Jean-Christophe, vol 1, Romain Rolland [book club recommendations .txt] 📗
- Author: Romain Rolland
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sound of their footsteps. They said no word. Jean-Christophe felt a strange
sweet sadness welling through his heart. He was happy; he wished to talk,
but was weighed down with his sweet sorrow. He stopped for a moment, and
so did Otto. All was silence. Flies buzzed high above them in a ray of
sunlight; a rotten branch fell. Jean-Christophe took Otto’s hand, and in a
trembling voice said:
“Will you be my friend?”
Otto murmured:
“Yes.”
They shook hands; their hearts beat; they dared hardly look at each other.
After a moment they walked on. They were a few paces away from each other,
and they dared say no more until they were out of the woods. They were
fearful of each other, and of their strange emotion. They walked very fast,
and never stopped until they had issued from the shadow of the trees; then
they took courage again, and joined hands. They marveled at the limpid
evening falling, and they talked disconnectedly.
On the boat, sitting at the bows in the brilliant twilight, they tried to
talk of trivial matters, but they gave no heed to what they were saying.
They were lost in their own happiness and weariness. They felt no need to
talk, or to hold hands, or even to look at each other; they were near each
other.
When they were near their journey’s end they agreed to meet again on the
following Sunday, Jean-Christophe took Otto to his door. Under the light
of the gas they timidly smiled and murmured au revoir. They were glad to
part, so wearied were they by the tension at which they had been living for
those hours and by the pain it cost them to break the silence with a single
word.
Jean-Christophe returned alone in the night. His heart was singing: “I have
a friend! I have a friend!” He saw nothing, he heard nothing, he thought of
nothing else.
He was very sleepy, and fell asleep as soon as he reached his room; but he
was awakened twice or thrice during the night, as by some fixed idea. He
repeated, “I have a friend,” and went to sleep again at once.
Next morning it seemed to be all a dream. To test the reality of it, he
tried to recall the smallest details of the day. He was absorbed by this
occupation while he was giving his lessons, and even during the afternoon
he was so absent during the orchestra rehearsal that when he left he could
hardly remember what he had been playing.
When he returned home he found a letter waiting for him. He had no need to
ask himself whence it came. He ran and shut himself up in his room to read
it. It was written on pale blue paper in a labored, long, uncertain hand,
with very correct flourishes:
DEAR HERR JEAN-CHRISTOPHE—dare I say HONORED FRIEND?—
I am thinking much of our doings yesterday, and I do thank you tremendously
for your kindness to me. I am so grateful for all that you have done, and
for your kind words, and the delightful walk and the excellent dinner! I am
only worried that you should have spent so much money on it. What a lovely
day! Do you not think there was something providential in that strange
meeting? It seems to me that it was Fate decreed that we should meet. How
glad I shall be to see you again on Sunday! I hope you will not have had
too much unpleasantness for having missed the Hof Musik Direktor’s
dinner. I should be so sorry if you had any trouble because of me.
Dear Herr Jean-Christophe, I am always
Your very devoted servant and friend,
OTTO DIENER.
P.S.—On Sunday please do not call for me at home. It would be better, if
you will, for us to meet at the Schloss Garten.
Jean-Christophe read the letter with tears in his eyes. He kissed it; he
laughed aloud; he jumped about on his bed. Then he ran to the table and
took pen in hand to reply at once. He could not wait a moment. But he was
not used to writing. He could not express what was swelling in his heart;
he dug into the paper with his pen, and blackened his fingers with ink; he
stamped impatiently. At last, by dint of putting out his tongue and making
five or six drafts, he succeeded in writing in malformed letters, which
flew out in all directions, and with terrific mistakes in spelling:
“MY SOUL,—
“How dare you speak of gratitude, because I love you? Have I not told you
how sad I was and lonely before I knew you? Your friendship is the greatest
of blessings. Yesterday I was happy, happy!—for the first time in my life.
I weep for joy as I read your letter. Yes, my beloved, there is no doubt
that it was Fate brought us together. Fate wishes that we should be friends
to do great things. Friends! The lovely word! Can it be that at last I have
a friend? Oh! you will never leave me? You will be faithful to me? Always!
always!… How beautiful it will be to grow up together, to work together,
to bring together—I my musical whimsies, and all the crazy things that go
chasing through my mind; you your intelligence and amazing learning! How
much you know! I have never met a man so clever as you. There are moments
when I am uneasy. I seem to be unworthy of your friendship. You are so
noble and so accomplished, and I am so grateful to you for loving so coarse
a creature as myself!… But no! I have just said, let there be no talk of
gratitude. In friendship there is no obligation nor benefaction. I would
not accept any benefaction! We are equal, since we love. How impatient
I am to see you! I will not call for you at home, since you do not
wish it—although, to tell the truth, I do not understand all these
precautions—but you are the wiser; you are surely right….
