Jean-Christophe, vol 1 - Romain Rolland (best books to read in your 20s .TXT) 📗

the singer had

exhausted Christophe’s repertory, to keep him from breaking out into the

lucubrations of mediocre compositions at the mention of whose names

Christophe curled up and bristled like a porcupine.

 

Fortunately the announcement of supper muzzled Pottpetschmidt. Another

field for his valor was opened for him; he had no rival there; and

Christophe, who was a little weary with his exploits in the afternoon, made

no attempt to vie with him.

 

It was getting late. They sat round the table and the three friends watched

Christophe; they drank in his words. It seemed very strange to Christophe

to find himself in the remote little town among these old men whom he had

never seen until that day and to be more intimate with them than if they

had been his relations. He thought how fine it would be for an artist if he

could know of the unknown friends whom his ideas find in the world,—how

gladdened his heart would be and how fortified he would be in his strength.

But he is rarely that; every one lives and dies alone, fearing to say what

he feels the more he feels and the more he needs to express it. Vulgar

flatterers have no difficulty in speaking. Those who love most have to

force their lips open to say that they love. And so he must be grateful

indeed to those who dare to speak; they are unconsciously collaborators

with the artist.—Christophe was filled with gratitude for old Schulz. He

did not confound him with his two friends; he felt that he was the soul

of the little group; the others were only reflections of that living fire

of goodness and love. The friendship that Kunz and Pottpetschmidt had for

him was very different. Kunz was selfish; music gave him a comfortable

satisfaction like a fat cat when it is stroked. Pottpetschmidt found in

it the pleasure of tickled vanity and physical exercise. Neither of them

troubled to understand him. But Schulz absolutely forgot himself; he loved.

 

It was late. The two friends went away in the night. Christophe was left

alone with Schulz. He said:

 

“Now I will play for you alone.”

 

He sat at the piano and played,—as he knew how to play when he had some

one dear to him by his side. He played his latest compositions. The old

man was in ecstasies. He sat near Christophe and never took his eyes from

him and held his breath. In the goodness of his heart he was incapable of

keeping the smallest happiness to himself, and in spite of himself he said:

 

“Ah! What a pity Kunz is not here!”

 

That irritated Christophe a little.

 

An hour passed; Christophe was still playing; they had not exchanged a

word. When Christophe had finished neither spoke a word. There was silence,

the house, the street, was asleep. Christophe turned and saw that the

old man was weeping; he got up and went and embraced him. They talked in

whispers in the stillness of the night. The clock ticked dully in the next

room. Schulz talked in a whisper, with his hands clasped, and leaning

forward; he was telling Christophe, in answer to his questions, about his

life and his sorrow; at every turn he was ashamed of complaining and had to

say:

 

“I am wrong … I have no right to complain … Everybody has been very

good to me….”

 

And indeed he was not complaining; it was only an involuntary melancholy

emanating from the dull story of his lonely life. At the most sorrowful

moments he wove into it professions of faith vaguely idealistic and very

sentimental which amazed Christophe, though it would have been too cruel to

contradict him. At bottom there was in Schulz not so much a firm belief as

a passionate desire to believe—an uncertain hope to which he clung as to

a buoy. He sought the confirmation of it in Christophe’s eyes. Christophe

understood the appeal in the eyes of his friend, who clung to him with

touching confidence, imploring him,—and dictating his answer. Then he

spoke of the calm faith or strength, sure of itself, words which the old

man was expecting, and they comforted him. The old man and the young had

forgotten the years that lay between, them; they were near each other, like

brothers of the same age, loving and helping each other; the weaker sought

the support of the stronger; the old man took refuge in the young man’s

soul.

 

They parted after midnight; Christophe had to get up early to catch the

train by which he had come. And so he did not loiter as he undressed. The

old man had prepared his guests room as though for a visit of several

months. He had put a bowl of roses on the table and a branch of laurel. He

had put fresh blotting paper on the bureau. During the morning he had had

an upright piano carried up. On the shelf by the bed he had placed books

chosen from among his most precious and beloved. There was no detail that

he had not lovingly thought out. But it was a waste of trouble: Christophe

saw nothing. He flung himself on his bed and went sound asleep at once.

