A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P R S T U V W X Z

Jean Christophe, Vol. I

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




"Listen!... You don't know it?"

Yes; he thought he knew it, but he did not know where he had heard it. The
old man laughed.

"Think."

Jean-Christophe shook his head.

"I don't know."

A light was fast dawning in his mind; it seemed to him that the air....
But, no! He dared not.... He would not recognize it.

"I don't know, grandfather."

He blushed.

"What, you little fool, don't you see that it is your own?"

He was sure of it, but to hear it said made his heart thump.

"Oh! grandfather!..."

Beaming, the old man showed him the book.

"See: _Aria_. It is what you were singing on Tuesday when you were lying on
the floor. _March_. That is what I asked you to sing again last week, and
you could not remember it. _Minuet_. That is what you were dancing by the
armchair. Look!"

On the cover was written in wonderful Gothic letters:

"_The Pleasures of Childhood: Aria, Minuetto, Valse, and Marcia, Op. 1, by
Jean-Christophe Krafft_."

Jean-Christophe was dazzled by it. To see his name, and that fine title,
and that large book--his work!... He went on murmuring:

"Oh! grandfather! grandfather!..."

The old man drew him to him. Jean-Christophe threw himself on his knees,
and hid his head in Jean Michel's bosom. He was covered with blushes from
his happiness. The old man was even happier, and went on, in a voice which
he tried to make indifferent, for he felt that he was on the point of
breaking down:

"Of course, I added the accompaniment and the harmony to fit the song. And
then"--he coughed--"and then, I added a _trio_ to the minuet, because ...
because it is usual ... and then.... I think it is not at all bad."

He played it. Jean-Christophe was very proud of collaborating with his
grandfather.

"But, grandfather, you must put your name to it too."

"It is not worth while. It is not worth while others besides yourself
knowing it. Only"--here his voice trembled--"only, later on, when I am no
more, it will remind you of your old grandfather ... eh? You won't forget
him?"

The poor old man did not say that he had been unable to resist the quite
innocent pleasure of introducing one of his own unfortunate airs into his
grandson's work, which he felt was destined to survive him; but his desire
to share in this imaginary glory was very humble and very touching, since
it was enough for him anonymously to transmit to posterity a scrap of his
own thought, so as not altogether to perish. Jean-Christophe was touched by
it, and covered his face with kisses, and the old man, growing more and
more tender, kissed his hair.

"You will remember me? Later on, when you are a good musician, a great
artist, who will bring honor to his family, to his art, and to his country,
when you are famous, you will remember that it was your old grandfather who
first perceived it, and foretold what you would be?"

There were tears in his eyes as he listened to his own words. He was
reluctant to let such signs of weakness be seen. He had an attack of
coughing, became moody, and sent the boy away hugging the precious
manuscript.

Jean-Christophe went home bewildered by his happiness. The stones danced
about him. The reception he had from his family sobered him a little. When
he blurted out the splendor of his musical exploit they cried out upon him.
His mother laughed at him. Melchior declared that the old man was mad, and
that he would do better to take care of himself than to set about turning
the boy's head. As for Jean-Christophe, he would oblige by putting such
follies from his mind, and sitting down _illico_ at the piano and playing
exercises for four hours. He must first learn to play properly; and as for
composing, there was plenty of time for that later on when he had nothing
better to do.

Melchior was not, as these words of wisdom might indicate, trying to keep
the boy from the dangerous exaltation of a too early pride. On the
contrary, he proved immediately that this was not so. But never having
himself had any idea to express in music, and never having had the least
need to express an idea, he had come, as a _virtuoso_, to consider
composing a secondary matter, which was only given value by the art of the
executant. He was not insensible of the tremendous enthusiasm roused by
great composers like Hassler. For such ovations he had the respect which he
always paid to success--mingled, perhaps, with a little secret
jealousy--for it seemed to him that such applause was stolen from him. But
he knew by experience that the successes of the great _virtuosi_ are no
less remarkable, and are more personal in character, and therefore more
fruitful of agreeable and flattering consequences. He affected to pay
profound homage to the genius of the master musicians; but he took a great
delight in telling absurd anecdotes of them, presenting their intelligence
and morals in a lamentable light. He placed the _virtuoso_ at the top of
the artistic ladder, for, he said, it is well known that the tongue is the
noblest member of the body, and what would thought be without words? What
would music be without the executant? But whatever may have been the reason
for the scolding that he gave Jean-Christophe, it was not without its uses
in restoring some common sense to the boy, who was almost beside himself
with his grandfather's praises. It was not quite enough. Jean-Christophe,
of course, decided that his grandfather was much cleverer than his father,
and though he sat down at the piano without sulking, he did so not so much
for the sake of obedience as to be able to dream in peace, as he always did
while his fingers ran, mechanically over the keyboard. While he played his
interminable exercises he heard a proud voice inside himself saying over
and over again: "I am a composer--a great composer."

