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

for the piano. The chair was too high for him to sit down

without his father’s help, and in his distress, instead of waiting, he

climbed up on to it on his knees. That increased the merriment of the

audience, but now Jean-Christophe was safe. Sitting at his instrument, he

was afraid of no one.

 

Melchior came at last. He gained by the good-humor of the audience, who

welcomed him with warm applause. The sonata began. The boy played it with

imperturbable certainty, with his lips pressed tight in concentration, his

eyes fixed on the keys, his little legs hanging down from the chair. He

became more at ease as the notes rolled out; he was among friends that he

knew. A murmur of approbation reached him, and waves of pride and

satisfaction surged through him as he thought that all these people were

silent to listen to him and to admire him. But hardly had he finished when

fear overcame him again, and the applause which greeted him gave him more

shame than pleasure. His shame increased when Melchior took him by the

hand, and advanced with him to the edge of the platform, and made him bow

to the public. He obeyed, and bowed very low, with a funny awkwardness; but

he was humiliated, and blushed for what he had done, as though it were a

thing ridiculous and ugly.

 

He had to sit at the piano again, and he played the _Pleasures of

Childhood_. Then the audience was enraptured. After each piece they shouted

enthusiastically. They wanted him to begin again, and he was proud of his

success and at the same time almost hurt by such applause, which was also a

command. At the end the whole audience rose to acclaim him; the Grand Duke

led the applause. But as Jean-Christophe was now alone on the platform he

dared not budge from his seat. The applause redoubled. He bent his head

lower and lower, blushing and hang-dog in expression, and he looked

steadily away from the audience. Melchior came. He took him in his arms,

and told him to blow kisses. He pointed out to him the Grand Duke’s box.

Jean-Christophe turned a deaf ear. Melchior took his arm, and threatened

him in a low voice. Then he did as he was told passively, but he did not

look at anybody, he did not raise his eyes, but went on turning his head

away, and he was unhappy. He was suffering; how, he did not know. His

vanity was suffering. He did not like the people who were there at all. It

was no use their applauding; he could not forgive them for having laughed

and for being amused by his humiliation; he could not forgive them for

having seen him in such a ridiculous position—held in mid-air to blow

kisses. He disliked them even for applauding, and when Melchior did at last

put him down, he ran away to the wings. A lady threw a bunch of violets up

at him as he went. It brushed his face. He was panic-stricken and ran as

fast as he could, turning over a chair that was in his way. The faster he

ran the more they laughed, and the more they laughed the faster he ran.

 

At last he reached the exit, which was filled with people looking at him.

He forced his way through, butting, and ran and hid himself at the back of

the anteroom. His grandfather was in high feather, and covered him with

blessings. The musicians of the orchestra shouted with laughter, and

congratulated the boy, who refused to look at them or to shake hands with

them. Melchior listened intently, gaging the applause, which had not yet

ceased, and wanted to take Jean-Christophe on to the stage again. But the

boy refused angrily, clung to his grandfather’s coat-tails, and kicked at

everybody who came near him. At last he burst into tears, and they had to

let him be.

 

Just at this moment an officer came to say that the Grand Duke wished the

artists to go to his box. How could the child be presented in such a state?

Melchior swore angrily, and his wrath only had the effect of making

Jean-Christophe’s tears flow faster. To stop them, his grandfather promised

him a pound of chocolates if he would not cry any more, and

Jean-Christophe, who was greedy, stopped dead, swallowed down his tears,

and let them carry him off; but they had to swear at first most solemnly

that they would not take him on to the platform again.

 

In the anteroom of the Grand Ducal box he was presented to a gentleman in a

dress-coat, with a face like a pug-dog, bristling mustaches, and a short,

pointed beard—a little red-faced man, inclined to stoutness, who addressed

him with bantering familiarity, and called him “Mozart redivivus!” This

was the Grand Duke. Then, he was presented in turn to the Grand Duchess and

her daughter, and their suite. But as he did not dare raise his eyes, the

only thing he could remember of this brilliant company was a series of

gowns and uniforms from, the waist down to the feet. He sat on the lap of

the young Princess, and dared not move or breathe. She asked him questions,

which Melchior answered in an obsequious voice with formal replies,

respectful and servile; but she did not listen to Melchior, and went on

teasing the child. He grew redder and redder, and, thinking that everybody

must have noticed it, he thought he must explain it away and said with a

long sigh:

 

“My face is red. I am hot.”

 

That made the girl shout with laughter. But Jean-Christophe did not mind it

in her, as he had in his audience just before, for her laughter was

pleasant, and she kissed him, and he did not dislike that.

