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Jean Christophe, Vol. I

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




There were further long conferences between Melchior and Jean Michel. They
argued heatedly for two or three evenings. It was forbidden to interrupt
them. Melchior wrote, erased; erased, wrote. The old man talked loudly, as
though he were reciting verses. Sometimes they squabbled or thumped on the
table because they could not find a word.

Then Jean-Christophe was called, made to sit at the table with a pen in his
hand, his father on his right, his grandfather on his left, and the old man
began to dictate words which he did not understand, because he found it
difficult to write every word in his enormous letters, because Melchior was
shouting in his ear, and because the old man declaimed with such emphasis
that Jean-Christophe, put out by the sound of the words, could not bother
to listen to their meaning. The old man was no less in a state of emotion.
He could not sit still, and he walked up and down the room, involuntarily
illustrating the text of what he read with gestures, but he came every
minute to look over what the boy had written, and Jean-Christophe,
frightened by the two large faces looking over his shoulder, put out his
tongue, and held his pen clumsily. A mist floated before his eyes; he made
too many strokes, or smudged what he had written; and Melchior roared, and
Jean Michel stormed; and he had to begin again, and then again, and when he
thought that they had at last come to an end, a great blot fell on the
immaculate page. Then they pulled his ears, and he burst into tears; but
they forbade him to weep, because he was spoiling the paper, and they began
to dictate, beginning all over again, and he thought it would go on like
that to the end of his life.

At last it was finished, and Jean Michel leaned against the mantelpiece,
and read over their handiwork in a voice trembling with pleasure, while
Melchior sat straddled across a chair, and looked at the ceiling and wagged
his chair and, as a connoisseur, rolled round his tongue the style of the
following epistle:

"_Most Noble and Sublime Highness! Most
Gracious Lord!_

"From my fourth year Music has been the first occupation of my childish
days. So soon as I allied myself to the noble Muse, who roused my soul to
pure harmony, I loved her, and, as it seemed to me, she returned my love.
Now I am in my sixth year, and for some time my Muse in hours of
inspiration has whispered in my ears: 'Be bold! Be bold! Write down the
harmonies of thy soul!' 'Six years old,' thought I, 'and how should I be
bold? What would the learned in the art say of me?' I hesitated. I
trembled. But my Muse insisted. I obeyed. I wrote.

"And now shall I,

"_O Most Sublime Highness!_

"--shall I have the temerity and audacity to place upon the steps of Thy
Throne the first-fruits of my youthful labors?... Shall I make so bold as
to hope that Thou wilt let fall upon them the august approbation of Thy
paternal regard?...

"Oh, yes! For Science and the Arts have ever found in Thee their sage
Mæcenas, their generous champion, and talent puts forth its flowers under
the ægis of Thy holy protection.

"In this profound and certain faith I dare, then, approach Thee with these
youthful efforts. Receive them as a pure offering of my childish
veneration, and of Thy goodness deign,

"_O Most Sublime Highness!_

"to glance at them, and at their young author, who bows at Thy feet deeply
and in humility!

"_From the most submissive, faithful, and obedient servant of His Most
Noble and Most Sublime Highness_,

"JEAN-CHRISTOPHE KRAFFT."

Jean-Christophe heard nothing. He was very happy to have finished, and,
fearing that he would be made to begin again, he ran away to the fields. He
had no idea of what he had written, and he cared not at all. But when the
old man had finished his reading he began again to taste the full flavor of
it, and when the second reading came to an end Melchior and he declared
that it was a little masterpiece. That was also the opinion of the Grand
Duke, to whom the letter was presented, with a copy of the musical work. He
was kind enough to send word that he found both quite charming. He granted
permission for the concert, and ordered that the hall of his Academy of
Music should be put at Melchior's disposal, and deigned to promise that he
would have the young artist presented to himself on the day of the
performance.