 

Schulz could not sleep. He was pondering the joy that he had had and the

sorrow he must have at the departure of his friend. He was turning over

in his mind the words that had been spoken. He was thinking that his dear

Christophe was sleeping near him on the other side of the wall against

which his bed lay. He was worn out, stiff all over, depressed; he felt that

he had caught cold during the walk and that he was going to have a relapse;

but he had only one thought:

 

“If only I can hold out until he has gone!” And he was fearful of having a

fit of coughing and waking Christophe. He was full of gratitude to God, and

began to compose verses to the song of old Simeon: “Nunc dimittis …”

He got up in a sweat to write the verses down and sat at his desk until

he had carefully copied them out with an affectionate dedication, and his

signature, and the date and hour. Then he lay down again with a shiver and

could not get warm all night.

 

Dawn came. Schulz thought regretfully of the dawn of the day before. But he

was angry with himself for spoiling with such thoughts the few minutes of

happiness left to him; he knew that on the morrow he would regret the time

fleeting then, and he tried not to waste any of it. He listened, eager

for the least sound in the next room. But Christophe did not stir. He lay

still just as he had gone to bed; he had not moved. Half-past six rang and

he still slept. Nothing would have been easier than to make him miss the

train, and doubtless he would have taken it with a laugh. But the old man

was too scrupulous to use a friend so without his consent. In vain did he

say to himself:

 

“It will not be my fault. I could not help it. It will be enough to say

nothing. And if he does not wake in time I shall have another whole day

with him.”

 

He answered himself:

 

“No, I have no right.”

 

And he thought it his duty to go and wake him. He knocked at his door.

Christophe did not hear at first; he had to knock again. That made the old

man’s heart thump as he thought: “Ah! How well he sleeps! He would stay

like that till mid-day!…”

 

At last Christophe replied gaily through the partition. When he learned the

time he cried out; he was heard bustling about his room, noisily dressing

himself, singing scraps of melody, while he chattered with Schulz through

the wall and cracked Jokes while the old man laughed in spite of his

sorrow. The door opened; Christophe appeared, fresh, rested, and happy; he

had no thought of the pain he was causing. In reality there was no hurry

for him to go; it would have cost him nothing to stay a few days longer;

and it would have given Schulz so much pleasure! But Christophe could not

know that. Besides, although he was very fond of the old man, he was glad

to go; he was worn out by the day of perpetual conversation, by these

people who clung to him in desperate fondness. And then he was young, he

thought there would be plenty of time to meet again; he was not going to

the other ends of the earth!—The old man knew that he would soon be much

farther than the other ends of the earth, and he looked at Christophe for

all eternity.

 

In spite of hit extreme weariness he took him to the station. A fine cold

rain was falling noiselessly. At the station when he opened his purse

Christophe found that he had not enough money to buy his ticket home. He

knew that Schulz would gladly lead him the money, but he would not ask him

for it…. Why? Why deny those who love you the opportunity—the happiness

of doing you a service?… He would not out of discretion—perhaps out of

vanity. He took a ticket for a station on the way, saying that he would do

the rest of the journey on foot.

 

The time for leaving came. They embraced on the footboard of the carriage.

Schulz slipped the poem he had written during the night into Christophe’s

hand. He stayed on the platform below the compartment. They had nothing

more to say to each other, as usual when good-byes are too long drawn out,

but Schulz’s eyes went on speaking, they never left Christophe’s face until

the train went.

 

The carriage disappeared round a curve. Schulz was left alone. He went back

by the muddy path; he dragged along; suddenly he felt all his weariness,

the cold, the melancholy of the rainy day. He was hardly able to reach home

and to go upstairs again. Hardly had he reached his room than he was seized

with an attack of asthma and coughing. Salome came to his aid. Through his

involuntary groans, he said:

 

“What luck!… What luck that I was prepared for it….” He felt very ill.

He went to bed. Salome fetched the doctor. In bed he became as limp as a

rag. He could not move; only his breast was heaving and panting like a

million billows. His head was heavy and feverish. He spent the whole day in

living through the day before, minute by minute; he tormented himself, and

then was angry with himself for complaining after so much happiness. With

his hands clasped and his heart big with love he thanked God.

 

*

 

Christophe was soothed by his day and restored to confidence in himself by

the affection that he had left behind him,—so he returned home. When he

had gone as far as his ticket would take him he got out blithely and took

to the road on foot. He had sixty kilometers to do. He was in no hurry and

dawdled like a schoolboy. It was April. The country was not very far on.

The leaves were unfolding like little wrinkled hands at the ends of the

Hack branches; the apple trees were in flower, and along the hedges the

frail eglantine smiled. Above the leafless forest, where a soft greenish

down was beginning to appear, on the summit of a little hill, like a trophy

on the end of a lance, there rose an old Romanic castle. Three