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

the way! If only he does

not fall into one of the cunning traps which To-day is forever laying for

him!

 

So he steers his bark across the sea of days, turning his eyes neither to

right nor left, motionless at the helm, with his gaze fixed on the bourne,

the refuge, the end that he has in sight. In the orchestra, among the

talkative musicians, at table with his own family, at the Palace, while he

is playing without a thought of what he is playing, for the entertainment

of Royal folk—it is in that future, that future which a speck may bring

toppling to earth—no matter, it is in that that he lives.

 

*

 

He is at his old piano, in his garret, alone. Night falls. The dying light

of day is cast upon his music. He strains his eyes to read the notes until

the last ray of light is dead. The tenderness of hearts that are dead

breathed forth from the dumb page fills him with love. His eyes are filled

with tears. It seems to him that a beloved creature is standing behind him,

that soft breathing caresses his cheek, that two arms are about his neck.

He turns, trembling. He feels, he knows, that he is not alone. A soul that

loves and is loved is there, near him. He groans aloud because he cannot

perceive it, and yet that shadow of bitterness falling upon his ecstasy

has sweetness, too. Even sadness has its light. He thinks of his beloved

masters, of the genius that is gone, though its soul lives on in the music

which it had lived in its life. His heart is overflowing with love; he

dreams of the superhuman happiness which must have been the lot of these

glorious men, since the reflection only of their happiness is still so much

aflame. He dreams of being like them, of giving out such love as this, with

lost rays to lighten his misery with a godlike smile. In his turn to be a

god, to give out the warmth of joy, to be a sun of life!…

 

Alas! if one day he does become the equal of those whom he loves, if he

does achieve that brilliant happiness for which he longs, he will see the

illusion that was upon him….

II OTTO

One Sunday when Jean-Christophe had been invited by his Musik Direktor

to dine at the little country house which Tobias Pfeiffer owned an hour’s

journey from the town, he took the Rhine steamboat. On deck he sat next to

a boy about his own age, who eagerly made room for him. Jean-Christophe

paid no attention, but after a moment, feeling that his neighbor had never

taken his eyes off him, he turned and looked at him. He was a fair boy,

with round pink cheeks, with his hair parted on one side, and a shade of

down on his lip. He looked frankly what he was—a hobbledehoy—though he

made great efforts to seem grown up. He was dressed with ostentatious

care—flannel suit, light gloves, white shoes, and a pale blue tie—and he

carried a little stick in his hand. He looked at Jean-Christophe out of

the corner of his eye without turning his head, with his neck stiff, like

a hen; and when Jean-Christophe looked at him he blushed up to his ears,

took a newspaper from his pocket, and pretended to be absorbed in it, and

to look important over it. But a few minutes later he dashed to pick up

Jean-Christophe’s hat, which had fallen. Jean-Christophe, surprised at

such politeness, looked once more at the boy, and once more he blushed.

Jean-Christophe thanked him curtly, for he did not like such obsequious

eagerness, and he hated to be fussed with. All the same, he was flattered

by it.

 

Soon it passed from his thoughts; his attention was occupied by the view.

It was long since he had been able to escape from the town, and so he had

keen pleasure in the wind that beat against his face, in the sound of the

water against the boat, in the great stretch of water and the changing

spectacle presented by the banks—bluffs gray and dull, willow-trees half

under water, pale vines, legendary rocks, towns crowned with Gothic towers

and factory chimneys belching black smoke. And as he was in ecstasy over it

all, his neighbor in a choking voice timidly imparted a few historic facts

concerning the ruins that they saw, cleverly restored and covered with ivy.

He seemed to be lecturing to himself. Jean-Christophe, roused to interest,

plied him with questions. The other replied eagerly, glad to display his

knowledge, and with every sentence he addressed himself directly to

Jean-Christophe, calling him “Herr Hof Violinist.”

 

“You know me, then?” said Jean-Christophe.

 

“Oh yes,” said the boy, with a simple admiration that tickled

Jean-Christophe’s vanity.

 

They talked. The boy had often seen Jean-Christophe at concerts, and his

imagination had been touched by everything that he had heard about him. He

did not say so to Jean-Christophe, but Jean-Christophe felt it, and was

pleasantly surprised by it. He was not used to being spoken to in this tone

of eager respect. He went on questioning his neighbor about the history

of the country through which they were passing. The other set out all the

knowledge that he had, and Jean-Christophe admired his learning. But that

was only the peg on which their conversation hung. What interested them was

the making of each other’s acquaintance. They dared not frankly approach

the subject; they returned to it again and again with awkward questions.

Finally they plunged, and Jean-Christophe learned that his new friend was

called Otto Diener, and was the son of a rich merchant in the town. It

appeared, naturally, that they had friends in common, and little by little

their tongues were loosed. They were talking eagerly when the boat arrived

at the town at which Jean-Christophe was to get out. Otto got out, too.

