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

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.

 

“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