Jean-Christophe, vol 1, Romain Rolland [book club recommendations .txt] 📗

put him on show like a trick

animal that he was so badgered and forced every day to move bits of ivory!

He was not even given time to go and see his beloved river. What was it

made them so set against him? He was angry, hurt in his pride, robbed of

his liberty. He decided that he would play no more, or as badly as

possible, and would discourage his father. It would be hard, but at all

costs he must keep his independence.

 

The very next lesson he began to put his plan into execution. He set

himself conscientiously to hit the notes awry, or to bungle every touch.

Melchior cried out, then roared, and blows began to rain. He had a heavy

ruler. At every false note he struck the boy’s fingers, and at the same

time shouted in his ears, so that he was like to deafen him.

Jean-Christophe’s face twitched tinder the pain of it; he bit his lips to

keep himself from crying, and stoically went on hitting the notes all

wrong, bobbing his head down whenever he felt a blow coming. But his system

was not good, and it was not long before he began to see that it was so.

Melchior was as obstinate as his son, and he swore that even if they were

to stay there two days and two nights he would not let him off a single

note until it had been properly played. Then Jean-Christophe tried too

deliberately to play wrongly, and Melchior began to suspect the trick, as

he saw that the boy’s hand fell heavily to one side at every note with

obvious intent. The blows became more frequent; Jean-Christophe was no

longer conscious of his fingers. He wept pitifully and silently, sniffing,

and swallowing down his sobs and tears. He understood that he had nothing

to gain by going on like that, and that he would have to resort to

desperate measures. He stopped, and, trembling at the thought of the storm

which was about to let loose, he said valiantly:

 

“Papa, I won’t play any more.”

 

Melchior choked.

 

“What! What!…” he cried.

 

He took and almost broke the boy’s arm with shaking it. Jean-Christophe,

trembling more and more, and raising his elbow to ward off the blows, said

again:

 

“I won’t play any more. First, because I don’t like being beaten. And

then….”

 

He could not finish. A terrific blow knocked the wind out of him, and

Melchior roared:

 

“Ah! you don’t like being beaten? You don’t like it?…”

 

Blows rained. Jean-Christophe bawled through his sobs:

 

“And then … I don’t like music!… I don’t like music!…”

 

He slipped down from his chair. Melchior roughly put him back, and knocked

his knuckles against the keyboard. He cried:

 

“You shall play!”

 

And Jean-Christophe shouted:

 

“No! No! I won’t play!”

 

Melchior had to surrender. He thrashed the boy, thrust him from the room,

and said that he should have nothing to eat all day, or the whole month,

until he had played all his exercises without a mistake. He kicked him out

and slammed the door after him,

 

Jean-Christophe found himself on the stairs, the dark and dirty stairs,

worm-eaten. A draught came through a broken pane in the skylight, and the

walls were dripping. Jean-Christophe sat on one of the greasy steps; his

heart was beating wildly with anger and emotion. In a low voice he cursed

his father:

 

“Beast! That’s what you are! A beast … a gross creature … a brute! Yes,

a brute!… and I hate you, I hate you!… Oh, I wish you were dead! I wish

you were dead!”

 

His bosom swelled. He looked desperately at the sticky staircase and the

spider’s web swinging in the wind above the broken pane. He felt alone,

lost in his misery. He looked at the gap in the banisters…. What if he

were to throw himself down?… or out of the window?… Yes, what if he

were to kill himself to punish them? How remorseful they would be! He heard

the noise of his fall from the stairs. The door upstairs opened suddenly.

Agonized voices cried: “He has fallen!—He has fallen!” Footsteps clattered

downstairs. His father and mother threw themselves weeping upon his body.

His mother sobbed: “It is your fault! You have killed him!” His father

waved his arms, threw himself on his knees, beat his head against the

banisters, and cried: “What a wretch am I! What a wretch am I!” The sight

of all this softened his misery. He was on the point of taking pity on

their grief; but then he thought that it was well for them, Had he enjoyed

his revenge….

 

When his story was ended, he found himself once more at the top of the

stairs in the dark; he looked down once more, and his desire to throw

himself down was gone. He even, shuddered a little, and moved away from the

edge, thinking that he might fall. Then he felt that he was a prisoner,

like a poor bird in a cage—a prisoner forever, with nothing to do but to

break his head and hurt himself. He wept, wept, and he robbed his eyes with

his dirty little hands, so that in a moment he was filthy. As he wept he

never left off looking at the things about him, and he found some

distraction in that. He stopped moaning for a moment to look at the spider

which, had just begun to move. Then he began with less conviction. He

listened to the sound of his own weeping, and went on, mechanically with

his sobbing, without much knowing why he did so. Soon he got up; he was

attracted by the window. He sat on the window-sill, retiring into the

background, and watched the spider furtively. It interested while it

revolted him.

 

Below the Rhine flowed, washing the walls of the house. In the staircase

window it was like being suspended over the river in a moving sky.