Melchior set about organizing the concert as quickly as possible. He
engaged the support of the _Hof Musik Verein_, and as the success of his
first ventures had blown out his sense of proportion, he undertook at the
same time to publish a magnificent edition of the _Pleasures of Childhood_.
He wanted to have printed on the cover of it a portrait of Jean-Christophe
at the piano, with himself, Melchior, standing by his side, violin in hand.
He had to abandon that, not on account of the cost--Melchior did not stop
at any expense--but because there was not time enough. He fell back on an
allegorical design representing a cradle, a trumpet, a drum, a wooden
horse, grouped round a lyre which put forth rays like the sun. The
title-page bore, together with a long dedication, in which the name of the
Prince stood out in enormous letters, a notice to the effect that "Herr
Jean-Christophe Krafft was six years old." He was, in fact, seven and a
half. The printing of the design was very expensive. To meet the bill for
it, Jean Michel had to sell an old eighteenth-century chest, carved with
faces, which he had never consented to sell, in spite of the repeated
offers of Wormser, the furniture-dealer. But Melchior had no doubt but the
subscriptions would cover the cost, and beyond that the expenses of
printing the composition.

One other question occupied his mind: how to dress Jean-Christophe on the
day of the concert. There was a family council to decide the matter.
Melchior would have liked the boy to appear in a short frock and bare legs,
like a child of four. But Jean-Christophe was very large for his age, and
everybody knew him. They could not hope to deceive any one. Melchior had a
great idea. He decided that the boy should wear a dress-coat and white tie.
In vain did Louisa protest that they would make her poor boy ridiculous.
Melchior anticipated exactly the success and merriment that would be
produced by such an unexpected appearance. It was decided on, and the
tailor came and measured Jean-Christophe for his little coat. He had also
to have fine linen and patent-leather pumps, and all that swallowed up
their last penny. Jean-Christophe was very uncomfortable in his new
clothes. To make him used to them they made him try on his various
garments. For a whole month he hardly left the piano-stool. They taught him
to bow. He had never a moment of liberty. He raged against it, but dared
not rebel, for he thought that he was going to accomplish something
startling. He was both proud and afraid of it. They pampered him; they were
afraid he would catch cold; they swathed his neck in scarves; they warmed
his boots in case they were wet; and at table he had the best of
everything.

At last the great day arrived. The barber came to preside over his toilet
and curl Jean-Christophe's rebellious hair. He did not leave it until he
had made it look like a sheep-skin. All the family walked round
Jean-Christophe and declared that he was superb. Melchior, after looking
him up and down, and turning him about and about, was seized with an idea,
and went off to fetch a large flower, which he put in his buttonhole. But
when Louisa saw him she raised her hands, and cried out distressfully that
he looked like a monkey. That hurt him cruelly. He did not know whether to
be ashamed or proud of his garb. Instinctively he felt humiliated, and he
was more so at the concert. Humiliation was to be for him the outstanding
emotion of that memorable day.

* * * * *

The concert was about to begin. The hall was half empty; the Grand Duke had
not arrived. One of those kindly and well-informed friends who always
appear on these occasions came and told them that there was a Council being
held at the Palace, and that the Grand Duke would not come. He had it on
good authority. Melchior was in despair. He fidgeted, paced up and down,
and looked repeatedly out of the window. Old Jean Michel was also in
torment, but he was concerned, for his grandson. He bombarded him with
instructions. Jean-Christophe was infected by the nervousness of his
family. He was not in the least anxious about his compositions, but he was
troubled by the thought of the bows that he had to make to the audience,
and thinking of them brought him to agony.

However, he had to begin; the audience was growing impatient. The orchestra
of the _Hof Musik Verein_ began the _Coriolan Overture_. The boy knew
neither Coriolan nor Beethoven, for though he had often heard Beethoven's
music, he had not known it. He never bothered about the names of the works
he heard. He gave them names of his own invention, while he created little
stories or pictures for them. He classified them usually in three
categories: fire, water, and earth, with a thousand degrees between each.
Mozart belonged almost always to water. He was a meadow by the side of a
river, a transparent mist floating over the water, a spring shower, or a
rainbow. Beethoven was fire--now a furnace with gigantic flames and vast
columns of smoke; now a burning forest, a heavy and terrible cloud,
flashing lightning; now a wide sky full of quivering stars, one of which
breaks free, swoops, and; dies on a fine September night setting the heart
beating. Now; the imperious ardor of that heroic soul burned him like fire.
Everything else disappeared. What was it all to him?--Melchior in despair,
Jean Michel agitated, all the busy world, the audience, the Grand Duke,
little Jean-Christophe. What had.' he to do with all these? What lay
between them and him? Was that he--he, himself?... He was given up to the
furious will that carried him headlong. He followed it breathlessly, with
tears in his eyes, and his legs numb, thrilling from the palms of his hands
to the soles of his feet. His blood drummed! "Charge!" and he trembled in
every limb. And as he listened so intensely, Hiding behind a curtain, his
heart suddenly leaped violently. The orchestra had stopped short in the
middle of a bar, and after a moment's silence, it broke into a crashing of
brass and cymbals with a military march, officially strident. The
transition from one sort of music to another was so brutal, so unexpected,
that Jean-Christophe ground his teeth and stamped his foot with rage, and
shook his fist at the wall. But Melchior rejoiced. The Grand Duke had come
in, and the orchestra was saluting him with the National Anthem. And in a
trembling voice Jean Michel gave his last instructions to his grandson.