From that day on, since he was a composer, he set himself to composing.
Before he had even learned to write, he continued to cipher crotchets and
quavers on scraps of paper, which he tore from the household account-books.
But in the effort to find out what he was thinking, and to set it down in
black and white, he arrived at thinking nothing, except when he wanted to
think something. But he did not for that give up making musical phrases,
and as he was a born musician he made them somehow, even if they meant
nothing at all. Then he would take them in triumph to his grandfather, who
wept with joy over them--he wept easily now that he was growing old--and
vowed that they were wonderful.

All this was like to spoil him altogether. Fortunately, his own good sense
saved him, helped by the influence of a man who made no pretension of
having any influence over anybody, and set nothing before the eyes of the
world but a commonsense point of view. This man was Louisa's brother.

Like her, he was small, thin, puny, and rather round-shouldered. No one
knew exactly how old he was; he could not be more than forty, but he looked
more than fifty. He had a little wrinkled face, with a pink complexion, and
kind pale blue eyes, like faded forget-me-nots. When he took off his cap,
which he used fussily to wear everywhere from his fear of draughts, he
exposed a little pink bald head, conical in shape, which was the great
delight of Jean-Christophe and his brothers. They never left off teasing
him about it, asking him what he had done with his hair, and, encouraged by
Melchior's pleasantries, threatening to smack it. He was the first to laugh
at them, and put up with their treatment of him patiently. He was a
peddler; he used to go from village to village with a pack on his back,
containing everything--groceries, stationery, confectionery, handkerchiefs,
scarves, shoes, pickles, almanacs, songs, and drugs. Several attempts had
been made to make him settle down, and to buy him a little business--a
store or a drapery shop. But he could not do it. One night he would get up,
push the key under the door, and set off again with his pack. Weeks and
months went by before he was seen again. Then he would reappear. Some
evening they would hear him fumbling at the door; it would half open, and
the little bald head, politely uncovered, would appear with its kind eyes
and timid smile. He would say, "Good-evening, everybody," carefully wipe
his shoes before entering, salute everybody, beginning with the eldest, and
go and sit in the most remote corner of the room. There he would light his
pipe, and sit huddled up, waiting quietly until the usual storm of
questions was over. The two Kraffts, Jean-Christophe's father and
grandfather, had a jeering contempt for him. The little freak seemed
ridiculous to them, and their pride was touched by the low degree of the
peddler. They made him feel it, but he seemed to take no notice of it, and
showed them a profound respect which disarmed them, especially the old man,
who was very sensitive to what people thought of him. They used to crush
him with heavy pleasantries, which often brought the blush to Louisa's
cheeks. Accustomed to bow without dispute to the intellectual superiority
of the Kraffts, she had no doubt that her husband and father-in-law were
right; but she loved her brother, and her brother had for her a dumb
adoration. They were the only members of their family, and they were both
humble, crushed, and thrust aside by life; they were united in sadness and
tenderness by a bond of mutual pity and common suffering, borne in secret.
With the Kraffts--robust, noisy, brutal, solidly built for living, and
living joyously--these two weak, kindly creatures, out of their setting, so
to speak, outside life, understood and pitied each other without ever
saying anything about it.

Jean-Christophe, with the cruel carelessness of childhood, shared the
contempt of his father and grandfather for the little peddler. He made fun
of him, and treated him as a comic figure; he worried him with stupid
teasing, which his uncle bore with his unshakable phlegm. But
Jean-Christophe loved him, without quite knowing why. He loved him first of
all as a plaything with which he did what he liked. He loved him also
because he always gave him something nice--a dainty, a picture, an amusing
toy. The little man's return was a joy for the children, for he always had
some surprise for them. Poor as he was, he always contrived to bring them
each a present, and he never forgot the birthday of any one of the family.
He always turned up on these august days, and brought out of his pocket
some jolly present, lovingly chosen. They were so used to it that they
hardly thought of thanking him; it seemed natural, and he appeared to be
sufficiently repaid by the pleasure he had given. But Jean-Christophe, who
did not sleep very well, and during the night used to turn over in his mind
the events of the day, used sometimes to think that his uncle was very
kind, and he used to be filled with floods of gratitude to the poor man. He
never showed it when the day came, because he thought that the others would
laugh at him. Besides, he was too little to see in kindness all the rare
value that it has. In the language of children, kind and stupid are almost
synonymous, and Uncle Gottfried seemed to be the living proof of it.

