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

to surrender. In spite of an obstinate and heroic resistance, blows

triumphed over his ill-will. Every morning for three hours, and for three

hours every evening, Jean-Christophe was set before the instrument of

torture. All on edge with attention and weariness, with large tears rolling

down his cheeks and nose, he moved his little red hands over the black and

white keys—his hands were often stiff with cold—under the threatening

ruler, which descended at every false note, and the harangues of his

master, which were more odious to him than the blows. He thought that he

hated music. And yet he applied himself to it with a zest which fear of

Melchior did not altogether explain. Certain words of his grandfather had

made an impression on him. The old man, seeing his grandson weeping, had

told him, with that gravity which he always maintained for the boy, that it

was worth while suffering a little for the most beautiful and noble art

given to men for their consolation and glory. And Jean-Christophe, who was

grateful to his grandfather for talking to him like a man, had been

secretly touched by these simple words, which sorted well with his childish

stoicism and growing pride. But, more than by argument, he was bound and

enslaved by the memory of certain musical emotions, bound and enslaved to

the detested art, against which he tried in vain to rebel.

 

There was in the town, as usual in Germany, a theater, where opera,

opéra-comique, operetta, drama, comedy, and vaudeville are presented—every

sort of play of every style and fashion. There were performances three

times a week from six to nine in the evening. Old Jean Michel never missed

one, and was equally interested in everything. Once he took his grandson

with him. Several days beforehand he told him at length what the piece was

about. Jean-Christophe did not understand it, but he did gather that there

would be terrible things in it, and while he was consumed with the desire

to see them he was much afraid, though he dared not confess it. He knew

that there was to be a storm, and he was fearful of being struck by

lightning. He knew that there was to be a battle, and he was not at all

sure that he would not be killed. On the night before, in bed, he went

through real agony, and on the day of the performance he almost wished that

his grandfather might be prevented from coming for him. But when the hour

was near, and his grandfather did not come, he began to worry, and every

other minute looked out of the window. At last the old man appeared, and

they set out together. His heart leaped in his bosom; his tongue was dry,

and he could not speak.

 

They arrived at the mysterious building which was so often talked about at

home. At the door Jean Michel met some acquaintances, and the boy, who was

holding his hand tight because he was afraid of being lost, could not

understand how they could talk and laugh quietly at such a moment.

 

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