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

friends: the organist, the furniture-dealer, the

watchmaker, the contra-bass—garrulous old men, who used always to pass

round the same jokes and plunge into interminable discussions on art,

politics, or the family trees of the countryside, much less interested in

the subjects of which they talked than happy to talk and to find an

audience.

 

As for Louisa, she used only to see some of her neighbors who brought her

the gossip of the place, and at rare intervals a “kind lady,” who, under

pretext of taking an interest in her, used to come and engage her services

for a dinner-party, and pretend to watch over the religious education of

the children.

 

But of all who came to the house, none was more repugnant to

Jean-Christophe than his Uncle Theodore, a stepson of his grandfather’s, a

son by a former marriage of his grandmother Clara, Jean Michel’s first

wife. He was a partner in a great commercial house which did business in

Africa and the Far East. He was the exact type of one of those Germans of

the new style, whose affectation it is scoffingly to repudiate the old

idealism of the race, and, intoxicated by conquest, to maintain a cult of

strength and success which shows that they are not accustomed to seeing

them on their side. But as it is difficult at once to change the age-old

nature of a people, the despised idealism sprang up again in him at every

turn in language, manners, and moral habits and the quotations from Goethe

to fit the smallest incidents of domestic life, for he was a singular

compound of conscience and self-interest. There was in him a curious effort

to reconcile the honest principles of the old German bourgeoisie with the

cynicism of these new commercial condottieri—a compound which forever

gave out a repulsive flavor of hypocrisy, forever striving to make of

German strength, avarice, and self-interest the symbols of all right,

justice, and truth.

 

Jean-Christophe’s loyalty was deeply injured by all this. He could not tell

whether his uncle were right or no, but he hated him, and marked him down

for an enemy. His grandfather had no great love for him either, and was in

revolt against his theories; but he was easily crushed in argument by

Theodore’s fluency, which was never hard put to it to turn into ridicule

the old man’s simple generosity. In the end Jean Michel came to be ashamed

of his own good-heartedness, and by way of showing that he was not so much

behind the times as they thought, he used to try to talk like Theodore; but

the words came hollow from his lips, and he was ill at ease with them.

Whatever he may have thought of him, Theodore did impress him. He felt

respect for such practical skill, which he admired the more for knowing

himself to be absolutely incapable of it. He used to dream of putting one

of his grandsons to similar work. That was Melchior’s idea also. He

intended to make Rodolphe follow in his uncle’s footsteps. And so the whole

family set itself to flatter this rich relation of whom they expected help.

He, seeing that he was necessary to them, took advantage of it to cut a

fine masterful figure, He meddled in everything, gave advice upon

everything, and made no attempt to conceal his contempt for art and

artists. Rather, he blazoned it abroad for the mere pleasure of humiliating

his musicianly relations, and he used to indulge in stupid jokes at their

expense, and the cowards used to laugh.

 

Jean-Christophe, especially, was singled out as a butt for his uncle’s

jests. He was not patient under them. He would say nothing, but he used to

grind his teeth angrily, and his uncle used to laugh at his speechless

rage. But one day, when Theodore went too far in his teasing,

Jean-Christophe, losing control of himself, spat in his face. It was a

fearful affair. The insult was so monstrous that his uncle was at first

paralyzed by it; then words came back to him, and he broke out into a flood

of abuse. Jean-Christophe sat petrified by the enormity of the thing that

he had done, and did not even feel the blows that rained down upon him; but

when they tried to force him down on his knees before his uncle, he broke

away, jostled his mother aside, and ran out of the house. He did not stop

until he could breathe no more, and then he was right out in the country.

He heard voices calling him, and he debated within himself whether he had

not better throw himself into the river, since he could not do so with his

enemy. He spent the night in the fields. At dawn he went and knocked at his

grandfather’s door. The old man had been so upset by Jean-Christophe’s

disappearance—he had not slept for it—that he had not the heart to scold

him. He took him home, and then nothing was said to him, because it was

apparent that he was still in an excited condition, and they had to smooth

him down, for he had to play at the Palace that evening. But for several

weeks Melchior continued to overwhelm him with his complaints, addressed to

nobody in particular, about the trouble that a man takes to give an example

of an irreproachable life and good manners to unworthy creatures who

dishonor him. And when his Uncle Theodore met him in the street, he turned

his head and held his nose by way of showing his extreme disgust.