That surprised them, and Jean-Christophe proposed that they should take

a walk together until dinner-time. They struck out across the fields.

Jean-Christophe had taken Otto’s arm familiarly, and was telling him his

plans as if he had known him from his birth. He had been so much deprived

of the society of children of his own age that he found an inexpressible

joy in being with this boy, so learned and well brought up, who was in

sympathy with him.

 

Time passed, and Jean-Christophe took no count of it. Diener, proud of the

confidence which the young musician showed him, dared not point out that

the dinner-hour had rung. At last he thought that he must remind him of

it, but Jean-Christophe, who had begun the ascent of a hill in the woods,

declared that they most go to the top, and when they reached it he lay down

on the grass as though he meant to spend the day there. After a quarter

of an hour Diener, seeing that he seemed to have no intention of moving,

hazarded again:

 

“And your dinner?”

 

Jean-Christophe, lying at full length, with his hands behind his head, said

quietly:

 

“Tssh!”

 

Then he looked at Otto, saw his scared look, and began to laugh.

 

“It is too good here,” he explained. “I shan’t go. Let them wait for me!”

 

He half rose.

 

“Are you in a hurry? No? Do you know what we’ll do? We’ll dine together. I

know of an inn.”

 

Diener would have had many objections to make—not that any one was waiting

for him, but because it was hard for him to come to any sudden decision,

whatever it might be. He was methodical, and needed to be prepared

beforehand. But Jean-Christophe’s question was put in such a tone as

allowed of no refusal. He let himself be dragged off, and they began to

talk again.

 

At the inn their eagerness died down. Both were occupied with the question

as to who should give the dinner, and each within himself made it a point

of honor to give it—Diener because he was the richer, Jean-Christophe

because he was the poorer. They made no direct reference to the matter,

but Diener made great efforts to assert his right by the tone of authority

which he tried to take as he asked for the menu. Jean-Christophe understood

what he was at and turned the tables on him by ordering other dishes of a

rare kind. He wanted to show that he was as much at his ease as anybody,

and when Diener tried again by endeavoring to take upon himself the choice

of wine, Jean-Christophe crushed him with a look, and ordered a bottle of

one of the most expensive vintages they had in the inn.

 

When they found themselves seated before a considerable repast, they were

abashed by it. They could find nothing to say, ate mincingly, and were

awkward and constrained in their movements. They became conscious suddenly

that they were strangers, and they watched each other. They made vain

efforts to revive the conversation; it dropped immediately. Their first

half-hour was a time of fearful boredom. Fortunately, the meat and drink

soon had an effect on them, and they looked at each other more confidently.

Jean-Christophe especially, who was not used to such good things, became

extraordinarily loquacious. He told of the difficulties of his life, and

Otto, breaking through his reserve, confessed that he also was not happy.

He was weak and timid, and his schoolfellows put upon him. They laughed

at him, and could not forgive him for despising their vulgar manners.

They played all sorts of tricks on him. Jean-Christophe clenched his

fists, and said they had better not try it in his presence. Otto also was

misunderstood by his family. Jean-Christophe knew the unhappiness of that,

and they commiserated each other on their common misfortunes. Diener’s

parents wanted him to become a merchant, and to step into his father’s

place, but he wanted to be a poet. He would be a poet, even though he had

to fly the town, like Schiller, and brave poverty! (His father’s fortune

would all come to him, and it was considerable.) He confessed blushingly

that he had already written verses on the sadness of life, but he could not

bring himself to recite them, in spite of Jean-Christophe’s entreaties.

But in the end he did give two or three of them, dithering with emotion.

Jean-Christophe thought them admirable. They exchanged plans. Later on they

would work together; they would write dramas and song-cycles. They admired

each other. Besides his reputation as a musician, Jean-Christophe’s

strength and bold ways made an impression on Otto, and Jean-Christophe was

sensible of Otto’s elegance and distinguished manners—everything in this

world is relative—and of his ease of manner—that ease of manner which he

looked and longed for.

 

Made drowsy by their meal, with their elbows on the table, they talked and

listened to each other with softness in their eyes. The afternoon drew

on; they had to go. Otto made a last attempt to procure the bill, but

Jean-Christophe nailed him to his seat with an angry look which made it

impossible for him to insist. Jean-Christophe was only uneasy on one

point—that he might be asked for more than he had. He would have given his

watch and everything that he had about him rather than admit it to Otto.

But he was not called on to go so far. He had to spend on the dinner almost

the whole of his month’s money.

 

They went down the hill again. The shades of evening were beginning to fall

over the pine-woods. Their tops were still bathed in rosy light; they swung

slowly with a surging sound.