One evening when Melchior was dining out, Gottfried was left alone in the
living-room, while Louisa put the children to bed. He went out, and sat by
the river a few yards away from the house. Jean-Christophe, having nothing
better to do, followed him, and, as usual, tormented him with his puppy
tricks until he was out of breath, and dropped down on the grass at his
feet. Lying on his belly, he buried his nose in the turf. When he had
recovered his breath, he cast about for some new crazy thing to say. When
he found it he shouted it out, and rolled about with laughing, with his
face still buried in the earth. He received no answer. Surprised by the
silence, he raised his head, and began to repeat his joke. He saw
Gottfried's face lit up by the last beams of the setting sun cast through
golden mists. He swallowed down his words. Gottfried smiled with his eyes
half closed and his mouth half open, and in his sorrowful face was an
expression of sadness and unutterable melancholy. Jean-Christophe, with his
face in his hands, watched him. The night came; little by little
Gottfried's face disappeared. Silence reigned. Jean-Christophe in his turn
was filled with the mysterious impressions which had been reflected on
Gottfried's face. He fell into a vague stupor. The earth was in darkness,
the sky was bright; the stars peeped out. The little waves of the river
chattered against the bank. The boy grew sleepy. Without seeing them, he
bit off little blades of grass. A grasshopper chirped near him. It seemed
to him that he was going to sleep.

Suddenly, in the dark, Gottfried began to sing. He sang in a weak, husky
voice, as though to himself; he could not have been heard twenty yards
away. But there was sincerity and emotion in his voice; it was as though he
were thinking aloud, and that through the song, as through clear water, the
very inmost heart of him was to be seen. Never had Jean-Christophe heard
such singing, and never had he heard such a song. Slow, simple, childish,
it moved gravely, sadly, a little monotonously, never hurrying--with long
pauses--then setting out again on its way, careless where it arrived, and
losing itself in the night. It seemed to come from far away, and it went no
man knows whither. Its serenity was full of sorrow, and beneath its seeming
peace there dwelt an agony of the ages. Jean-Christophe held his breath; he
dared not move; he was cold with emotion. When it was done he crawled
towards Gottfried, and in a choking voice said:

"Uncle!"

Gottfried did not reply.

"Uncle!" repeated the boy, placing his hands and chin on Gottfried's knees.

Gottfried said kindly:

"Well, boy..."

"What is it, uncle? Tell me! What were you singing?"

"I don't know."

"Tell me what it is!"

"I don't know. Just a song."

"A song that you made."

"No, not I! What an idea!... It is an old song."

"Who made it?"

"No one knows...."

"When?"

"No one knows...."

"When you were little?"

"Before I was born, before my father was born, and before his father, and
before his father's father.... It has always been."

"How strange! No one has ever told me about it."

He thought for a moment.

"Uncle, do you know any other?"

"Yes."

"Sing another, please."

"Why should I sing another? One is enough. One sings when one wants to
sing, when one has to sing. One must not sing for the fun of it."

"But what about when one makes music?"

"That is not music."

The boy was lost in thought. He did not quite understand. But he asked for
no explanation. It was true, it was not music, not like all the rest. He
went on:

"Uncle, have you ever made them?"

"Made what?"

"Songs!"

"Songs? Oh! How should I make them? They can't be made."

With his usual logic the boy insisted:

"But, uncle, it must have been made once...."

Gottfried shook his head obstinately.

"It has always been."

The boy returned to the attack:

"But, uncle, isn't it possible to make other songs, new songs?"

"Why make them? There are enough for everything. There are songs for when
you are sad, and for when you are gay; for when you are weary, and for when
you are thinking of home; for when you despise yourself, because you have
been a vile sinner, a worm upon the earth; for when you want to weep,
because people have not been kind to you; and for when your heart is glad
because the world is beautiful, and you see God's heaven, which, like Him,
is always kind, and seems to laugh at you.... There are songs for
everything, everything. Why should I make them?"

