Jean-Christophe, vol 1 by Romain Rolland (fb2 epub reader .txt) đź“•
He waited for contradiction, and spat on the fire. Then, as neither mother nor child raised any objection, he was for going on, but relapsed into silence.
* * * * *
They said no more. Both Jean Michel, sitting by the fireside, and Louisa, in her bed, dreamed sadly. The old man, in spite of what he had said, had bitter thoughts about his son's marriage, and Louisa was thinking of it also, and blaming herself, although she had nothing wherewith to reproach herself.
She had been a servant when, to everybody's surprise, and her own especially, she married Melchior Krafft, Jean Michel's son. The Kraffts were without fortune, but were considerable people in the little Rhine town in which the old man had settled down more than fifty years before. Both father and son were musicians, and known to all the musicians of the country from Cologne to Mannheim. Melchior played the violin at the Hof-Theater, and Jean Michel had formerly been director of the grand-ducal concerts. The o
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animal that he was so badgered and forced every day to move bits of ivory!
He was not even given time to go and see his beloved river. What was it
made them so set against him? He was angry, hurt in his pride, robbed of
his liberty. He decided that he would play no more, or as badly as
possible, and would discourage his father. It would be hard, but at all
costs he must keep his independence.
The very next lesson he began to put his plan into execution. He set
himself conscientiously to hit the notes awry, or to bungle every touch.
Melchior cried out, then roared, and blows began to rain. He had a heavy
ruler. At every false note he struck the boy’s fingers, and at the same
time shouted in his ears, so that he was like to deafen him.
Jean-Christophe’s face twitched tinder the pain of it; he bit his lips to
keep himself from crying, and stoically went on hitting the notes all
wrong, bobbing his head down whenever he felt a blow coming. But his system
was not good, and it was not long before he began to see that it was so.
Melchior was as obstinate as his son, and he swore that even if they were
to stay there two days and two nights he would not let him off a single
note until it had been properly played. Then Jean-Christophe tried too
deliberately to play wrongly, and Melchior began to suspect the trick, as
he saw that the boy’s hand fell heavily to one side at every note with
obvious intent. The blows became more frequent; Jean-Christophe was no
longer conscious of his fingers. He wept pitifully and silently, sniffing,
and swallowing down his sobs and tears. He understood that he had nothing
to gain by going on like that, and that he would have to resort to
desperate measures. He stopped, and, trembling at the thought of the storm
which was about to let loose, he said valiantly:
“Papa, I won’t play any more.”
Melchior choked.
“What! What!…” he cried.
He took and almost broke the boy’s arm with shaking it. Jean-Christophe,
trembling more and more, and raising his elbow to ward off the blows, said
again:
“I won’t play any more. First, because I don’t like being beaten. And
then….”
He could not finish. A terrific blow knocked the wind out of him, and
Melchior roared:
“Ah! you don’t like being beaten? You don’t like it?…”
Blows rained. Jean-Christophe bawled through his sobs:
“And then … I don’t like music!… I don’t like music!…”
He slipped down from his chair. Melchior roughly put him back, and knocked
his knuckles against the keyboard. He cried:
“You shall play!”
And Jean-Christophe shouted:
“No! No! I won’t play!”
Melchior had to surrender. He thrashed the boy, thrust him from the room,
and said that he should have nothing to eat all day, or the whole month,
until he had played all his exercises without a mistake. He kicked him out
and slammed the door after him,
Jean-Christophe found himself on the stairs, the dark and dirty stairs,
worm-eaten. A draught came through a broken pane in the skylight, and the
walls were dripping. Jean-Christophe sat on one of the greasy steps; his
heart was beating wildly with anger and emotion. In a low voice he cursed
his father:
“Beast! That’s what you are! A beast … a gross creature … a brute! Yes,
a brute!… and I hate you, I hate you!… Oh, I wish you were dead! I wish
you were dead!”
His bosom swelled. He looked desperately at the sticky staircase and the
spider’s web swinging in the wind above the broken pane. He felt alone,
lost in his misery. He looked at the gap in the banisters…. What if he
were to throw himself down?… or out of the window?… Yes, what if he
were to kill himself to punish them? How remorseful they would be! He heard
the noise of his fall from the stairs. The door upstairs opened suddenly.
Agonized voices cried: “He has fallen!—He has fallen!” Footsteps clattered
downstairs. His father and mother threw themselves weeping upon his body.
His mother sobbed: “It is your fault! You have killed him!” His father
waved his arms, threw himself on his knees, beat his head against the
banisters, and cried: “What a wretch am I! What a wretch am I!” The sight
of all this softened his misery. He was on the point of taking pity on
their grief; but then he thought that it was well for them, Had he enjoyed
his revenge….
When his story was ended, he found himself once more at the top of the
stairs in the dark; he looked down once more, and his desire to throw
himself down was gone. He even, shuddered a little, and moved away from the
edge, thinking that he might fall. Then he felt that he was a prisoner,
like a poor bird in a cage—a prisoner forever, with nothing to do but to
break his head and hurt himself. He wept, wept, and he robbed his eyes with
his dirty little hands, so that in a moment he was filthy. As he wept he
never left off looking at the things about him, and he found some
distraction in that. He stopped moaning for a moment to look at the spider
which, had just begun to move. Then he began with less conviction. He
listened to the sound of his own weeping, and went on, mechanically with
his sobbing, without much knowing why he did so. Soon he got up; he was
attracted by the window. He sat on the window-sill, retiring into the
background, and watched the spider furtively. It interested while it
revolted him.
