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

the conversation by pouring out tea.

 

She questioned him amiably about his life. But he did not gain confidence.

He could not sit down; he could not hold his cup, which threatened to

upset; and whenever they offered him water, milk, sugar or cakes, he

thought that he had to get up hurriedly and bow his thanks, stiff, trussed

up in his frock-coat, collar, and tie, like a tortoise in its shell,

not daring and not being able to turn his head to right or left, and

overwhelmed by Frau von Kerich’s innumerable questions, and the warmth of

her manner, frozen by Minna’s looks, which he felt were taking in his

features, his hands, his movements, his clothes. They made him even more

uncomfortable by trying to put him at his ease—Frau von Kerich, by her

flow of words, Minna by the coquettish eyes which instinctively she made at

him to amuse herself.

 

Finally they gave up trying to get anything more from him than bows and

monosyllables, and Frau von Kerich, who had the whole burden of the

conversation, asked him, when she was worn out, to play the piano. Much

more shy of them than of a concert audience, he played an adagio of Mozart.

But his very shyness, the uneasiness which was beginning to fill his heart

from the company of the two women, the ingenuous emotion with which his

bosom swelled, which made him happy and unhappy, were in tune with the

tenderness and youthful modesty of the music, and gave it the charm of

spring. Frau von Kerich was moved by it; she said so with the exaggerated

words of praise customary among men and women of the world; she was none

the less sincere for that, and the very excess of the flattery was sweet

coming from such charming lips. Naughty Minna said nothing, and looked

astonished at the boy who was so stupid when he talked, but was so eloquent

with his fingers. Jean-Christophe felt their sympathy, and grew bold under

it. He went on playing; then, half turning towards Minna, with an awkward

smile and without raising his eyes, he said timidly:

 

“This is what I was doing on the wall.”

 

He played a little piece in which he had, in fact, developed the musical

ideas which had come to him in his favorite spot as he looked into the

garden, not, be it said, on the evening when he had seen Minna and Frau von

Kerich—for some obscure reason, known only to his heart, he was trying to

persuade himself that it was so—but long before, and in the calm rhythm of

the andante con moto, there were to be found the serene impression of the

singing of birds, mutterings of beasts, and the majestic slumber of the

great trees in the peace of the sunset.

 

The two hearers listened delightedly. When he had finished Frau von Kerich

rose, took his hands with her usual vivacity, and thanked him effusively.

Minna clapped her hands, and cried that it was “admirable,” and that to

make him compose other works as “sublime” as that, she would have a ladder

placed against the wall, so that he might work there at his case. Frau von

Kerich told Jean-Christophe not to listen to silly Minna; she begged him to

come as often as he liked to her garden, since he loved it, and she added

that he need never bother to call on them if he found it tiresome.

 

“You need never bother to come and see us,” added Minna. “Only if you do

not come, beware!”

 

She wagged her finger in menace.

 

Minna was possessed by no imperious desire that Jean-Christophe should come

to see her, or should even follow the rules of politeness with regard to

herself, but it pleased her to produce a little effect which instinctively

she felt to be charming.

 

Jean-Christophe blushed delightedly. Frau von Kerich won him completely by

the tact with which she spoke of his mother and grandfather, whom she had

known. The warmth and kindness of the two ladies touched his heart; he

exaggerated their easy urbanity, their worldly graciousness, in his desire

to think it heartfelt and deep. He began to tell them, with his naïve

trustfulness, of his plans and his wretchedness. He did not notice that

more than an hour had passed, and he jumped with surprise when a servant

came and announced dinner. But his confusion turned to happiness when Frau

von Kerich told him to stay and dine with them, like the good friends that

they were going to be, and were already. A place was laid for him between

the mother and daughter, and at table his talents did not show to such

advantage as at the piano. That part of his education had been much

neglected; it was his impression that eating and drinking were the

essential things at table, and not the manner of them. And so tidy Minna

looked at him, pouting and a little horrified.

 

They thought that he would go immediately after supper. But he followed

them into the little room, and sat with them, and had no idea of going.

Minna stifled her yawns, and made signs to her mother. He did not notice

them, because he was dumb with his happiness, and thought they were like

himself—because Minna, when she looked at him, made eyes at him from

habit—and finally, once he was seated, he did not quite know how to get up

and take his leave. He would have stayed all night had not Frau von Kerich

sent him away herself, without ceremony, but kindly.

 

He went, carrying in his heart the soft light of the brown eyes of Frau von

Kerich and the blue eyes of Minna; on his hands he felt the sweet contact

of soft fingers, soft as flowers, and a subtle perfume, which he had never

before breathed, enveloped him, bewildered him, brought him almost to

swooning.