Jean-Christophe never limped down the stairs without taking a long look at

it, but he had never yet seen it as it was to-day. Grief sharpens the

senses; it is as though everything were more sharply graven on the vision

after tears have washed away the dim traces of memory. The river was like

a living thing to the child—a creature inexplicable, but how much more

powerful than all the creatures that he knew! Jean-Christophe leaned

forward to see it better; he pressed his mouth and flattened his nose

against the pane. Where was it going? What did it want? It looked

free, and sure of its road…. Nothing could stop it. At all hours of the

day or night, rain or sun, whether there were joy or sorrow in the house,

it went on going by, and it was as though nothing mattered to it, as

though it never knew sorrow, and rejoiced in its strength. What joy to

be like it, to run through the fields, and by willow-branches, and over

little shining pebbles and crisping sand, and to care for nothing, to be

cramped by nothing, to be free!…

 

The boy looked and listened greedily; it was as though he were borne

along by the river, moving by with it…. When he closed his eyes he

saw color—blue, green, yellow, red, and great chasing shadows and

sunbeams…. What he sees takes shape. Now it is a large plain, reeds, corn

waving under a breeze scented with new grass and mint. Flowers on every

side—cornflowers, poppies, violets. How lovely it is! How sweet the air!

How good it is to lie down in the thick, soft grass!… Jean-Christophe

feels glad and a little bewildered, as he does when on feast-days his

father pours into his glass a little Rhine wine…. The river goes by….

The country is changed…. Now there are trees leaning over the water;

their delicate leaves, like little hands, dip, move, and turn about in

the water. A village among the trees is mirrored in the river. There are

cypress-trees, and the crosses of the cemetery showing above the white wall

washed by the stream. Then there are rocks, a mountain gorge, vines on the

slopes, a little pine-wood, and ruined castles…. And once more the plain,

corn, birds, and the sun….

 

The great green mass of the river goes by smoothly, like a single

thought; there are no waves, almost no ripples—smooth, oily patches.

Jean-Christophe does not see it; he has closed his eyes to hear it better.

The ceaseless roaring fills him, makes him giddy; he is exalted by this

eternal, masterful dream which goes no man knows whither. Over the turmoil

of its depths rush waters, in swift rhythm, eagerly, ardently. And from the

rhythm ascends music, like a vine climbing a trellis—arpeggios from silver

keys, sorrowful violins, velvety and smooth-sounding flutes…. The country

has disappeared. The river has disappeared. There floats by only a strange,

soft, and twilight atmosphere. Jean-Christophe’s heart flutters with

emotion. What does he see now? Oh! Charming faces!… A little girl with

brown tresses calls to him, slowly, softly, and mockingly…. A pale

boy’s face looks at him with melancholy blue eyes…. Others smile; other

eyes look at him—curious and provoking eyes, and their glances make

him blush—eyes affectionate and mournful, like the eyes of a dog—eyes

imperious, eyes suffering…. And the pale face of a woman, with black

hair, and lips close pressed, and eyes so large that they obscure her other

features, and they gaze upon Jean-Christophe with an ardor that hurts

him…. And, dearest of all, that face which smiles upon him with clear

gray eyes and lips a little open, showing gleaming white teeth…. Ah! how

kind and tender is that smile! All his heart is tenderness from it! How

good it is to love! Again! Smile upon me again! Do not go!… Alas! it is

gone!… But it leaves in his heart sweetness ineffable. Evil, sorrow,

are no more; nothing is left…. Nothing, only an airy dream, like serene

music, floating down a sunbeam, like the gossamers on fine summer days….

What has happened? What are these visions that fill the child with sadness

and sweet sorrow? Never had he seen them before, and yet he knew them and

recognized them. Whence come they? From what obscure abysm of creation? Are

they what has been … or what will be?…

 

Now all is done, every haunting form is gone. Once more through a misty

veil, as though he were soaring high above it, the river in flood appears,

covering the fields, and rolling by, majestic, slow, almost still. And far,

far away, like a steely light upon the horizon, a watery plain, a line of

trembling waves—the sea. The river runs down to it. The sea seems to run

up to the river. She fires him. He desires her. He must lose himself in

her…. The music hovers; lovely dance rhythms swing out madly; all the

world is rocked in their triumphant whirligig…. The soul, set free,

cleaves space, like swallows’ flight, like swallows drunk with the air,

skimming across the sky with shrill cries…. Joy! Joy! There is nothing,

nothing!… Oh, infinite happiness!…

 

Hours passed; it was evening; the staircase was in darkness. Drops of rain

made rings upon the river’s gown, and the current bore them dancing away.

Sometimes the branch of a tree or pieces of black bark passed noiselessly

and disappeared. The murderous spider had withdrawn to her darkest corner.

And little Jean-Christophe was still leaning forward on the window-sill.

His face was pale and dirty; happiness shone in him. He was asleep.

III

E la faccia del sol nascere ombrata.

Purgatorio, xxx.

 

He had