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

even then he

would be afraid that the curtain would rise, and they would announce, as

they had done one evening, a change of programme. With lynx eyes he watched

the stand of the contra-bass to see if the title written on his music was

that of the piece announced. And when he had seen it there, two minutes

later he would look again to make quite sure that he had not been wrong.

The conductor was not there. He must be ill. There was a stirring behind

the curtain, and a sound of voices and hurried footsteps. Was there an

accident, some untoward misfortune? Silence again. The conductor was at

his post. Everything seemed ready at last…. They did not begin! What

was happening? He boiled over with impatience. Then the bell rang. His

heart thumped away. The orchestra began the overture, and for a few hours

Jean-Christophe would swim in happiness, troubled only by the idea that it

must soon come to an end.

 

*

 

Some time after that a musical event brought even more excitement into

Jean-Christophe’s thoughts. François Marie Hassler, the author of the

first opera which had so bowled him over, was to visit the town. He was to

conduct a concert consisting of his compositions. The town was excited. The

young musician was the subject of violent discussion in Germany, and for a

fortnight he was the only topic of conversation. It was a different matter

when he arrived. The friends of Melchior and old Jean Michel continually

came for news, and they went away with the most extravagant notions of the

musician’s habits and eccentricities. The child followed these narratives

with eager attention. The idea that the great man was there in the town,

breathing the same air as himself, treading the same stones, threw him into

a state of dumb exaltation. He lived only in the hope of seeing him.

 

Hassler was staying at the Palace as the guest of the Grand Duke. He hardly

went out, except to the theater for rehearsals, to which Jean-Christophe

was not admitted, and as he was very lazy, he went to and fro in

the Prince’s carriage. Therefore, Jean-Christophe did not have many

opportunities of seeing him, and he only succeeded once in catching sight

of him as he drove in the carriage. He saw his fur coat, and wasted hours

in waiting in the street, thrusting and jostling his way to right and left,

and before and behind, to win and keep his place in front of the loungers.

He consoled himself with spending half his days watching the windows of the

Palace which had been pointed out as those of the master. Most often he

only saw the shutters, for Hassler got up late, and the windows were closed

almost all morning. This habit had made well-informed persons say that

Hassler could not bear the light of day, and lived in eternal night.

 

At length Jean-Christophe was able to approach his hero. It was the day of

the concert. All the town was there. The Grand Duke and his Court occupied

the great royal box, surmounted with a crown supported by two chubby

cherubim. The theater was in gala array. The stage was decorated with

branches of oak and flowering laurel. All the musicians of any account made

it a point of honor to take their places in the orchestra. Melchior was at

his post, and Jean Michel was conducting the chorus.

 

When Hassler appeared there was loud applause from every part of the house,

and the ladies rose to see him better. Jean-Christophe devoured him with

his eyes. Hassler had a young, sensitive face, though it was already rather

puffy and tired-looking; his temples were bald, and his hair was thin on

the crown of his head; for the rest, fair, curly hair. His blue eyes looked

vague. He had a little fair mustache and an expressive mouth, which was

rarely still, but twitched with a thousand imperceptible movements. He was

tall, and held himself badly—not from awkwardness, but from weariness or

boredom. He conducted capriciously and lithely, with his whole awkward body

swaying, like his music, with gestures, now caressing, now sharp and jerky.

It was easy to see that he was very nervous, and his music was the exact

reflection of himself. The quivering and jerky life of it broke through the

usual apathy of the orchestra. Jean-Christophe breathed heavily; in spite

of his fear of drawing attention to himself, he could not stand still in

his place; he fidgeted, got up, and the music gave him such violent and

unexpected shocks that he had to move his head, arms, and legs, to the

great discomfort of his neighbors, who warded off his kicks as best they

could. The whole audience was enthusiastic, fascinated by the success,

rather than by the compositions. At the end there was a storm of applause

and cries, in which the trumpets in the orchestra joined, German fashion,

with their triumphant blare in salute of the conqueror, Jean-Christophe

trembled with pride, as though these honors were for himself. He enjoyed

seeing Hassler’s face light up with childish pleasure. The ladies threw

flowers, the men waved their hats, and the audience rushed for the

platform. Every one wanted to shake the master’s hand. Jean-Christophe

saw one enthusiast raise the master’s hand to his lips, another steal a

handkerchief that Hassler had left on the corner of his desk. He wanted

to reach the platform also, although he did not know why, for if at that

moment he had found himself near Hassler, he would have fled at once in

terror and emotion. But he butted with all his force, like a ram, among the

skirts and legs that divided him from Hassler. He was too small; he could

not break through.