 

*

 

He went again two days later, as was arranged, to give Minna a

music-lesson. Thereafter, under this arrangement, he went regularly twice a

week in the morning, and very often he went again in the evening to play

and talk.

 

Frau von Kerich was glad to see him. She was a clever and a kind woman. She

was thirty-five when she lost her husband, and although young in body and

at heart, she was not sorry to withdraw from the world in which she had

gone far since her marriage. Perhaps she left it the more easily because

she had found it very amusing, and thought wisely that she could not both

eat her cake and have it. She was devoted to the memory of Herr von Kerich,

not that she had felt anything like love for him when they married; but

good-fellowship was enough for her; she was of an easy temper and an

affectionate disposition.

 

She had given herself up to her daughter’s education; but the same

moderation which she had had in her love, held in check the impulsive and

morbid quality which is sometimes in motherhood, when the child is the only

creature upon whom the woman can expend her jealous need of loving and

being loved. She loved Minna much, but was clear in her judgment of her,

and did not conceal any of her imperfections any more than she tried to

deceive herself about herself. Witty and clever, she had a keen eye for

discovering at a glance the weakness, and ridiculous side, of any person;

she took great pleasure in it, without ever being the least malicious, for

she was as indulgent as she was scoffing, and while she laughed at people

she loved to be of use to them.

 

Young Jean-Christophe gave food both to her kindness and to her critical

mind. During the first days of her sojourn in the little town, when her

mourning kept her out of society, Jean-Christophe was a distraction

for her—primarily by his talent. She loved music, although she was no

musician; she found in it a physical and moral well-being in which thoughts

could idly sink into a pleasant melancholy. Sitting by the fire—while

Jean-Christophe played—a book in her hands, and smiling vaguely, she took

a silent delight in the mechanical movements of his fingers, and the

purposeless wanderings of her reverie, hovering among the sad, sweet images

of the past.

 

But more even than the music, the musician interested her. She was clever

enough to be conscious of Jean-Christophe’s rare gifts, although she was

not capable of perceiving his really original quality. It gave her a

curious pleasure to watch the waking of those mysterious fires which she

saw kindling in him. She had quickly appreciated his moral qualities, his

uprightness, his courage, the sort of Stoicism in him, so touching in

a child. But for all that she did mot view him the less with the usual

perspicacity of her sharp, mocking eyes. His awkwardness, his ugliness, his

little ridiculous qualities amused her; she did not take him altogether

seriously; she did not take many things seriously. Jean-Christophe’s antic

outbursts, his violence, his fantastic humor, made her think sometimes

that he was a little unbalanced; she saw in him one of the Kraffts, honest

men and good musicians, but always a little wrong in the head. Her light

irony escaped Jean-Christophe; he was conscious only of Frau von Kerich’s

kindness. He was so unused to any one being kind to him! Although his

duties at the Palace brought him into daily contact with the world, poor

Jean-Christophe had remained a little savage, untutored and uneducated. The

selfishness of the Court was only concerned in turning him to its profit

and not in helping him in any way. He went to the Palace, sat at the

piano, played, and went away again, and nobody ever took the trouble to

talk to him, except absently to pay him some banal compliment. Since his

grandfather’s death, no one, either at home or outside, had ever thought

of helping him to learn the conduct of life, or to be a man. He suffered

cruelly from his ignorance and the roughness of his manners. He went

through an agony and bloody sweat to shape himself alone, but he did not

succeed. Books, conversation, example—all were lacking. He would fain have

confessed his distress to a friend, but could not bring himself to do so.

Even with Otto he had not dared, because at the first words he had uttered,

Otto had assumed a tone of disdainful superiority which had burned into him

like hot iron.

 

And now with Frau von Kerich it all became easy. Of her own accord, without

his having to ask anything—it cost Jean-Christophe’s pride so much!—she

showed him gently what he should not do, told him what he ought to do,

advised him how to dress, eat, walk, talk, and never passed over any fault

of manners, taste, or language; and he could not be hurt by it, so light

and careful was her touch in the handling of the boy’s easily injured

vanity. She took in hand also his literary education without seeming to be

concerned with it; she never showed surprise at his strange ignorance, but

never let slip an opportunity of correcting his mistakes simply, easily, as

if it were natural for him to have been in error; and, instead of alarming

him with pedantic lessons, she conceived the idea of employing their

evening meetings by making Minna or Jean-Christophe read passages of

history, or of the poets, German and foreign. She treated him as a son of

the house, with a few fine shades of patronizing familiarity which he never

saw. She was even concerned with his clothes, gave him new ones, knitted

him a