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

way home. At the corner of the

street Melchior would declare that he had an urgent appointment with some

friends, and no argument could dissuade him from keeping this engagement.

Jean-Christophe took care not to insist too much, so as not to expose

himself to a scene and paternal imprecations which might attract the

neighbors to their windows.

 

All the household money slipped away in this fashion. Melchior was not

satisfied with drinking away his earnings; he drank away all that his wife

and son so hardly earned. Louisa used to weep, but she dared not resist,

since her husband had harshly reminded her that nothing in the house

belonged to her, and that he had married her without a sou. Jean-Christophe

tried to resist. Melchior boxed his ears, treated him like a naughty child,

and took the money out of his hands. The boy was twelve or thirteen. He was

strong, and was beginning to kick against being beaten; but he was still

afraid to rebel, and rather than expose himself to fresh humiliations of

the kind he let himself be plundered. The only resource that Louisa and

Jean-Christophe had was to hide their money; but Melchior was singularly

ingenious in discovering their hiding-places when they were not there.

 

Soon that was not enough for him. He sold the things that he had inherited

from his father. Jean-Christophe sadly saw the precious relics go—the

books, the bed, the furniture, the portraits of musicians. He could say

nothing. But one day, when Melchior had crashed into Jean Michel’s old

piano, he swore as he rubbed his knee, and said that there was no longer

room to move about in his own house, and that he would rid the house of

all such gimcrackery. Jean-Christophe cried aloud. It was true that the

rooms were too full, since all Jean Michel’s belongings were crowded

into them, so as to be able to sell the house, that dear house in which

Jean-Christophe had spent the happiest hours of his childhood. It was true

also that the old piano was not worth much, that it was husky in tone, and

that for a long time Jean-Christophe had not used it, since he played on

the fine new piano due to the generosity of the Prince; but however old and

useless it might be, it was Jean-Christophe’s best friend. It had awakened

the child to the boundless world of music; on its worn yellow keys he had

discovered with his fingers the kingdom of sounds and its laws; it had been

his grandfather’s work (months had gone to repairing it for his grandson),

and he was proud of it; it was in some sort a holy relic, and

Jean-Christophe protested that his father had no right to sell it. Melchior

bade him be silent. Jean-Christophe cried louder than ever that the piano

was his, and that he forbade any one to touch it; but Melchior looked at

him with an evil smile, and said nothing.

 

Next day Jean-Christophe had forgotten the affair. He came home tired, but

in a fairly good temper. He was struck by the sly looks of his brothers.

They pretended to be absorbed in their books, but they followed him with

their eyes, and watched all his movements, and bent over their books

again when he looked at them. He had no doubt that they had played some

trick upon him, but he was used to that, and did not worry about it, but

determined, when he had found it out, to give them a good thrashing, as he

always did on such occasions. He scorned to look into the matter, and he

began to talk to his father, who was sitting by the fire, and questioned

him as to the doings of the day with an affectation of interest which

suited him but ill; and while he talked he saw that Melchior was exchanging

stealthy nods and winks with the two children. Something caught at his

heart. He ran into his room. The place where the piano had stood was empty!

He gave a cry of anguish. In the next room he heard the stifled laughter of

his brothers. The blood rushed to his face. He rushed in to them, and

cried:

 

“My piano!”

 

Melchior raised his head with an air of calm bewilderment which made

the children roar with laughter. He could not contain himself when he

saw Jean-Christophe’s piteous look, and he turned aside to guffaw.

Jean-Christophe no longer knew what he was doing. He hurled himself like

a mad thing on his father. Melchior, lolling in his chair, had no time to

protect himself. The boy seized him by the throat and cried:

 

“Thief! Thief!”

 

It was only for a moment. Melchior shook himself, and sent Jean-Christophe

rolling down on to the tile floor, though in his fury he was clinging

to him like grim death. The boy’s head crashed against the tiles.

Jean-Christophe got upon his knees. He was livid, and he went on saying in

a choking voice:

 

“Thief, thief!… You are robbing us—mother and me…. Thief!… You are

selling my grandfather!”

 

Melchior rose to his feet, and held his fist above Jean-Christophe’s head.

The boy stared at him with hate; in his eyes. He was trembling with rage.

Melchior began to tremble, too.

 

He sat down, and hid his face in his hands. The two children had run away

screaming. Silence followed the uproar. Melchior groaned and mumbled.

Jean-Christophe, against the wall, never ceased glaring at him with

clenched teeth, and he trembled in every limb. Melchior began to blame

himself.

 

“I am a thief! I rob my family! My children despise me! It were better if

I were dead!”

 

When he had finished whining, Jean-Christophe did not budge, but asked him

harshly:

 

“Where is the piano?”

 

“At Wormser’s,” said Melchior, not daring to look at him.

 

Jean-Christophe took a step forward, and said:

 

“The money!”

 

Melchior, crushed, took the money from his pocket and gave it to his son.

