held himself badly--not from awkwardness, but from weariness or
boredom. He conducted capriciously and lithely, with his whole awkward body
swaying, like his music, with gestures, now caressing, now sharp and jerky.
It was easy to see that he was very nervous, and his music was the exact
reflection of himself. The quivering and jerky life of it broke through the
usual apathy of the orchestra. Jean-Christophe breathed heavily; in spite
of his fear of drawing attention to himself, he could not stand still in
his place; he fidgeted, got up, and the music gave him such violent and
unexpected shocks that he had to move his head, arms, and legs, to the
great discomfort of his neighbors, who warded off his kicks as best they
could. The whole audience was enthusiastic, fascinated by the success,
rather than by the compositions. At the end there was a storm of applause
and cries, in which the trumpets in the orchestra joined, German fashion,
with their triumphant blare in salute of the conqueror, Jean-Christophe
trembled with pride, as though these honors were for himself. He enjoyed
seeing Hassler's face light up with childish pleasure. The ladies threw
flowers, the men waved their hats, and the audience rushed for the
platform. Every one wanted to shake the master's hand. Jean-Christophe
saw one enthusiast raise the master's hand to his lips, another steal a
handkerchief that Hassler had left on the corner of his desk. He wanted
to reach the platform also, although he did not know why, for if at that
moment he had found himself near Hassler, he would have fled at once in
terror and emotion. But he butted with all his force, like a ram, among the
skirts and legs that divided him from Hassler. He was too small; he could
not break through.

Fortunately, when the concert was over, his grandfather came and took him
to join in a party to serenade Hassler. It was night, and torches were
lighted. All the musicians of the orchestra were there. They talked only of
the marvelous compositions they had heard. They arrived outside the Palace,
and took up their places without a sound under the master's windows. They
took on an air of secrecy, although everybody, including Hassler, knew what
was to come. In the silence of the night they began to play certain famous
fragments of Hassler's compositions. He appeared at the window with the
Prince, and they roared in their honor. Both bowed. A servant came from the
Prince to invite the musicians to enter the Palace. They passed through
great rooms, with frescoes representing naked men with helmets; they were
of a reddish color, and were making gestures of defiance. The sky was
covered with great clouds like sponges. There were also men and women of
marble clad in waist-cloths made of iron. The guests walked on carpets so
thick that their tread was inaudible, and they came at length to a room
which was as light as day, and there were tables laden with drinks and good
things.

The Grand Duke was there, but Jean-Christophe did not see him; he had eyes
only for Hassler. Hassler came towards them; he thanked them. He picked his
words carefully, stopped awkwardly in the middle of a sentence, and
extricated himself with a quip which made everybody laugh. They began to
eat. Hassler took four or five musicians aside. He singled out
Jean-Christophe's grandfather, and addressed very flattering words to him:
he recollected that Jean Michel had been one of the first to perform his
works, and he said that he had often heard tell of his excellence from a
friend of his who had been a pupil of the old man's. Jean-Christophe's
grandfather expressed his gratitude profusely; he replied with such
extraordinary eulogy that, in spite of his adoration of Hassler, the boy
was ashamed. But to Hassler they seemed to be pleasant and in the rational
order. Finally, the old man, who had lost himself in his rigmarole, took
Jean-Christophe by the hand, and presented him to Hassler. Hassler smiled
at Jean-Christophe, and carelessly patted his head, and when he learned
that the boy liked his music, and had not slept for several nights in
anticipation of seeing him, he took him in his arms and plied him with
questions. Jean-Christophe, struck, dumb and blushing with pleasure, dared
not look at him. Hassler took him by the chin and lifted his face up.
Jean-Christophe ventured to look. Hassler's eyes were kind and smiling; he
began to smile too. Then he felt so happy, so wonderfully happy in the
great man's arms, that he burst into tears. Hassler was touched by this
simple affection, and was more kind than ever. He kissed the boy and talked
to him tenderly. At the same time he said funny things and tickled him to
make him laugh; and Jean-Christophe could not help laughing through his
tears. Soon he became at ease, and answered Hassler readily, and of his own
accord he began to whisper in his ear all his small ambitions, as though he
and Hassler were old friends; he told him how he wanted to be a musician
like Hassler, and, like Hassler, to make beautiful things, and to be a
great man. He, was always ashamed, talked confidently; he did not know what
he was saying; he was in a sort of ecstasy, Hassler smiled at his prattling
and said:

"When you are a man, and have become a good musician, you shall come and
see me in Berlin. I shall make something of you."

Jean-Christophe was too delighted to reply.

Hassler teased him.

"You don't want to?"

Jean-Christophe nodded his head violently five or six times, meaning "Yes."

"It is a bargain, then?"

Jean-Christophe nodded again.

"Kiss me, then."

Jean-Christophe threw his arms round Hassler's neck and hugged him with all
his strength.

"Oh, you are wetting me! Let go! Your nose wants wiping!"

Hassler laughed, and wiped the boy's nose himself, a little
self-consciously, though he was quite jolly. He put him down, then took him
by the hand and led him to a table, where he filled his pockets with cake,
and left him, saying:

"Good-bye! Remember your promise."

Jean-Christophe swam in happiness. The rest of the world had ceased to
exist for him. He could remember nothing of what had happened earlier in
the evening; he followed lovingly Hassler's every expression and gesture.
One thing that he said struck him. Hassler was holding a glass in his hand;
he was talking, and his face suddenly hardened, and he said:

"The joy of such a day must not make us forget our enemies. We must never
forget our enemies. It is not their fault that we are not crushed out of
existence. It will not be our fault if that does not happen to them. That
is why the toast I propose is that there are people whose health ... we
will not drink!"

