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

The carpet of purple pine-needles deadened the

sound of their footsteps. They said no word. Jean-Christophe felt a strange

sweet sadness welling through his heart. He was happy; he wished to talk,

but was weighed down with his sweet sorrow. He stopped for a moment, and

so did Otto. All was silence. Flies buzzed high above them in a ray of

sunlight; a rotten branch fell. Jean-Christophe took Otto’s hand, and in a

trembling voice said:

 

“Will you be my friend?”

 

Otto murmured:

 

“Yes.”

 

They shook hands; their hearts beat; they dared hardly look at each other.

 

After a moment they walked on. They were a few paces away from each other,

and they dared say no more until they were out of the woods. They were

fearful of each other, and of their strange emotion. They walked very fast,

and never stopped until they had issued from the shadow of the trees; then

they took courage again, and joined hands. They marveled at the limpid

evening falling, and they talked disconnectedly.

 

On the boat, sitting at the bows in the brilliant twilight, they tried to

talk of trivial matters, but they gave no heed to what they were saying.

They were lost in their own happiness and weariness. They felt no need to

talk, or to hold hands, or even to look at each other; they were near each

other.

 

When they were near their journey’s end they agreed to meet again on the

following Sunday, Jean-Christophe took Otto to his door. Under the light

of the gas they timidly smiled and murmured au revoir. They were glad to

part, so wearied were they by the tension at which they had been living for

those hours and by the pain it cost them to break the silence with a single

word.

 

Jean-Christophe returned alone in the night. His heart was singing: “I have

a friend! I have a friend!” He saw nothing, he heard nothing, he thought of

nothing else.

 

He was very sleepy, and fell asleep as soon as he reached his room; but he

was awakened twice or thrice during the night, as by some fixed idea. He

repeated, “I have a friend,” and went to sleep again at once.

 

Next morning it seemed to be all a dream. To test the reality of it, he

tried to recall the smallest details of the day. He was absorbed by this

occupation while he was giving his lessons, and even during the afternoon

he was so absent during the orchestra rehearsal that when he left he could

hardly remember what he had been playing.

 

When he returned home he found a letter waiting for him. He had no need to

ask himself whence it came. He ran and shut himself up in his room to read

it. It was written on pale blue paper in a labored, long, uncertain hand,

with very correct flourishes:

 

DEAR HERR JEAN-CHRISTOPHE—dare I say HONORED FRIEND?—

 

I am thinking much of our doings yesterday, and I do thank you tremendously

for your kindness to me. I am so grateful for all that you have done, and

for your kind words, and the delightful walk and the excellent dinner! I am

only worried that you should have spent so much money on it. What a lovely

day! Do you not think there was something providential in that strange

meeting? It seems to me that it was Fate decreed that we should meet. How

glad I shall be to see you again on Sunday! I hope you will not have had

too much unpleasantness for having missed the Hof Musik Direktor’s

dinner. I should be so sorry if you had any trouble because of me.

 

Dear Herr Jean-Christophe, I am always

 

Your very devoted servant and friend,

 

OTTO DIENER.

 

P.S.—On Sunday please do not call for me at home. It would be better, if

you will, for us to meet at the Schloss Garten.

 

Jean-Christophe read the letter with tears in his eyes. He kissed it; he

laughed aloud; he jumped about on his bed. Then he ran to the table and

took pen in hand to reply at once. He could not wait a moment. But he was

not used to writing. He could not express what was swelling in his heart;

he dug into the paper with his pen, and blackened his fingers with ink; he

stamped impatiently. At last, by dint of putting out his tongue and making

five or six drafts, he succeeded in writing in malformed letters, which

flew out in all directions, and with terrific mistakes in spelling:

 

“MY SOUL,—

 

“How dare you speak of gratitude, because I love you? Have I not told you

how sad I was and lonely before I knew you? Your friendship is the greatest

of blessings. Yesterday I was happy, happy!—for the first time in my life.

I weep for joy as I read your letter. Yes, my beloved, there is no doubt

that it was Fate brought us together. Fate wishes that we should be friends

to do great things. Friends! The lovely word! Can it be that at last I have

a friend? Oh! you will never leave me? You will be faithful to me? Always!

always!… How beautiful it will be to grow up together, to work together,

to bring together—I my musical whimsies, and all the crazy things that go

chasing through my mind; you your intelligence and amazing learning! How

much you know! I have never met a man so clever as you. There are moments

when I am uneasy. I seem to be unworthy of your friendship. You are so

noble and so accomplished, and I am so grateful to you for loving so coarse

a creature as myself!… But no! I have just said, let there be no talk of

gratitude. In friendship there is no obligation nor benefaction. I would

not accept any benefaction! We are equal, since we love. How impatient

I am to see you! I will not call for you at home, since you do not

wish it—although, to tell the truth, I do not understand all these

precautions—but you are the wiser; you are surely right….