 

Then he saw his grandfather in the passage at the door of the box, beaming

and bashful. The old man was fain to show himself, and also to say a few

words, but he dared not, because no one had spoken to him. He was enjoying

his grandson’s glory at a distance. Jean-Christophe became tender, and felt

an irresistible impulse to procure justice also for the old man, so that

they should know his worth. His tongue was loosed, and he reached up to the

ear of his new friend and whispered to her:

 

“I will tell you a secret.”

 

She laughed, and said:

 

“What?”

 

“You know,” he went on—“you know the pretty trio in my minuetto, the

minuetto I played?… You know it?…” (He hummed it gently.) “… Well,

grandfather wrote it, not I. All the other airs are mine. But that is the

best. Grandfather wrote it. Grandfather did not want me to say anything.

You won’t tell anybody?…” (He pointed out the old man.) “That is my

grandfather. I love him; he is very kind to me.”

 

At that the young Princess laughed again, said that he was a darling,

covered him with kisses, and, to the consternation of Jean-Christophe and

his grandfather, told everybody. Everybody laughed then, and the Grand Duke

congratulated the old man, who was covered with confusion, tried in vain to

explain himself, and stammered like a guilty criminal. But Jean-Christophe

said not another word to the girl, and in spite of her wheedling he

remained dumb and stiff. He despised her for having broken her promise. His

idea of princes suffered considerably from this disloyalty. He was so angry

about it that he did not hear anything that was said, or that the Prince

had appointed him laughingly his pianist in ordinary, his Hof Musicus.

 

He went out with his relatives, and found himself surrounded in

the corridors of the theater, and even in the street, with people

congratulating him or kissing him. That displeased him greatly, for he did

not like being kissed, and did not like people meddling with him without

asking his permission.

 

At last they reached home, and then hardly was the door closed than

Melchior began to call him a “little idiot” because he had said that the

trio was not his own. As the boy was under the impression that he had

done a fine thing, which deserved praise, and not blame, he rebelled, and

was impertinent. Melchior lost his temper, and said that he would box his

ears, although he had played his music well enough, because with his idiocy

he had spoiled the whole effect of the concert. Jean-Christophe had a

profound sense of justice. He went and sulked in a corner; he visited his

contempt upon his father, the Princess, and the whole world. He was hurt

also because the neighbors came and congratulated his parents and laughed

with them, as if it were they who had played, and as if it were their

affair.

 

At this moment a servant of the Court came with a beautiful gold watch from

the Grand Duke and a box of lovely sweets from the young Princess. Both

presents gave great pleasure to Jean-Christophe, and he did not know which

gave him the more; but he was in such a bad temper that he would not

admit it to himself, and he went on sulking, scowling at the sweets, and

wondering whether he could properly accept a gift from a person who had

betrayed his confidence. As he was on the point of giving in his father

wanted to set him down at once at the table, and make him write at his

dictation a letter of thanks. This was too much. Either from the nervous

strain of the day, or from instinctive shame at beginning the letter,

as Melchior wanted him to, with the words, “The little servant and

musician—_Knecht und Musicus_—of Your Highness …” he burst into tears,

and was inconsolable. The servant waited and scoffed. Melchior had to

write the letter. That did not make him exactly kindly disposed towards

Jean-Christophe. As, a crowning misfortune, the boy let his watch fall and

broke it, A storm of reproaches broke upon him. Melchior shouted that he

would have to go without dessert. Jean-Christophe said angrily that that

was what he wanted. To punish him, Louisa, said that she would begin by

confiscating his sweets. Jean-Christophe was up in arms at that, and said

that the box was his, and no one else’s, and that no one should take it

away from him! He was smacked, and in a fit of anger snatched the box

from his mother’s hands, hurled it on the floor, and stamped on it He was

whipped, taken to his room, undressed, and put to bed.

 

In the evening he heard his parents dining with friends—a magnificent

repast, prepared a week before in honor of the concert. He was like to die

with wrath at such injustice. They laughed loudly, and touched glasses.

They had told the guests that the boy was tired, and no one bothered about

him. Only after dinner, when the party was breaking up, he heard a slow,

shuffling step come into his room, and old Jean Michel bent over his bed

and kissed him, and said: “Dear little Jean-Christophe!…” Then, as if he

were ashamed, he went away without another word. He had slipped into his

hand some sweetmeats which he had hidden in his pocket.

 

That softened Jean-Christophe; but he was so tired with all the day’s

emotions that he had not the strength to think about what his grandfather

had done. He had not even the strength to reach out to the good things the

old man had given him. He was worn out, and went to sleep almost at once.

 

His sleep was light. He had acute nervous attacks, like electric shocks,

which