The overture began again, and this time was finished. It was now
Jean-Christophe's turn. Melchior had arranged the programme to show off at
the same time the skill of both father and son. They were to play together
a sonata of Mozart for violin and piano. For the sake of effect he had
decided that Jean-Christophe should enter alone. He was led to the entrance
of the stage and showed the piano at the front, and for the last time it
was explained what he had to do, and then he was pushed on from the wings.

He was not much afraid, for he was used to the theater; but when he found
himself alone on the platform, with hundreds of eyes staring at him, he
became suddenly so frightened that instinctively he moved backwards and
turned towards the wings to go back again. He saw his father there
gesticulating and with his eyes blazing. He had to go on. Besides, the
audience had seen him. As he advanced there arose a twittering of
curiosity, followed soon by laughter, which grew louder and louder.
Melchior had not been wrong, and the boy's garb had all the effect
anticipated. The audience rocked with laughter at the sight of the child
with his long hair and gipsy complexion timidly trotting across the
platform in the evening dress of a man of the world. They got up to see him
better. Soon the hilarity was general. There was nothing unkindly in it,
but it would have made the most hardened musician lose his head.
Jean-Christophe, terrified by the noise, and the eyes watching, and the
glasses turned upon him, had only one idea: to reach the piano as quickly
as possible, for it seemed to him a refuge, an island in the midst of the
sea. With head down, looking neither to right nor left, he ran quickly
across the platform, and when he reached the middle of it, instead of
bowing to the audience, as had been arranged, he turned his back on it, and
plunged straight for the piano. The chair was too high for him to sit down
without his father's help, and in his distress, instead of waiting, he
climbed up on to it on his knees. That increased the merriment of the
audience, but now Jean-Christophe was safe. Sitting at his instrument, he
was afraid of no one.

Melchior came at last. He gained by the good-humor of the audience, who
welcomed him with warm applause. The sonata began. The boy played it with
imperturbable certainty, with his lips pressed tight in concentration, his
eyes fixed on the keys, his little legs hanging down from the chair. He
became more at ease as the notes rolled out; he was among friends that he
knew. A murmur of approbation reached him, and waves of pride and
satisfaction surged through him as he thought that all these people were
silent to listen to him and to admire him. But hardly had he finished when
fear overcame him again, and the applause which greeted him gave him more
shame than pleasure. His shame increased when Melchior took him by the
hand, and advanced with him to the edge of the platform, and made him bow
to the public. He obeyed, and bowed very low, with a funny awkwardness; but
he was humiliated, and blushed for what he had done, as though it were a
thing ridiculous and ugly.

He had to sit at the piano again, and he played the _Pleasures of
Childhood_. Then the audience was enraptured. After each piece they shouted
enthusiastically. They wanted him to begin again, and he was proud of his
success and at the same time almost hurt by such applause, which was also a
command. At the end the whole audience rose to acclaim him; the Grand Duke
led the applause. But as Jean-Christophe was now alone on the platform he
dared not budge from his seat. The applause redoubled. He bent his head
lower and lower, blushing and hang-dog in expression, and he looked
steadily away from the audience. Melchior came. He took him in his arms,
and told him to blow kisses. He pointed out to him the Grand Duke's box.
Jean-Christophe turned a deaf ear. Melchior took his arm, and threatened
him in a low voice. Then he did as he was told passively, but he did not
look at anybody, he did not raise his eyes, but went on turning his head
away, and he was unhappy. He was suffering; how, he did not know. His
vanity was suffering. He did not like the people who were there at all. It
was no use their applauding; he could not forgive them for having laughed
and for being amused by his humiliation; he could not forgive them for
having seen him in such a ridiculous position--held in mid-air to blow
kisses. He disliked them even for applauding, and when Melchior did at last
put him down, he ran away to the wings. A lady threw a bunch of violets up
at him as he went. It brushed his face. He was panic-stricken and ran as
fast as he could, turning over a chair that was in his way. The faster he
ran the more they laughed, and the more they laughed the faster he ran.