"To be a great man!" said the boy, full of his grandfather's teaching and
his simple dreams.

Gottfried laughed softly. Jean-Christophe, a little hurt, asked him:

"Why are you laughing?"

Gottfried said:

"Oh! I?... I am nobody."

He kissed the boy's head, and said:

"You want to be a great man?"

"Yes," said Jean-Christophe proudly. He thought Gottfried would admire him.
But Gottfried replied:

"What for?"

Jean-Christophe was taken aback. He thought for a moment, and said:

"To make beautiful songs!"

Gottfried laughed again, and said:

"You want to make beautiful songs, so as to be a great man; and you want to
be a great man, so as to make beautiful songs. You are like a dog chasing
its own tail."

Jean-Christophe was dashed. At any other time he would not have borne his
uncle laughing at him, he at whom he was used to laughing. And, at the same
time, he would never have thought Gottfried clever enough to stump him with
an argument. He cast about for some answer or some impertinence to throw at
him, but could find none. Gottfried went on:

"When you are as great as from here to Coblentz, you will never make a
single song."

Jean-Christophe revolted on that.

"And if I will!..."

"The more you want to, the less you can. To make songs, you have to be like
those creatures. Listen...."

The moon had risen, round and gleaming, behind the fields. A silvery mist
hovered above the ground and the shimmering waters. The frogs croaked, and
in the meadows the melodious fluting of the toads arose. The shrill tremolo
of the grasshoppers seemed to answer the twinkling of the stars. The wind
rustled softly in the branches of the alders. From the hills above the
river there came down the sweet light song of a nightingale.

"What need is there to sing?" sighed Gottfried, after a long silence. (It
was not clear whether he were talking to himself or to Jean-Christophe.)
"Don't they sing sweeter than anything that you could make?"

Jean-Christophe had often heard these sounds of the night, and he loved
them. But never had he heard them as he heard them now. It was true: what
need was there to sing?... His heart was full of tenderness and sorrow. He
was fain to embrace the meadows, the river, the sky, the clear stars. He
was filled with love for his uncle Gottfried, who seemed to him now the
best, the cleverest, the most beautiful of men. He thought how he had
misjudged him, and he thought that his uncle was sad because he,
Jean-Christophe, had misjudged him. He was remorseful. He wanted to cry
out: "Uncle, do not be sad! I will not be naughty again. Forgive me, I love
you!" But he dared not. And suddenly he threw himself into Gottfried's
arms, but the words would not come, only he repeated, "I love you!" and
kissed him passionately. Gottfried was surprised and touched, and went on
saying, "What? What?" and kissed him. Then he got up, took him by the hand,
and said: "We must go in." Jean-Christophe was sad because his uncle had
not understood him. But as they came to the house, Gottfried said: "If you
like we'll go again to hear God's music, and I will sing you some more
songs." And when Jean-Christophe kissed him gratefully as they said
good-night, he saw that his uncle had understood.

Thereafter they often went for walks together in the evening, and they
walked without a word along by the river, or through the fields. Gottfried
slowly smoked his pipe, and Jean-Christophe, a little frightened by the
darkness, would give him his hand. They would sit down on the grass, and
after a few moments of silence Gottfried would talk to him about the stars
and the clouds; he taught him to distinguish the breathing of the earth,
air, and water, the songs, cries, and sounds of the little worlds of
flying, creeping, hopping, and swimming things swarming in the darkness,
and the signs of rain and fine weather, and the countless instruments of
the symphony of the night. Sometimes Gottfried would sing tunes, sad or
gay, but always of the same kind, and always in the end Jean-Christophe
would be brought to the same sorrow. But he would never sing more than one
song in an evening, and Jean-Christophe noticed that he did not sing gladly
when he was asked to do so; it had to come of itself, just when he wanted
to. Sometimes they had to wait for a long time without speaking, and just
when Jean-Christophe was beginning to think, "He is not going to sing this
evening," Gottfried would make up his mind.

One evening, when nothing would induce Gottfried to sing, Jean-Christophe
thought of submitting to him one of his own small compositions, in the
making of which he found so much trouble and pride. He wanted to show what
an artist he was. Gottfried listened very quietly, and then said:

"That is very ugly, my poor dear Jean-Christophe!"