Below the Rhine flowed, washing the walls of the house. In the staircase
window it was like being suspended over the river in a moving sky.
Jean-Christophe never limped down the stairs without taking a long look at
it, but he had never yet seen it as it was to-day. Grief sharpens the
senses; it is as though everything were more sharply graven on the vision
after tears have washed away the dim traces of memory. The river was like
a living thing to the child—a creature inexplicable, but how much more
powerful than all the creatures that he knew! Jean-Christophe leaned
forward to see it better; he pressed his mouth and flattened his nose
against the pane. Where was it going? What did it want? It looked
free, and sure of its road…. Nothing could stop it. At all hours of the
day or night, rain or sun, whether there were joy or sorrow in the house,
it went on going by, and it was as though nothing mattered to it, as
though it never knew sorrow, and rejoiced in its strength. What joy to
be like it, to run through the fields, and by willow-branches, and over
little shining pebbles and crisping sand, and to care for nothing, to be
cramped by nothing, to be free!…
The boy looked and listened greedily; it was as though he were borne
along by the river, moving by with it…. When he closed his eyes he
saw color—blue, green, yellow, red, and great chasing shadows and
sunbeams…. What he sees takes shape. Now it is a large plain, reeds, corn
waving under a breeze scented with new grass and mint. Flowers on every
side—cornflowers, poppies, violets. How lovely it is! How sweet the air!
How good it is to lie down in the thick, soft grass!… Jean-Christophe
feels glad and a little bewildered, as he does when on feast-days his
father pours into his glass a little Rhine wine…. The river goes by….
The country is changed…. Now there are trees leaning over the water;
their delicate leaves, like little hands, dip, move, and turn about in
the water. A village among the trees is mirrored in the river. There are
cypress-trees, and the crosses of the cemetery showing above the white wall
washed by the stream. Then there are rocks, a mountain gorge, vines on the
slopes, a little pine-wood, and ruined castles…. And once more the plain,
corn, birds, and the sun….
The great green mass of the river goes by smoothly, like a single
thought; there are no waves, almost no ripples—smooth, oily patches.
Jean-Christophe does not see it; he has closed his eyes to hear it better.
The ceaseless roaring fills him, makes him giddy; he is exalted by this
eternal, masterful dream which goes no man knows whither. Over the turmoil
of its depths rush waters, in swift rhythm, eagerly, ardently. And from the
rhythm ascends music, like a vine climbing a trellis—arpeggios from silver
keys, sorrowful violins, velvety and smooth-sounding flutes…. The country
has disappeared. The river has disappeared. There floats by only a strange,
soft, and twilight atmosphere. Jean-Christophe’s heart flutters with
emotion. What does he see now? Oh! Charming faces!… A little girl with
brown tresses calls to him, slowly, softly, and mockingly…. A pale
boy’s face looks at him with melancholy blue eyes…. Others smile; other
eyes look at him—curious and provoking eyes, and their glances make
him blush—eyes affectionate and mournful, like the eyes of a dog—eyes
imperious, eyes suffering…. And the pale face of a woman, with black
hair, and lips close pressed, and eyes so large that they obscure her other
features, and they gaze upon Jean-Christophe with an ardor that hurts
him…. And, dearest of all, that face which smiles upon him with clear
gray eyes and lips a little open, showing gleaming white teeth…. Ah! how
kind and tender is that smile! All his heart is tenderness from it! How
good it is to love! Again! Smile upon me again! Do not go!… Alas! it is
gone!… But it leaves in his heart sweetness ineffable. Evil, sorrow,
are no more; nothing is left…. Nothing, only an airy dream, like serene
music, floating down a sunbeam, like the gossamers on fine summer days….
What has happened? What are these visions that fill the child with sadness
and sweet sorrow? Never had he seen them before, and yet he knew them and
recognized them. Whence come they? From what obscure abysm of creation? Are
they what has been … or what will be?…
Now all is done, every haunting form is gone. Once more through a misty
veil, as though he were soaring high above it, the river in flood appears,
covering the fields, and rolling by, majestic, slow, almost still. And far,
far away, like a steely light upon the horizon, a watery plain, a line of
trembling waves—the sea. The river runs down to it. The sea seems to run
up to the river. She fires him. He desires her. He must lose himself in
her…. The music hovers; lovely dance rhythms swing out madly; all the
world is rocked in their triumphant whirligig…. The soul, set free,
cleaves space, like swallows’ flight, like swallows drunk with the air,
skimming across the sky with shrill cries…. Joy! Joy! There is nothing,
nothing!… Oh, infinite happiness!…
Hours passed; it was evening; the staircase was in darkness. Drops of rain
made rings upon the river’s gown, and the current bore them dancing away.
Sometimes the branch of a tree or pieces of black bark passed noiselessly
and disappeared. The murderous spider had withdrawn to her darkest corner.
And little Jean-Christophe was still leaning forward on the window-sill.
His face was pale and dirty; happiness shone in him. He was asleep.
IIIE la faccia del sol nascere ombrata.
Purgatorio, xxx.
He had
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