Everybody applauded and laughed at this original toast. Hassler had laughed
with the others and his good-humored expression had returned. But
Jean-Christophe was put off by it. Although he did not permit himself to
criticise any action of his hero, it hurt him that he had thought ugly
things, when on such a night there ought to be nothing but brilliant
thoughts and fancies. But he did not examine what he felt, and the
impression that it made was soon driven out by his great joy and the drop
of champagne which he drank out of his grandfather's glass.

On the way back the old man never stopped talking; he was delighted with
the praise that Hassler had given him; he cried out that Hassler was a
genius such as had not been known for a century. Jean-Christophe said
nothing, locking up in his heart his intoxication of love. _He_ had kissed
him. _He_ had held him in his arms! How good _he_ was! How great!

"Ah," he thought in bed, as he kissed his pillow passionately, "I would die
for him--die for him!"

The brilliant meteor which had flashed across the sky of the little town
that night had a decisive influence on Jean-Christophe's mind. All his
childhood Hassler was the model on which his eyes were fixed, and to follow
his example the little man of six decided that he also would write music.
To tell the truth, he had been doing so for long enough without knowing it,
and he had not waited to be conscious of composing before he composed.

Everything is music for the born musician. Everything that throbs, or
moves, or stirs, or palpitates--sunlit summer days, nights when the wind
howls, flickering light, the twinkling of the stars, storms, the song of
birds, the buzzing of insects, the murmuring of trees, voices, loved or
loathed, familiar fireside sounds, a creaking door, blood moving in the
veins in the silence of the night--everything that is is music; all that is
needed is that it should be heard. All the music of creation found its echo
in Jean-Christophe. Everything that he saw, everything that he felt, was
translated into music without his being conscious of it. He was like a
buzzing hive of bees. But no one noticed it, himself least of all.

Like all children, he hummed perpetually at every hour of the day. Whatever
he was doing--whether he were walking in the street, hopping on one foot,
or lying on the floor at his grandfather's, with his head in his hands,
absorbed in the pictures of a book, or sitting in his little chair in the
darkest corner of the kitchen, dreaming aimlessly in the twilight--always
the monotonous murmuring of his little trumpet was to be heard, played with
lips closed and cheeks blown out. His mother seldom paid any heed to it,
but, once in a while, she would protest.

When he was tired of this state of half-sleep he would have to move and
make a noise. Then he made music, singing it at the top of his voice. He
had made tunes for every occasion. He had a tune for splashing in his
wash-basin in the morning, like a little duck. He had a tune for sitting on
the piano-stool in front of the detested instrument, and another for
getting off it, and this was a more brilliant affair than the other. He had
one for his mother putting the soup on the table; he used to go before her
then blowing a blare of trumpets. He played triumphal marches by which to
go solemnly from the dining-room to the bedroom. Sometimes he would
organize little processions with his two small brothers; all then would
file out gravely, one after another, and each had a tune to march to. But,
as was right and proper, Jean-Christophe kept the best for himself. Every
one of his tunes was strictly appropriated to its special occasion, and
Jean-Christophe never by any chance confused them. Anybody else would have
made mistakes, but he knew the shades of difference between them exactly.

One day at his grandfather's house he was going round the room clicking his
heels, head up and chest out; he went round and round and round, so that it
was a wonder he did not turn sick, and played one of his compositions. The
old man, who was shaving, stopped in the middle of it, and, with his face
covered with lather, came to look at him, and said:

"What are you singing, boy?"

Jean-Christophe said he did not know.

"Sing it again!" said Jean Michel.

Jean-Christophe tried; he could not remember the tune. Proud of having
attracted his grandfather's attention, he tried to make him admire his
voice, and sang after his own fashion an air from some opera, but that was
not what the old man wanted. Jean Michel said nothing, and seemed not to
notice him any more. But he left the door of his room ajar while the boy
was playing alone in the next room.

A few days later Jean-Christophe, with the chairs arranged about him, was
playing a comedy in music, which he had made up of scraps that he
remembered from the theater, and he was making steps and bows, as he had
seen them done in a minuet, and addressing himself to the portrait of
Beethoven which hung above the table. As he turned with a pirouette he saw
his grandfather watching him through the half-open door. He thought the old
man was laughing at him; he was abashed, and stopped dead; he ran to the
window, and pressed his face against the panes, pretending that he had been
watching something of the greatest interest. But the old man said nothing;
he came to him and kissed him, and Jean-Christophe saw that he was pleased.
His vanity made the most of these signs; he was clever enough to see that
he had been appreciated; but he did not know exactly which his grandfather
had admired most--his talent as a dramatic author, or as a musician, or as
a singer, or as a dancer. He inclined, to the latter, for he prided himself
on this.

A week later, when he had forgotten the whole affair, his grandfather said
mysteriously that he had something to show him. He opened his desk, took
out a music-book, and put it on the rack of the piano, and told the boy to
play. Jean-Christophe was very much interested, and deciphered it fairly
well. The notes were written by hand in the old man's large handwriting,
and he had taken especial pains with it. The headings were adorned with
scrolls and flourishes. After some moments the old man, who was sitting
beside Jean-Christophe turning the pages for him, asked him what the music
was. Jean-Christophe had been too much absorbed in his playing to notice
what he had played, and said that he did not know it.

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