Jean-Christophe, vol 1, Romain Rolland [book club recommendations .txt] 📗
- Author: Romain Rolland
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torture for all loving hearts. The world is empty; life is empty; all is
empty. The heart is choked; it is impossible to breathe; there is mortal
agony; it is difficult, impossible, to live—especially when all around you
there are the traces of the departed loved one, when everything about you
is forever calling up her image, when you remain in the surroundings in
which you lived together, she and you, when it is a torment to try to live
again in the same places the happiness that is gone. Then it is as though
an abyss were opened at your feet; you lean over it; you turn giddy; you
almost fall. You fall. You think you are face to face with Death. And so
you are; parting is one of his faces. You watch the beloved of your heart
pass away; life is effaced; only a black hole is left—nothingness.
Jean-Christophe went and visited all the beloved spots, so as to suffer
more. Frau von Kerich had left him the key of the garden, so that he could
go there while they were away. He went there that very day, and was like
to choke with sorrow. It seemed to him as he entered that he might find
there a little of her who was gone; he found only too much of her; her
image hovered over all the lawns; he expected to see her appear at all
the corners of the paths; he knew well that she would not appear, but he
tormented himself with pretending that she might, and he went over the
tracks of his memories of love—the path to the labyrinth, the terrace
carpeted with wistaria, the seat in the arbor, and he inflicted torture on
himself by saying: “A week ago … three days ago … yesterday, it was
so. Yesterday she was here … this very morning….” He racked his heart
with these thoughts until he had to stop, choking, and like to die. In his
sorrow was mingled anger with himself for having wasted all that time, and
not having made use of it. So many minutes, so many hours, when he had
enjoyed the infinite happiness of seeing her, breathing her, and feeding
upon her. And he had not appreciated it! He had let the time go by without
having tasted to the full every tiny moment! And now!… Now it was too
late…. Irreparable! Irreparable!
He went home. His family seemed odious to him. He could not bear their
faces, their gestures, their fatuous conversation, the same as that of the
preceding day, the same as that of all the preceding days—always the same.
They went on living their usual life, as though no such misfortune had come
to pass in their midst. And the town had no more idea of it than they.
The people were all going about their affairs, laughing, noisy, busy; the
crickets were chirping; the sky was bright. He hated them all; he felt
himself crushed by this universal egoism. But he himself was more egoistic
than the whole universe. Nothing was worth while to him. He had no
kindness. He loved nobody.
He passed several lamentable days. His work absorbed him again
automatically: but he had no heart for living.
One evening when he was at supper with his family, silent and depressed,
the postman knocked at the door and left a letter for him. His heart knew
the sender of it before he had seen the handwriting. Four pairs of eyes,
fixed on him with undisguised curiosity, waited for him to read it,
clutching at the hope that this interruption might take them out of their
usual boredom. He placed the letter by his plate, and would not open it,
pretending carelessly that he knew what it was about. But his brothers,
annoyed, would not believe it, and went on prying at it; and so he was in
tortures until the meal was ended. Then he was free to lock himself up in
his room. His heart was beating so that he almost tore the letter as he
opened it. He trembled to think what might be in it; but as soon as he had
glanced over the first words he was filled with joy.
A few very affectionate words. Minna was writing to him by stealth. She
called him “Dear Christlein” and told him that she had wept much, had
looked at the star every evening, that she had been to Frankfort, which was
a splendid town, where there were wonderful shops, but that she had never
bothered about anything because she was thinking of him. She reminded him
that he had sworn to be faithful to her, and not to see anybody while she
was away, so that he might think only of her. She wanted him to work all
the time while she was gone, so as to make himself famous, and her too. She
ended by asking him if he remembered the little room where they had said
good-bye on the morning when she had left him: she assured him that she
would be there still in thought, and that she would still say good-bye to
him in the same way. She signed herself, “Eternally yours! Eternally!…”
and she had added a postscript bidding him buy a straw hat instead of his
ugly felt—all the distinguished people there were wearing them—a coarse
straw hat, with a broad blue ribbon.
Jean-Christophe read the letter four times before he could quite take it
all in. He was so overwhelmed that he could not even be happy; and suddenly
he felt so tired that he lay down and read and re-read the letter and
kissed it again and again. He put it under his pillow, and his hand was
forever making sure that it was there. An ineffable sense of well-being
permeated his whole soul. He slept all through the night.
