Jean-Christophe, vol 1 by Romain Rolland (fb2 epub reader .txt) 📕

some of his compositions; but he dared not ask him to do

so. Christophe was striding about the room and talking. Schulz watched him

whenever he went near the open piano; and he prayed inwardly that he might

stop at it. The same thought was in Kunz. Their hearts beat when they saw

him sit down mechanically on the piano stool, without stopping talking, and

then without looking at the instrument run his fingers over the keys at

random. As Schulz expected hardly had Christophe struck a few arpeggios

than the sound took possession of him; he went on striking chords and still

talking; then there came whole phrases; and then he stopped talking and

began to play. The old men exchanged a meaning glance, sly and happy.

 

“Do you know that?” asked Christophe, playing one of his Lieder.

 

“Do I know it?” said Schulz delightedly. Christophe said without stopping,

half turning his head:

 

“Euh! It is not very good. Your piano!” The old man was very contrite. He

begged pardon:

 

“It is old,” he said humbly. “It is like myself.” Christophe turned round

and looked at the old man, who seemed to be asking pardon for his age, took

both his hands, and laughed. He looked into his honest eyes:

 

“Oh!” he said, “you are younger than I.” Schulz laughed aloud and spoke of

his old body and his infirmities.

 

“Ta, ta, ta!” said Christophe, “I don’t mean that; I know what I am saying.

It is true, isn’t it, Kunz?”

 

(They had already suppressed the “Herr.”)

 

Kunz agreed emphatically.

 

Schulz tried to find the same indulgence for his piano. “It has still some

beautiful notes,” he said timidly.

 

And he touched them-four or five notes that were fairly true, half an

octave in the middle register of the instrument, Christophe understood that

it was an old friend and he said kindly,—thinking of Schulz’s eyes:

 

“Yes. It still has beautiful eyes.”

 

Schulz’s face lit up. He launched out on an involved eulogy of his old

piano, but he dropped immediately, for Christophe had begun to play again.

Lieder followed Lieder; Christophe sang them softly. With tears in

his eyes Schulz followed his every movement. With his hands folded on his

stomach Kunz closed his eyes the better to enjoy it. From time to time

Christophe turned beaming towards the two old men who were absolutely

delighted, and he said with a naïve enthusiasm at which they never thought

of laughing:

 

“Hein! It is beautiful I… And this! What do you say about this?… And

this again!… This is the most beautiful of all…. Now I will play you

something which will make your hair curl….”

 

As he was finishing a dreamy fragment the cuckoo clock began to call.

Christophe started and shouted angrily. Kunz was suddenly awakened and

rolled his eyes fearfully. Even Schulz did not understand at first. Then

when he saw Christophe shaking his fist at the calling bird and shouting

to someone in the name of Heaven to take the idiot and throw it away, the

ventriloquist specter, he too discovered for the first time in his life

that the noise was intolerable; and he took a chair and tried to mount it

to take down the spoil-sport. But he nearly fell and Kunz would not let him

try again; he called Salome. She came without hurrying herself, as usual,

and was staggered to find the clock thrust into her hands, which Christophe

in his impatience had taken down himself.

 

“What am I to do with it?” she asked.

 

“Whatever you like. Take it away! Don’t let us see it again!” said Schulz,

no less impatient than Christophe.

 

(He wondered how he could have borne such a horror for so long.)

 

Salome thought that they were surely all cracked.

 

The music went on. Hours passed. Salome came and announced that dinner was

served. Schulz bade her be silent. She came again ten minutes later, then

once again, ten minutes after that; this time she was beside herself and

boiling with rage while she tried to look unperturbed; she stood firmly

in, the middle of the room and in spite of Schulz’s desperate gestures she

asked in a brazen voice:

 

“Do the gentlemen prefer to eat their dinner cold or burned? It does not

matter to me. I only await your orders.”

 

Schulz was confused by her scolding and tried to retort; but Christophe

burst out laughing. Kunz followed his example and at length Schulz laughed

too. Salome, satisfied with the effect she had produced, turned on her

heels with the air of a queen who is graciously pleased to pardon her

repentant subjects.

 

“That’s a good creature!” said Christophe, getting up from the piano. “She

is right. There is nothing so intolerable as an audience arriving in the

middle of a concert.”

 

They sat at table. There was an enormous and delicious repast. Schulz had

touched Salome’s vanity and she only asked an excuse to display her art.