 

“One word only! No more talk of money. I hate money—the word and the thing

itself. If I am not rich, I am yet rich enough to give to my friend, and it

is my joy to give all I can for him. Would not you do the same? And if I

needed it, would you not be the first to give me all your fortune? But that

shall never be! I have sound fists and a sound head, and I shall always be

able to earn the bread that I eat. Till Sunday! Dear God, a whole week

without seeing you! And for two days I have not seen you! How have I been

able to live so long without you?

 

“The conductor tried to grumble, but do not bother about it any more than I

do. What are others to me? I care nothing what they think or what they may

ever think of me. Only you matter. Love me well, my soul; love me as I love

you! I cannot tell you how much I love you. I am yours, yours, yours, from

the tips of my fingers to the apple of my eye.

 

“Yours always,

 

“JEAN-CHRISTOPHE.”

 

Jean-Christophe was devoured with impatience for the rest of the week. He

would go out of his way, and make long turns to pass by Otto’s house. Not

that he counted on seeing him, but the sight of the house was enough to

make him grow pale and red with emotion. On the Thursday he could bear it

no longer, and sent a second letter even more high-flown than the first.

Otto answered it sentimentally.

 

Sunday came at length, and Otto was punctually at the meeting-place. But

Jean-Christophe had been there for an hour, waiting impatiently for the

walk. He began to imagine dreadfully that Otto would not come. He trembled

lest Otto should be ill, for he did not suppose for a moment that Otto

might break his word. He whispered over and over again, “Dear God, let him

come—let him come!” and he struck at the pebbles in the avenue with his

stick, saying to himself that if he missed three times Otto would not come,

but if he hit them Otto would appear at once. In spite of his care and

the easiness of the test, he had just missed three times when he saw Otto

coming at his easy, deliberate pace; for Otto was above all things correct,

even when he was most moved. Jean-Christophe ran to him, and with his

throat dry wished him “Good-day!” Otto replied, “Good-day!” and they found

that they had nothing more to say to each other, except that the weather

was fine and that it was five or six minutes past ten, or it might be ten

past, because the castle clock was always slow.

 

They went to the station, and went by rail to a neighboring place which was

a favorite excursion from the town. On the way they exchanged not more than

ten words. They tried to make up for it by eloquent looks, but they were

no more successful. In vain did they try to tell each other what friends

they were; their eyes would say nothing at all. They were just playacting.

Jean-Christophe saw that, and was humiliated. He did not understand how

he could not express or even feel all that had filled his heart an hour

before. Otto did not, perhaps, so exactly take stock of their failure,

because he was less sincere, and examined himself with more circumspection,

but he was just as disappointed. The truth is that the boys had, during

their week of separation, blown out their feelings to such a diapason that

it was impossible for them to keep them actually at that pitch, and when

they met again their first impression must of necessity be false. They had

to break away from it, but they could not bring themselves to agree to it.

 

All day they wandered in the country without ever breaking through the

awkwardness and constraint that were upon them. It was a holiday. The inns

and woods were filled with a rabble of excursionists—little bourgeois

families who made a great noise and ate everywhere. That added to their

ill-humor. They attributed to the poor people the impossibility of again

finding the carelessness of their first walk. But they talked, they

took great pains to find subjects of conversation; they were afraid of

finding that they had nothing to say to each other. Otto displayed his

school-learning; Jean-Christophe entered into technical explanations of

musical compositions and violin-playing. They oppressed each other; they

crushed each other by talking; and they never stopped talking, trembling

lest they should, for then there opened before them abysses of silence

which horrified them. Otto came near to weeping, and Jean-Christophe was

near leaving him and running away as hard as he could, he was so bored and

ashamed.

 

Only an hour before they had to take the train again did they thaw. In the

depths of the woods a dog was barking; he was hunting on his own account.

Jean-Christophe proposed that they should hide by his path to try and see

his quarry. They ran into the midst of the thicket. The dog came near them,

and then went away again. They went to right and left, went forward and

doubled. The barking grew louder: the dog was choking with impatience in

his lust for slaughter. He came near once more. Jean-Christophe and Otto,

lying on the dead leaves in the rut of