“One word only! No more talk of money. I hate money—the word and the thing
itself. If I am not rich, I am yet rich enough to give to my friend, and it
is my joy to give all I can for him. Would not you do the same? And if I
needed it, would you not be the first to give me all your fortune? But that
shall never be! I have sound fists and a sound head, and I shall always be
able to earn the bread that I eat. Till Sunday! Dear God, a whole week
without seeing you! And for two days I have not seen you! How have I been
able to live so long without you?
“The conductor tried to grumble, but do not bother about it any more than I
do. What are others to me? I care nothing what they think or what they may
ever think of me. Only you matter. Love me well, my soul; love me as I love
you! I cannot tell you how much I love you. I am yours, yours, yours, from
the tips of my fingers to the apple of my eye.
“Yours always,
“JEAN-CHRISTOPHE.”
Jean-Christophe was devoured with impatience for the rest of the week. He
would go out of his way, and make long turns to pass by Otto’s house. Not
that he counted on seeing him, but the sight of the house was enough to
make him grow pale and red with emotion. On the Thursday he could bear it
no longer, and sent a second letter even more high-flown than the first.
Otto answered it sentimentally.
Sunday came at length, and Otto was punctually at the meeting-place. But
Jean-Christophe had been there for an hour, waiting impatiently for the
walk. He began to imagine dreadfully that Otto would not come. He trembled
lest Otto should be ill, for he did not suppose for a moment that Otto
might break his word. He whispered over and over again, “Dear God, let him
come—let him come!” and he struck at the pebbles in the avenue with his
stick, saying to himself that if he missed three times Otto would not come,
but if he hit them Otto would appear at once. In spite of his care and
the easiness of the test, he had just missed three times when he saw Otto
coming at his easy, deliberate pace; for Otto was above all things correct,
even when he was most moved. Jean-Christophe ran to him, and with his
throat dry wished him “Good-day!” Otto replied, “Good-day!” and they found
that they had nothing more to say to each other, except that the weather
was fine and that it was five or six minutes past ten, or it might be ten
past, because the castle clock was always slow.
They went to the station, and went by rail to a neighboring place which was
a favorite excursion from the town. On the way they exchanged not more than
ten words. They tried to make up for it by eloquent looks, but they were
no more successful. In vain did they try to tell each other what friends
they were; their eyes would say nothing at all. They were just playacting.
Jean-Christophe saw that, and was humiliated. He did not understand how
he could not express or even feel all that had filled his heart an hour
before. Otto did not, perhaps, so exactly take stock of their failure,
because he was less sincere, and examined himself with more circumspection,
but he was just as disappointed. The truth is that the boys had, during
their week of separation, blown out their feelings to such a diapason that
it was impossible for them to keep them actually at that pitch, and when
they met again their first impression must of necessity be false. They had
to break away from it, but they could not bring themselves to agree to it.
All day they wandered in the country without ever breaking through the
awkwardness and constraint that were upon them. It was a holiday. The inns
and woods were filled with a rabble of excursionists—little bourgeois
families who made a great noise and ate everywhere. That added to their
ill-humor. They attributed to the poor people the impossibility of again
finding the carelessness of their first walk. But they talked, they
took great pains to find subjects of conversation; they were afraid of
finding that they had nothing to say to each other. Otto displayed his
school-learning; Jean-Christophe entered into technical explanations of
musical compositions and violin-playing. They oppressed each other; they
crushed each other by talking; and they never stopped talking, trembling
lest they should, for then there opened before them abysses of silence
which horrified them. Otto came near to weeping, and Jean-Christophe was
near leaving him and running away as hard as he could, he was so bored and
ashamed.
Only an hour before they had to take the train again did they thaw. In the
depths of the woods a dog was barking; he was hunting on his own account.
Jean-Christophe proposed that they should hide by his path to try and see
his quarry. They ran into the midst of the thicket. The dog came near them,
and then went away again. They went to right and left, went forward and
doubled. The barking grew louder: the dog was choking with impatience in
his lust for slaughter. He came near once more. Jean-Christophe and Otto,
lying on the dead leaves in the rut of
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