There was no lack of opportunity for her to exercise it. The old friends

were tremendous feeders. Kunz was a different man at table; he expanded

like a sun; he would have done well as a sign for a restaurant. Schulz

was no less susceptible to good cheer; but his ill health imposed more

restraint upon him. It is true that generally he did not pay much heed to

that; and he had to pay for it. In that event he did not complain, if he

were ill at least he knew why. Like Kunz he had recipes of his own handed

down from father to son for generations. Salome was accustomed therefore

to work for connoisseurs. But on this occasion, she had contrived to

include all her masterpieces in one menu; it was like an exhibition of the

unforgettable cooking of Germany, honest and unsophisticated, with all

the scents of all the herbs, and thick sauces, substantial soups, perfect

stews, wonderful carp, sauerkraut, geese, plain cakes, aniseed and caraway

seed bread. Christophe was in raptures with his mouth full, and he ate like

an ogre; he had the formidable capacity of his father and grandfather,

who would have devoured a whole goose. But he could live just as well for

a whole week on bread and cheese, and cram when occasion served. Schulz

was cordial and ceremonious and watched him with kind eyes, and plied

him with all the wines of the Rhine. Kunz was shining and recognized him

as a brother. Salome’s large face was beaming happily. At first she had

been deceived when Christophe came. Schulz had spoken about him so much

beforehand that she had fancied him as an Excellency, laden with letters

and honors. When she saw him she cried out:

 

“What! Is that all?”

 

But at table Christophe won her good graces; she had never seen anybody so

splendidly do justice to her talent. Instead of going back to her kitchen

she stayed by the door to watch Christophe, who was saying all sorts of

absurd things without missing a bite, and with her hands on her hips she

roared with laughter. They were all glad and happy. There vas only one

shadow over their joy: the absence of Pottpetschmidt. They often returned

to it.

 

“Ah! If he were here! How he would eat! How he would drink! How he would

sing!”

 

Their praises of him were inexhaustible.

 

“If only Christophe could see him!… But perhaps he would be able to.

Perhaps Pottpetschmidt would return in the evening, on that night at

latest….”

 

“Oh! I shall be gone to-night,” said Christophe.

 

A shadow passed over Schulz’s beaming face.

 

“What! Gone!” he said in a trembling voice. “But you are not going.”

 

“Oh, yes,” said Christophe gaily. “I must catch the train to-night.”

 

Schulz was in despair. He had counted on Christophe spending the night,

perhaps several nights, in his house. He murmured:

 

“No, no. You can’t go!…”

 

Kunz repeated:

 

“And Pottpetschmidt!…”

 

Christophe looked at the two of them; he was touched by the dismay on their

kind friendly faces and said:

 

“How good you are!… If you like I will go to-morrow morning.”

 

Schulz took him by the hand.

 

“Ah!” he said. “How glad I am! Thank you! Thank you!”

 

He was like a child to whom to-morrow seems so far, so far, that it will

not bear thinking on. Christophe was not going to-day; to-day was theirs;

they would spend the whole evening together; he would sleep under his roof;

that was all that Schulz saw; he would not look further.

 

They became merry again. Schulz rose suddenly, looked very solemn, and

excitedly and slowly proposed the toast of their guest, who had given

him the immense joy and honor of visiting the little town and his humble

house; he drank to his happy return, to his success, to his glory, to every

happiness in the world, which with all his heart he wished him. And then

he proposed another toast “to noble music,”—another to his old friend

Kunz,—another to spring,—and he did not forget Pottpetschmidt. Kunz in

his turn drank to Schulz and the others, and Christophe, to bring the

toasts to an end, proposed the health of dame Salome, who blushed crimson.

Upon that, without giving the orators time to reply, he began a familiar

song which the two old men took up; after that another, and then another

for three parts which was all about friendship and music and wine; the

whole was accompanied by loud laughter and the clink of glasses continually

touching.

 

It was half-past three when they got up from the table. They were rather

drowsy. Kunz sank into a chair; he was longing to have a sleep. Schulz’s

legs were worn out by his exertions of the morning and by standing for his

toasts. They both hoped that Christophe would sit at the piano again and go

on playing for hours. But the terrible boy, who was in fine form, first

struck two or three chords on the piano, shut it abruptly, looked out of

the window, and asked if they could not go for a walk until supper. The

country attracted him. Kunz showed little enthusiasm, but Schulz at once

thought it an excellent idea and declared that he must show their guest the

walk round the Schönbuchwälder. Kunz made a face; but he did not protest

and got up with the others; he was as desirous as Schulz of showing

Christophe the beauties of the country.

 

They went out. Christophe took Schulz’s arm and made him walk a little

faster than the old man liked. Kunz followed mopping his brow. They talked

gaily. The people standing at their doors watched them pass and thought

that Herr Professor Schulz looked like a young man. When they left the

town they took to the fields. Kunz complained of the heat. Christophe was

merciless and declared that the air was exquisite. Fortunately for the two

old men, they stopped frequently to argue and they forgot the length of the

walk in their conversation. They went into the woods. Schulz recited verses

of Goethe and Mörike. Christophe loved poetry, but he could not remember

any, and while he listened he stepped into a vague dream in which music

replaced the words and made him forget them. He admired Schulz’s memory.

What a difference there was between the vivacity of mind of this poor rich

old man, almost impotent, shut up in his room for a great part of the year,

shut up in his little provincial town almost all his life,—and Hassler,

young, famous, in the very thick of the artistic movement, and touring over

all