Jean-Christophe turned towards the door. Melchior called him:

 

“Jean-Christophe!”

 

Jean-Christophe stopped. Melchior went on in a quavering voice:

 

“Dear Jean-Christophe … do not despise me!”

 

Jean-Christophe flung his arms round his neck and sobbed:

 

“No, father—dear father! I do not despise you! I am so unhappy!”

 

They wept loudly. Melchior lamented:

 

“It is not my fault. I am not bad. That’s true, Jean-Christophe? I am not

bad?”

 

He promised that he would drink no more. Jean-Christophe wagged his head

doubtfully, and Melchior admitted that he could not resist it when he had

money in his hands. Jean-Christophe thought for a moment and said:

 

“You see, father, we must…”

 

He stopped.

 

“What then?”

 

“I am ashamed…”

 

“Of whom?” asked Melchior naïvely.

 

“Of you.”

 

Melchior made a face and said:

 

“That’s nothing.”

 

Jean-Christophe explained that they would have to put all the family money,

even Melchior’s contribution, into the hands of some one else, who would

dole it out to Melchior day by day, or week by week, as he needed it.

Melchior, who was in humble mood—he was not altogether starving—agreed

to the proposition, and declared that he would then and there write a

letter to the Grand Duke to ask that the pension which came to him should

be regularly paid over in his name to Jean-Christophe. Jean-Christophe

refused, blushing for his father’s humiliation. But Melchior, thirsting

for self-sacrifice, insisted on writing. He was much moved by his own

magnanimity. Jean-Christophe refused to take the letter, and when Louisa

came in and was acquainted with the turn of events, she declared that she

would rather beg in the streets than expose her husband to such an insult.

She added that she had every confidence in him, and that she was sure he

would make amends out of love for the children and herself. In the end

there was a scene of tender reconciliation and Melchior’s letter was left

on the table, and then fell under the cupboard, where it remained

concealed.

 

But a few days later, when she was cleaning up, Louisa found it there, and

as she was very unhappy about Melchior’s fresh outbreaks—he had forgotten

all about it—instead of tearing it up, she kept it. She kept it for

several months, always rejecting the idea of making use of it, in spite of

the suffering she had to endure. But one day, when she saw Melchior once

more beating Jean-Christophe and robbing him of his money, she could bear

it no longer, and when she was left alone with the boy, who was weeping,

she went and fetched the letter, and gave it him, and said:

 

“Go!”

 

Jean-Christophe hesitated, but he understood that there was no other way

if they wished to save from the wreck the little that was left to them.

He went to the Palace. He took nearly an hour to walk a distance that

ordinarily took twenty minutes. He was overwhelmed by the shame of what

he was doing. His pride, which had grown great in the years of sorrow and

isolation, bled at the thought of publicly confessing his father’s vice.

He knew perfectly well that it was known to everybody, but by a strange

and natural inconsequence he would not admit it, and pretended to notice

nothing, and he would rather have been hewn in pieces than agree. And now,

of his own accord, he was going!… Twenty times he was on the point of

turning back. He walked two or three times round the town, turning away

just as he came near the Palace. He was not alone in his plight. His mother

and brothers had also to be considered. Since his father had deserted them

and betrayed them, it was his business as eldest son to take his place and

come to their assistance. There was no room for hesitation or pride; he

had to swallow down his shame. He entered the Palace. On the staircase he

almost turned and fled. He knelt down on a step; he stayed for several

minutes on the landing, with his hand on the door, until some one coming

made him go in.

 

Every one in the offices knew him. He asked to see His Excellency the

Director of the Theaters, Baron de Hammer Langbach. A young clerk, sleek,

bald, pink-faced, with a white waistcoat and a pink tie, shook his hand

familiarly, and began to talk about the opera of the night before.

Jean-Christophe repeated his question. The clerk replied that His

Excellency was busy for the moment, but that if Jean-Christophe had a

request to make they could present it with other documents which were to

be sent in for His Excellency’s signature. Jean-Christophe held out his

letter. The clerk read it, and gave a cry of surprise.

 

“Oh, indeed!” he said brightly. “That is a good idea. He ought to have

thought of that long ago! He never did anything better in his life! Ah, the

old sot! How the devil did he bring himself to do it?”

 

He stopped short. Jean-Christophe had snatched the paper out of his hands,

and, white with rage, shouted:

 

“I forbid you!… I forbid you to insult me!”

 

The clerk was staggered.

 

“But, my dear Jean-Christophe,” he began to say, “whoever thought of

insulting you? I only said what everybody thinks, and what you think

yourself.”

 

“No!” cried Jean-Christophe angrily.

 

“What! you don’t think so? You don’t think that he drinks?”

 

“It is not true!” said Jean-Christophe.

 

He stamped his foot.

 

The clerk shrugged his shoulders.

 

“In that case, why did he write this letter?”

 

“Because,” said Jean-Christophe (he did not know what to say)—“because,

when I come for