 

Fortunately, when the concert was over, his grandfather came and took him

to join in a party to serenade Hassler. It was night, and torches were

lighted. All the musicians of the orchestra were there. They talked only of

the marvelous compositions they had heard. They arrived outside the Palace,

and took up their places without a sound under the master’s windows. They

took on an air of secrecy, although everybody, including Hassler, knew what

was to come. In the silence of the night they began to play certain famous

fragments of Hassler’s compositions. He appeared at the window with the

Prince, and they roared in their honor. Both bowed. A servant came from the

Prince to invite the musicians to enter the Palace. They passed through

great rooms, with frescoes representing naked men with helmets; they were

of a reddish color, and were making gestures of defiance. The sky was

covered with great clouds like sponges. There were also men and women of

marble clad in waist-cloths made of iron. The guests walked on carpets so

thick that their tread was inaudible, and they came at length to a room

which was as light as day, and there were tables laden with drinks and good

things.

 

The Grand Duke was there, but Jean-Christophe did not see him; he had eyes

only for Hassler. Hassler came towards them; he thanked them. He picked his

words carefully, stopped awkwardly in the middle of a sentence, and

extricated himself with a quip which made everybody laugh. They began to

eat. Hassler took four or five musicians aside. He singled out

Jean-Christophe’s grandfather, and addressed very flattering words to him:

he recollected that Jean Michel had been one of the first to perform his

works, and he said that he had often heard tell of his excellence from a

friend of his who had been a pupil of the old man’s. Jean-Christophe’s

grandfather expressed his gratitude profusely; he replied with such

extraordinary eulogy that, in spite of his adoration of Hassler, the boy

was ashamed. But to Hassler they seemed to be pleasant and in the rational

order. Finally, the old man, who had lost himself in his rigmarole, took

Jean-Christophe by the hand, and presented him to Hassler. Hassler smiled

at Jean-Christophe, and carelessly patted his head, and when he learned

that the boy liked his music, and had not slept for several nights in

anticipation of seeing him, he took him in his arms and plied him with

questions. Jean-Christophe, struck, dumb and blushing with pleasure, dared

not look at him. Hassler took him by the chin and lifted his face up.

Jean-Christophe ventured to look. Hassler’s eyes were kind and smiling; he

began to smile too. Then he felt so happy, so wonderfully happy in the

great man’s arms, that he burst into tears. Hassler was touched by this

simple affection, and was more kind than ever. He kissed the boy and talked

to him tenderly. At the same time he said funny things and tickled him to

make him laugh; and Jean-Christophe could not help laughing through his

tears. Soon he became at ease, and answered Hassler readily, and of his own

accord he began to whisper in his ear all his small ambitions, as though he

and Hassler were old friends; he told him how he wanted to be a musician

like Hassler, and, like Hassler, to make beautiful things, and to be a

great man. He, was always ashamed, talked confidently; he did not know what

he was saying; he was in a sort of ecstasy, Hassler smiled at his prattling

and said:

 

“When you are a man, and have become a good musician, you shall come and

see me in Berlin. I shall make something of you.”

 

Jean-Christophe was too delighted to reply.

 

Hassler teased him.

 

“You don’t want to?”

 

Jean-Christophe nodded his head violently five or six times, meaning “Yes.”

 

“It is a bargain, then?”

 

Jean-Christophe nodded again.

 

“Kiss me, then.”

 

Jean-Christophe threw his arms round Hassler’s neck and hugged him with all

his strength.

 

“Oh, you are wetting me! Let go! Your nose wants wiping!”

 

Hassler laughed, and wiped the boy’s nose himself, a little

self-consciously, though he was quite jolly. He put him down, then took him

by the hand and led him to a table, where he filled his pockets with cake,

and left him, saying:

 

“Good-bye! Remember your promise.”

 

Jean-Christophe swam in happiness. The rest of the world had ceased to

exist for him. He could remember nothing of what had happened earlier in

the evening; he followed lovingly Hassler’s every expression and gesture.

One thing that he said struck him. Hassler was holding a glass in his hand;

he was talking, and his face suddenly hardened, and he said:

 

“The joy of such a day must not make us forget our enemies. We must never

forget our enemies. It is not their fault that we are not crushed out of

existence. It will not be our fault if that does not happen to them. That

is why the toast I propose is that there are people whose health … we

will not drink!”

 

Everybody applauded and laughed at this original toast. Hassler had laughed

with the others and his good-humored expression had returned. But

Jean-Christophe was put off by it. Although he did not permit himself to

criticise any action of his hero, it hurt him that he had thought ugly

things, when on such a night there ought to be nothing but brilliant

thoughts and fancies. But he did not examine what he felt, and the

impression that it made was soon driven out by his great joy and the drop

of champagne which he drank out of his grandfather’s glass.

 

On the way back the old man never stopped talking; he was delighted with

the praise that Hassler had given him; he cried out that Hassler was a

genius such as had not been