Jean-Christophe, vol 1, Romain Rolland [book club recommendations .txt] 📗
- Author: Romain Rolland
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nothing, locking up in his heart his intoxication of love. He had kissed
him. He had held him in his arms! How good he was! How great!
“Ah,” he thought in bed, as he kissed his pillow passionately, “I would die
for him—die for him!”
The brilliant meteor which had flashed across the sky of the little town
that night had a decisive influence on Jean-Christophe’s mind. All his
childhood Hassler was the model on which his eyes were fixed, and to follow
his example the little man of six decided that he also would write music.
To tell the truth, he had been doing so for long enough without knowing it,
and he had not waited to be conscious of composing before he composed.
Everything is music for the born musician. Everything that throbs, or
moves, or stirs, or palpitates—sunlit summer days, nights when the wind
howls, flickering light, the twinkling of the stars, storms, the song of
birds, the buzzing of insects, the murmuring of trees, voices, loved or
loathed, familiar fireside sounds, a creaking door, blood moving in the
veins in the silence of the night—everything that is is music; all that is
needed is that it should be heard. All the music of creation found its echo
in Jean-Christophe. Everything that he saw, everything that he felt, was
translated into music without his being conscious of it. He was like a
buzzing hive of bees. But no one noticed it, himself least of all.
Like all children, he hummed perpetually at every hour of the day. Whatever
he was doing—whether he were walking in the street, hopping on one foot,
or lying on the floor at his grandfather’s, with his head in his hands,
absorbed in the pictures of a book, or sitting in his little chair in the
darkest corner of the kitchen, dreaming aimlessly in the twilight—always
the monotonous murmuring of his little trumpet was to be heard, played with
lips closed and cheeks blown out. His mother seldom paid any heed to it,
but, once in a while, she would protest.
When he was tired of this state of half-sleep he would have to move and
make a noise. Then he made music, singing it at the top of his voice. He
had made tunes for every occasion. He had a tune for splashing in his
wash-basin in the morning, like a little duck. He had a tune for sitting on
the piano-stool in front of the detested instrument, and another for
getting off it, and this was a more brilliant affair than the other. He had
one for his mother putting the soup on the table; he used to go before her
then blowing a blare of trumpets. He played triumphal marches by which to
go solemnly from the dining-room to the bedroom. Sometimes he would
organize little processions with his two small brothers; all then would
file out gravely, one after another, and each had a tune to march to. But,
as was right and proper, Jean-Christophe kept the best for himself. Every
one of his tunes was strictly appropriated to its special occasion, and
Jean-Christophe never by any chance confused them. Anybody else would have
made mistakes, but he knew the shades of difference between them exactly.
One day at his grandfather’s house he was going round the room clicking his
heels, head up and chest out; he went round and round and round, so that it
was a wonder he did not turn sick, and played one of his compositions. The
old man, who was shaving, stopped in the middle of it, and, with his face
covered with lather, came to look at him, and said:
“What are you singing, boy?”
Jean-Christophe said he did not know.
“Sing it again!” said Jean Michel.
Jean-Christophe tried; he could not remember the tune. Proud of having
attracted his grandfather’s attention, he tried to make him admire his
voice, and sang after his own fashion an air from some opera, but that was
not what the old man wanted. Jean Michel said nothing, and seemed not to
notice him any more. But he left the door of his room ajar while the boy
was playing alone in the next room.
A few days later Jean-Christophe, with the chairs arranged about him, was
playing a comedy in music, which he had made up of scraps that he
remembered from the theater, and he was making steps and bows, as he had
seen them done in a minuet, and addressing himself to the portrait of
Beethoven which hung above the table. As he turned with a pirouette he saw
his grandfather watching him through the half-open door. He thought the old
man was laughing at him; he was abashed, and stopped dead; he ran to the
window, and pressed his face against the panes, pretending that he had been
watching something of the greatest interest. But the old man said nothing;
he came to him and kissed him, and Jean-Christophe saw that he was pleased.
His vanity made the most of these signs; he was clever enough to see that
he had been appreciated; but he did not know exactly which his grandfather
had admired most—his talent as a dramatic author, or as a musician, or as
a singer, or as a dancer. He inclined, to the latter, for he prided himself
on this.
A week later, when he had forgotten the whole affair, his grandfather said
mysteriously that he had something to show him. He opened his desk, took
out a music-book, and put it on the rack of the piano, and told the boy to
play. Jean-Christophe was very much interested, and deciphered it fairly
well. The notes were written by hand in the old man’s large handwriting,
and he had taken especial pains with it. The headings were adorned with
scrolls and flourishes. After some moments the old man, who was sitting
beside Jean-Christophe turning the pages for him, asked him what the music
was. Jean-Christophe had been too much absorbed in his playing to notice
what he had played, and said that he did not know it.