At last he reached the exit, which was filled with people looking at him.
He forced his way through, butting, and ran and hid himself at the back of
the anteroom. His grandfather was in high feather, and covered him with
blessings. The musicians of the orchestra shouted with laughter, and
congratulated the boy, who refused to look at them or to shake hands with
them. Melchior listened intently, gaging the applause, which had not yet
ceased, and wanted to take Jean-Christophe on to the stage again. But the
boy refused angrily, clung to his grandfather's coat-tails, and kicked at
everybody who came near him. At last he burst into tears, and they had to
let him be.

Just at this moment an officer came to say that the Grand Duke wished the
artists to go to his box. How could the child be presented in such a state?
Melchior swore angrily, and his wrath only had the effect of making
Jean-Christophe's tears flow faster. To stop them, his grandfather promised
him a pound of chocolates if he would not cry any more, and
Jean-Christophe, who was greedy, stopped dead, swallowed down his tears,
and let them carry him off; but they had to swear at first most solemnly
that they would not take him on to the platform again.

In the anteroom of the Grand Ducal box he was presented to a gentleman in a
dress-coat, with a face like a pug-dog, bristling mustaches, and a short,
pointed beard--a little red-faced man, inclined to stoutness, who addressed
him with bantering familiarity, and called him "Mozart _redivivus_!" This
was the Grand Duke. Then, he was presented in turn to the Grand Duchess and
her daughter, and their suite. But as he did not dare raise his eyes, the
only thing he could remember of this brilliant company was a series of
gowns and uniforms from, the waist down to the feet. He sat on the lap of
the young Princess, and dared not move or breathe. She asked him questions,
which Melchior answered in an obsequious voice with formal replies,
respectful and servile; but she did not listen to Melchior, and went on
teasing the child. He grew redder and redder, and, thinking that everybody
must have noticed it, he thought he must explain it away and said with a
long sigh:

"My face is red. I am hot."

That made the girl shout with laughter. But Jean-Christophe did not mind it
in her, as he had in his audience just before, for her laughter was
pleasant, and she kissed him, and he did not dislike that.

Then he saw his grandfather in the passage at the door of the box, beaming
and bashful. The old man was fain to show himself, and also to say a few
words, but he dared not, because no one had spoken to him. He was enjoying
his grandson's glory at a distance. Jean-Christophe became tender, and felt
an irresistible impulse to procure justice also for the old man, so that
they should know his worth. His tongue was loosed, and he reached up to the
ear of his new friend and whispered to her:

"I will tell you a secret."

She laughed, and said:

"What?"

"You know," he went on--"you know the pretty _trio_ in my _minuetto_, the
_minuetto_ I played?... You know it?..." (He hummed it gently.) "... Well,
grandfather wrote it, not I. All the other airs are mine. But that is the
best. Grandfather wrote it. Grandfather did not want me to say anything.
You won't tell anybody?..." (He pointed out the old man.) "That is my
grandfather. I love him; he is very kind to me."

At that the young Princess laughed again, said that he was a darling,
covered him with kisses, and, to the consternation of Jean-Christophe and
his grandfather, told everybody. Everybody laughed then, and the Grand Duke
congratulated the old man, who was covered with confusion, tried in vain to
explain himself, and stammered like a guilty criminal. But Jean-Christophe
said not another word to the girl, and in spite of her wheedling he
remained dumb and stiff. He despised her for having broken her promise. His
idea of princes suffered considerably from this disloyalty. He was so angry
about it that he did not hear anything that was said, or that the Prince
had appointed him laughingly his pianist in ordinary, his _Hof Musicus_.

He went out with his relatives, and found himself surrounded in
the corridors of the theater, and even in the street, with people
congratulating him or kissing him. That displeased him greatly, for he did
not like being kissed, and did not like people meddling with him without
asking his permission.