His life became more tolerable. He had ever sweet, soaring thoughts of
Minna. He set about answering her; but he could not write freely to her;
he had to hide his feelings: that was painful and difficult for him. He
continued clumsily to conceal his love beneath formulæ of ceremonious
politeness, which he always used in an absurd fashion.
When he had sent it he awaited Minna’s reply, and only lived in expectation
of it. To win patience he tried to go for walks and to read. But his
thoughts were only of Minna: he went on crazily repeating her name over and
over again; he was so abject in his love and worship of her name that he
carried everywhere with him a volume of Lessing, because the name of Minna
occurred in it, and every day when he left the theater he went a long
distance out of his way so as to pass a mercery shop, on whose signboard
the five adored letters were written.
He reproached himself for wasting time when she had bid him so urgently to
work, so as to make her famous. The naïve vanity of her request touched
him, as a mark of her confidence in him. He resolved, by way of fulfilling
it, to write a work which should be not only dedicated, but consecrated,
to her. He could not have written any other at that time. Hardly had the
scheme occurred to him than musical ideas rushed in upon him. It was like
a flood of water accumulated in a reservoir for several months, until it
should suddenly rush down, breaking all its dams. He did not leave his room
for a week. Louisa left his dinner at the door; for he did not allow even
her to enter.
He wrote a quintette for clarionet and strings. The first movement was
a poem of youthful hope and desire; the last a lover’s joke, in which
Jean-Christophe’s wild humor peeped out. But the whole work was written for
the sake of the second movement, the larghetto, in which Jean-Christophe
had depicted an ardent and ingenuous little soul, which was, or was meant
to be, a portrait of Minna. No one would have recognized it, least of all
herself; but the great thing was that it was perfectly recognizable to
himself; and he had a thrill of pleasure in the illusion of feeling that he
had caught the essence of his beloved. No work had ever been so easily or
happily written; it was an outlet for the excess of love which the parting
had stored up in him; and at the same time his care for the work of art,
the effort necessary to dominate and concentrate his passion into a
beautiful and clear form, gave him a healthiness of mind, a balance in his
faculties, which gave him a sort of physical delight—a sovereign enjoyment
known to every creative artist. While he is creating he escapes altogether
from the slavery of desire and sorrow; he becomes then master in his turn;
and all that gave him joy or suffering seems then to him to be only the
fine play of his will. Such moments are too short; for when they are done
he finds about him, more heavy than ever, the chains of reality.
While Jean-Christophe was busy with his work he hardly had time to think
of his parting from Minna; he was living with her. Minna was no longer in
Minna; she was in himself. But when he had finished he found that he was
alone, more alone than before, more weary, exhausted by the effort; he
remembered that it was a fortnight since he had written to Minna and that
she had not replied.
He wrote to her again, and this time he could not bring himself altogether
to exercise the constraint which he had imposed on himself for the
first letter. He reproached Minna jocularly—for he did not believe it
himself—with having forgotten him. He scolded her for her laziness and
teased her affectionately. He spoke of his work with much mystery, so as to
rouse her curiosity, and because he wished to keep it as a surprise for her
when she returned. He described minutely the hat that he had bought; and he
told how, to carry out the little despot’s orders—for he had taken all her
commands literally—he did not go out at all, and said that he was ill as
an excuse for refusing invitations. He did not add that he was even on bad
terms with the Grand Duke, because, in excess of zeal, he had refused to
go to a party at the Palace to which he had been invited. The whole letter
was full of a careless joy, and conveyed those little secrets so dear to
lovers. He imagined that Minna alone had the key to them, and thought
himself very clever, because he had carefully replaced every word of love
with words of friendship.
After he had written he felt comforted for a moment; first, because the
letter had given him the illusion of conversation with his absent fair, but
chiefly because he had no doubt but that Minna would reply to it at once.
He was very patient for the three days which he had allowed for the post
to take his letter to Minna and bring back her answer; but when the fourth
day had passed he began once more to find life difficult. He had no energy
or interest in things, except during the hour before the post’s arrival.
Then he was trembling with impatience. He became superstitious, and looked
for the smallest sign—the crackling of the fire, a chance word—to give
him an assurance that the letter would come. Once that hour was passed he
would collapse again. No more work, no more walks; the only object of his
existence was to wait for the
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