 

Finding so little sympathy at home, Jean-Christophe spent as little time

there as possible. He chafed against the continual restraint which they

strove to set upon him. There were too many things, too many people, that

he had to respect, and he was never allowed to ask why, and Jean-Christophe

did not possess the bump of respect. The more they tried to discipline him

and to turn him into an honest little German bourgeois, the more he felt

the need of breaking free from it all. It would have been his pleasure

after the dull, tedious, formal performances which he had to attend in the

orchestra or at the Palace to roll in the grass like a fowl, and to slide

down the grassy slope on the seat of his new trousers, or to have a

stone-fight with the urchins of the neighborhood. It was not because he was

afraid of scoldings and thwackings that he did not do these things more

often, but because he had no playmates. He could not get on with other

children. Even the little guttersnipes did not like playing with him,

because he took every game too seriously, and struck too lustily. He had

grown used to being driven in on himself, and to living apart from children

of his own age. He was ashamed of not being clever at games, and dared not

take part in their sport. And he used to pretend to take no interest in it,

although he was consumed by the desire to be asked to play with them. But

they never said anything to him, and then he would go away hurt, but

assuming indifference.

 

He found consolation in wandering with Uncle Gottfried when he was in the

neighborhood. He became more and more friendly with him, and sympathized

with his independent temper. He understood so well now Gottfried’s delight

in tramping the roads without a tie in the world! Often they used to go out

together in the evening into the country, straight on, aimlessly, and as

Gottfried always forgot the time, they used to come back very late, and

then were scolded. Gottfried knew that it was wrong, but Jean-Christophe

used to implore, and he could not himself resist the pleasure of it. About

midnight he would stand in front of the house and whistle, an agreed

signal. Jean-Christophe would be in his bed fully dressed. He would slip

out with his shoes in his hand, and, holding his breath, creep with all the

artful skill of a savage to the kitchen window, which opened on to the

road. He would climb on to the table; Gottfried would take him on his

shoulders, and then off they would go, happy as truants.

 

Sometimes they would go and seek out Jeremy the fisherman, a friend of

Gottfried’s, and then they would slip out in his boat under the moon. The

water dropping from the oars gave out little arpeggios, then chromatic

scales. A milky vapor hung tremulous over the surface of the waters. The

stars quivered. The cocks called to each other from either bank, and

sometimes in the depths of the sky they heard the trilling of larks

ascending from earth, deceived by the light of the moon. They were silent.

Gottfried hummed a tune. Jeremy told strange tales of the lives of the

beasts—tales that gained in mystery from the curt and enigmatic manner of

their telling. The moon hid herself behind the woods. They skirted the

black mass of the hills. The darkness of the water and the sky mingled.

There was never a ripple on the water. Sounds died down. The boat glided

through the night. Was she gliding? Was she moving? Was she still?… The

reeds parted with a sound like the rustling of silk. The boat grounded

noiselessly. They climbed out on to the bank, and returned on foot. They

would not return until dawn. They followed the river-bank. Clouds of silver

ablets, green as ears of corn, or blue as jewels, teemed in the first light

of day. They swarmed like the serpents of Medusa’s head, and flung

themselves greedily at the bread thrown to them; they plunged for it as it

sank, and turned in spirals, and then darted away in a flash, like a ray of

light. The river took on rosy and purple hues of reflection. The birds woke

one after another. The truants hurried back. Just as carefully as when they

had set out, they returned to the room, with its thick atmosphere, and

Jean-Christophe, worn out, fell into bed, and slept at once, with his body

sweet-smelling with the smell of the fields.

 

All was well, and nothing would have been known, but that one day Ernest,

his younger brother, betrayed Jean-Christophe’s midnight sallies. From that

moment they were forbidden, and he was watched. But he contrived to escape,

and he preferred the society of the little peddler and his friends to any

other. His family was scandalized. Melchior said that he had the tastes of

a laborer. Old Jean Michel was jealous of Jean-Christophe’s affection for

Gottfried, and used to lecture him about lowering himself so far as to like

such vulgar company when he had the honor of mixing with the best people

and of being the servant of princes. It was considered that Jean-Christophe

was lacking in dignity and self-respect.

 

In spite of the penury which increased with Melchior’s intemperance and

folly, life was tolerable as long as Jean Michel was there. He was the only

creature who had any influence over Melchior, and who could hold him back

to a certain extent from his vice. The esteem in which he was generally

held did serve to pass over the drunkard’s freaks, and he used constantly

to come to the aid of the household with money. Besides the modest pension

which he enjoyed as retired Kapellmeister, he was still able to earn

small sums by giving lessons and tuning pianos. He gave most of it to his

daughter-in-law, for he perceived her difficulties, though she strove to

hide them from him. Louisa hated the idea that he was denying himself for

them, and it was all the more to the old man’s credit in that he had always

been accustomed to