At last they reached home, and then hardly was the door closed than
Melchior began to call him a "little idiot" because he had said that the
_trio_ was not his own. As the boy was under the impression that he had
done a fine thing, which deserved praise, and not blame, he rebelled, and
was impertinent. Melchior lost his temper, and said that he would box his
ears, although he had played his music well enough, because with his idiocy
he had spoiled the whole effect of the concert. Jean-Christophe had a
profound sense of justice. He went and sulked in a corner; he visited his
contempt upon his father, the Princess, and the whole world. He was hurt
also because the neighbors came and congratulated his parents and laughed
with them, as if it were they who had played, and as if it were their
affair.

At this moment a servant of the Court came with a beautiful gold watch from
the Grand Duke and a box of lovely sweets from the young Princess. Both
presents gave great pleasure to Jean-Christophe, and he did not know which
gave him the more; but he was in such a bad temper that he would not
admit it to himself, and he went on sulking, scowling at the sweets, and
wondering whether he could properly accept a gift from a person who had
betrayed his confidence. As he was on the point of giving in his father
wanted to set him down at once at the table, and make him write at his
dictation a letter of thanks. This was too much. Either from the nervous
strain of the day, or from instinctive shame at beginning the letter,
as Melchior wanted him to, with the words, "The little servant and
musician--_Knecht und Musicus_--of Your Highness ..." he burst into tears,
and was inconsolable. The servant waited and scoffed. Melchior had to
write the letter. That did not make him exactly kindly disposed towards
Jean-Christophe. As, a crowning misfortune, the boy let his watch fall and
broke it, A storm of reproaches broke upon him. Melchior shouted that he
would have to go without dessert. Jean-Christophe said angrily that that
was what he wanted. To punish him, Louisa, said that she would begin by
confiscating his sweets. Jean-Christophe was up in arms at that, and said
that the box was his, and no one else's, and that no one should take it
away from him! He was smacked, and in a fit of anger snatched the box
from his mother's hands, hurled it on the floor, and stamped on it He was
whipped, taken to his room, undressed, and put to bed.

In the evening he heard his parents dining with friends--a magnificent
repast, prepared a week before in honor of the concert. He was like to die
with wrath at such injustice. They laughed loudly, and touched glasses.
They had told the guests that the boy was tired, and no one bothered about
him. Only after dinner, when the party was breaking up, he heard a slow,
shuffling step come into his room, and old Jean Michel bent over his bed
and kissed him, and said: "Dear little Jean-Christophe!..." Then, as if he
were ashamed, he went away without another word. He had slipped into his
hand some sweetmeats which he had hidden in his pocket.

That softened Jean-Christophe; but he was so tired with all the day's
emotions that he had not the strength to think about what his grandfather
had done. He had not even the strength to reach out to the good things the
old man had given him. He was worn out, and went to sleep almost at once.

His sleep was light. He had acute nervous attacks, like electric shocks,
which shook his whole body. In his dreams he was haunted by wild music. He
awoke in the night. The Beethoven overture that he had heard at the concert
was roaring in his ears. It filled the room with its mighty beat. He sat,
up in his bed, rubbed his eyes and ears, and asked himself if he were
asleep. No; he was not asleep. He recognized the sound, he recognized
those roars of anger, those savage cries; he heard the throbbing of that
passionate heart leaping in his bosom, that tumult of the blood; he felt
on his face the frantic heating of the wind; lashing and destroying, then
stopping suddenly, cut off by an Herculean will. That Titanic soul entered
his body, blew out his limbs and his soul, and seemed to give them colossal
proportions. He strode over all the world. He was like a mountain, and
storms raged within him--storms of wrath, storms of sorrow!... Ah, what
sorrow!... But they were nothing! He felt so strong!... To suffer--still to
suffer!... Ah, how good it is to be strong! How good it is to suffer when a
man is strong!...

He laughed. His laughter rang out in the silence of the night. His father
woke up and cried:

"Who is there?"

His mother whispered:

"Ssh! the boy is dreaming!"

All then were silent; round them all was silence. The music died away, and
nothing sounded but the regular breathing of the human creatures asleep in
the room, comrades in misery, thrown together by Fate in the same frail
barque, bound onwards by a wild whirling force through the night.

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