Jean-Christophe was so hurt that he could find nothing to say. Gottfried
went on pityingly:

"Why did you do it? It is so ugly! No one forced you to do it."

Hot with anger, Jean-Christophe protested:

"My grandfather thinks my music fine."

"Ah!" said Gottfried, not turning a hair. "No doubt he is right. He is a
learned man. He knows all about music. I know nothing about it...."

And after a moment:

"But I think that is very ugly."

He looked quietly at Jean-Christophe, and saw his angry face, and smiled,
and said:

"Have you composed any others? Perhaps I shall like the others better than
that."

Jean-Christophe thought that his other compositions might wipe out the
impression of the first, and he sang them all. Gottfried said nothing; he
waited until they were finished. Then he shook his head, and with profound
conviction said:

"They are even more ugly."

Jean-Christophe shut his lips, and his chin trembled; he wanted to cry.
Gottfried went on as though he himself were upset.

"How ugly they are!"

Jean-Christophe, with tears in his voice, cried out: "But why do you say
they are ugly?"

Gottfried looked at him with his frank eyes.

"Why?... I don't know.... Wait.... They are ugly ... first, because they
are stupid.... Yes, that's it.... They are stupid, they don't mean
anything.... You see? When you wrote, you had nothing to say. Why did you
write them?"

"I don't know," said Jean-Christophe, in a piteous voice. "I wanted to
write something pretty."

"There you are! You wrote for the sake of writing. You wrote because you
wanted to be a great musician, and to be admired. You have been proud; you
have been a liar; you have been punished.... You see! A man is always
punished when he is proud and a liar in music. Music must be modest and
sincere--or else, what is it? Impious, a blasphemy of the Lord, who has
given us song to tell the honest truth."

He saw the boy's distress, and tried to kiss him. But Jean-Christophe
turned angrily away, and for several days he sulked. He hated Gottfried.
But it was in vain that he said over and over to himself: "He is an ass! He
knows nothing--nothing! My grandfather, who is much cleverer, likes my
music." In his heart he knew that his uncle was right, and Gottfried's
words were graven on his inmost soul; he was ashamed to have been a liar.

And, in spite of his resentment, he always thought of it when he was
writing music, and often he tore up what he had written, being ashamed
already of what Gottfried would have thought of it. When he got over it,
and wrote a melody which he knew to be not quite sincere, he hid it
carefully from his uncle; he was fearful of his judgment, and was quite
happy when Gottfried just said of one of his pieces: "That is not so very
ugly.... I like it...."

Sometimes, by way of revenge, he used to trick him by giving him as his own
melodies from the great musicians, and he was delighted when it happened
that Gottfried disliked them heartily. But that did not trouble Gottfried.
He would laugh loudly when he saw Jean-Christophe clap his hands and dance
about him delightedly, and he always returned to his usual argument: "It is
well enough written, but it says nothing." He always refused to be present
at one of the little concerts given in Melchior's house. However beautiful
the music might be, he would begin to yawn and look sleepy with boredom.
Very soon he would be unable to bear it any longer, and would steal away
quietly. He used to say:

"You see, my boy, everything that you write in the house is not music.
Music in a house is like sunshine in a room. Music is to be found outside
where you breathe God's dear fresh air."

He was always talking of God, for he was very pious, unlike the two
Kraffts, father and son, who were free-thinkers, and took care to eat meat
on Fridays.

* * * * *

Suddenly, for no apparent reason, Melchior changed his opinion. Not only
did he approve of his father having put together Jean-Christophe's
inspirations, but, to the boy's great surprise, he spent several evenings
in making two or three copies of his manuscript. To every question put to
him on the subject, he replied impressively, "We shall see; ..." or he
would rub his hands and laugh, smack the boy's head by way of a joke, or
turn him up and blithely spank him. Jean-Christophe loathed these
familiarities, but he saw that his father was pleased, and did not know
why.

Then there were mysterious confabulations between Melchior and his father.
And one evening Jean-Christophe, to his astonishment, learned that he,
Jean-Christophe, had dedicated to H.S.H. the Grand Duke Leopold the
_Pleasures of Childhood_. Melchior had sounded the disposition of the
Prince, who had shown himself graciously inclined to accept the homage.
Thereupon Melchior declared that without losing a moment they must,
_primo_, draw up the official request to the Prince; _secondo_, publish the
work; _tertio_, organize a concert to give it a hearing.

Copyright (c) 2007. famouswriterz.com. All rights reserved.