“Listen!… You don’t know it?”
Yes; he thought he knew it, but he did not know where he had heard it. The
old man laughed.
“Think.”
Jean-Christophe shook his head.
“I don’t know.”
A light was fast dawning in his mind; it seemed to him that the air….
But, no! He dared not…. He would not recognize it.
“I don’t know, grandfather.”
He blushed.
“What, you little fool, don’t you see that it is your own?”
He was sure of it, but to hear it said made his heart thump.
“Oh! grandfather!…”
Beaming, the old man showed him the book.
“See: Aria. It is what you were singing on Tuesday when you were lying on
the floor. March. That is what I asked you to sing again last week, and
you could not remember it. Minuet. That is what you were dancing by the
armchair. Look!”
On the cover was written in wonderful Gothic letters:
“_The Pleasures of Childhood: Aria, Minuetto, Valse, and Marcia, Op. 1, by
Jean-Christophe Krafft_.”
Jean-Christophe was dazzled by it. To see his name, and that fine title,
and that large book—his work!… He went on murmuring:
“Oh! grandfather! grandfather!…”
The old man drew him to him. Jean-Christophe threw himself on his knees,
and hid his head in Jean Michel’s bosom. He was covered with blushes from
his happiness. The old man was even happier, and went on, in a voice which
he tried to make indifferent, for he felt that he was on the point of
breaking down:
“Of course, I added the accompaniment and the harmony to fit the song. And
then”—he coughed—“and then, I added a trio to the minuet, because …
because it is usual … and then…. I think it is not at all bad.”
He played it. Jean-Christophe was very proud of collaborating with his
grandfather.
“But, grandfather, you must put your name to it too.”
“It is not worth while. It is not worth while others besides yourself
knowing it. Only”—here his voice trembled—“only, later on, when I am no
more, it will remind you of your old grandfather … eh? You won’t forget
him?”
The poor old man did not say that he had been unable to resist the quite
innocent pleasure of introducing one of his own unfortunate airs into his
grandson’s work, which he felt was destined to survive him; but his desire
to share in this imaginary glory was very humble and very touching, since
it was enough for him anonymously to transmit to posterity a scrap of his
own thought, so as not altogether to perish. Jean-Christophe was touched by
it, and covered his face with kisses, and the old man, growing more and
more tender, kissed his hair.
“You will remember me? Later on, when you are a good musician, a great
artist, who will bring honor to his family, to his art, and to his country,
when you are famous, you will remember that it was your old grandfather who
first perceived it, and foretold what you would be?”
There were tears in his eyes as he listened to his own words. He was
reluctant to let such signs of weakness be seen. He had an attack of
coughing, became moody, and sent the boy away hugging the precious
manuscript.
Jean-Christophe went home bewildered by his happiness. The stones danced
about him. The reception he had from his family sobered him a little. When
he blurted out the splendor of his musical exploit they cried out upon him.
His mother laughed at him. Melchior declared that the old man was mad, and
that he would do better to take care of himself than to set about turning
the boy’s head. As for Jean-Christophe, he would oblige by putting such
follies from his mind, and sitting down illico at the piano and playing
exercises for four hours. He must first learn to play properly; and as for
composing, there was plenty of time for that later on when he had nothing
better to do.
Melchior was not, as these words of wisdom might indicate, trying to keep
the boy from the dangerous exaltation of a too early pride. On the
contrary, he proved immediately that this was not so. But never having
himself had any idea to express in music, and never having had the least
need to express an idea, he had come, as a virtuoso, to consider
composing a secondary matter, which was only given value by the art of the
executant. He was not insensible of the tremendous enthusiasm roused by
great composers like Hassler. For such ovations he had the respect which he
always paid to success—mingled, perhaps, with a little secret
jealousy—for it seemed to him that such applause was stolen from him. But
he knew by experience that the successes of the great virtuosi are no
less remarkable, and are more personal in character, and therefore more
fruitful of agreeable and flattering consequences. He affected to pay
profound homage to the genius of the master musicians; but he took a great
delight in telling absurd anecdotes of them, presenting their intelligence
and morals in a lamentable light. He placed the virtuoso at the top of
the artistic ladder, for, he said, it is well known that the tongue is the
noblest member of the body, and what would thought be without words? What
would music be without the executant? But whatever may have been the reason
for the scolding that he gave Jean-Christophe, it
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