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

class="calibre1">“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

goodnight, 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.

 

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