in dozing off. Then Jean-Christophe used to sit near him on a heap of loose
stones or a milestone, or some high seat, uncomfortable and peculiar; and
he used to wag his little legs, and hum to himself, and dream. Or sometimes
he used to lie on his back and watch the clouds go by; they looked like
oxen, and giants, and hats, and old ladies, and immense landscapes. He used
to talk to them in a low voice, or be absorbed in a little cloud which a
great one was on the point of devouring. He was afraid of those which were
very black, almost blue, and of those which went very fast. It seemed to
him that they played an enormous part in life, and he was surprised that
neither his grandfather nor his mother paid any attention to them. They
were terrible beings if they wished to do harm. Fortunately, they used to
go by, kindly enough, a little grotesque, and they did not stop. The boy
used in the end to turn giddy with watching them too long, and he used to
fidget with his legs and arms, as though he were on the point of falling
from the sky. His eyelids then would wink, and sleep would overcome him.
Silence.... The leaves murmur gently and tremble in the sun; a faint mist
passes through the air; the uncertain flies hover, booming like an organ;
the grasshoppers, drunk with the summer, chirp eagerly and hurriedly; all
is silent.... Under the vault of the trees the cry of the green woodpecker
has magic sounds. Far away on the plain a peasant's voice harangues his
oxen; the shoes of a horse ring out on the white road. Jean-Christophe's
eyes close. Near him an ant passes along a dead branch across a furrow. He
loses consciousness.... Ages have passed. He wakes. The ant has not yet
crossed the twig.
Sometimes the old man would sleep too long, and his face would grow rigid,
and his long nose would grow longer, and his mouth stand open.
Jean-Christophe used then to look at him uneasily, and in fear of seeing
his head change gradually into some fantastic shape. He used to sing
loudly, so as to wake him up, or tumble down noisily from his heap of
stones. One day it occurred to him to throw a handful of pine-needles in
his grandfather's face, and tell him that they had fallen from the tree.
The old man believed him, and that made Jean-Christophe laugh. But,
unfortunately, he tried the trick again, and just when he had raised his
hand he saw his grandfather's eyes watching him. It was a terrible affair.
The old man was solemn, and allowed no liberty to be taken with the respect
due to himself. They were estranged for more than a week.
The worse the road was, the more beautiful it was to Jean-Christophe. Every
stone had a meaning for him; he knew them all. The shape of a rut seemed to
him to be a geographical accident almost of the same kind as the great mass
of the Taunus. In his head he had the map of all the ditches and hillocks
of the region extending two kilometers round about the house, and when he
made any change in the fixed ordering of the furrows, he thought himself no
less important than an engineer with a gang of navvies; and when with his
heel he crushed the dried top of a clod of earth, and filled up the valley
at the foot of it, it seemed to him that his day had not been wasted.
Sometimes they would meet a peasant in his cart on the highroad, and,
if the peasant knew Jean-Christophe's grandfather they would climb up
by his side. That was a Paradise on earth. The horse went fast, and
Jean-Christophe laughed with delight, except when they passed other
people walking; then he would look serious and indifferent, like a person
accustomed to drive in a carriage, but his heart was filled with pride. His
grandfather and the man would talk without bothering about him. Hidden and
crushed by their legs, hardly sitting, sometimes not sitting at all, he was
perfectly happy. He talked aloud, without troubling about any answer to
what he said. He watched the horse's ears moving. What strange creatures
those ears were! They moved in every direction--to right and left; they
hitched forward, and fell to one side, and turned backwards in such a
ridiculous way that he: burst out laughing. He would pinch his grandfather
to make him look at them; but his grandfather was not interested in them.
He would repulse Jean-Christophe, and tell him to be quiet. Jean-Christophe
would ponder. He thought that when people grow up they are not surprised by
anything, and that when they are strong they know everything; and he would
try to be grown up himself, and to hide his curiosity, and appear to be
indifferent.
He was silent them The rolling of the carriage made him drowsy. The horse's
little bells danced--ding, ding; dong, ding. Music awoke in the air, and
hovered about the silvery bells, like a swarm of bees. It beat gaily with
the rhythm of the cart--an endless source of song, and one song came
on another's heels. To Jean-Christophe they were superb. There was one
especially which he thought so beautiful that he tried to draw his
grandfather's attention to it. He sang it aloud. They took no heed of
him. He began it again in a higher key, then again shrilly, and then old
Jean Michel said irritably: "Be quiet; you are deafening me with your
trumpet-call!" That took away his breath. He blushed and was silent and
mortified. He crushed with his contempt the two stockish imbeciles who did
not understand the sublimity of his song, which opened wide the heavens! He
thought them very ugly, with their week-old beards, and they smelled very
ill.
He found consolation, in watching the horse's shadow. That an astonishing
sight. The beast ran along with them lying on its side. In the evening,
when they returned, it covered a part of the field. They came upon a rick,
and the shadow's head would rise up and then return to its place when they
had passed. Its snout was flattened out like a burst balloon; its ears were
large, and pointed like candles. Was it really a shadow or a creature?
Jean-Christophe would not have liked to encounter it alone. He would not
have run after it as he did after his grandfather's shadow, so as to walk
on its head and trample it under foot. The shadows of the trees when the
sun was low were also objects of meditation. They made barriers along the
road, and looked like phantoms, melancholy and grotesque, saying, "Go no
farther!" and the creaking axles and the horse's shoes repeated, "No
farther!"
Jean-Christophe's grandfather and the driver never ceased their endless
chatter. Sometimes they would raise their voices, especially when they
talked of local affairs or things going wrong. The child would cease to
dream, and look at them uneasily. It seemed to him that they were angry
with each other, and he was afraid that they would come to blows. However,
on the contrary, they best understood each other in their common dislikes.
For the most part, they were without haired or the least passion; they
talked of small matters loudly, just for the pleasure of talking, as
is the joy of the people. But Jean-Christophe, not understanding their
conversation, only heard the loud tones of their voices and saw their
agitated faces, and thought fearfully: "How wicked he looks! Surely they
hate each other! How he rolls his eyes, and how wide he opens his mouth! He
spat on my nose in his fury. O Lord, he will kill my grandfather!..."
The carriage stopped. The peasant said: "Here you are." The two deadly
enemies shook hands. Jean-Christophe's grandfather got down first; the
peasant handed him the little boy. The whip flicked the horse, the carriage
rolled away, and there they were by the little sunken road near the Rhine.
The sun dipped down below the fields. The path wound almost to the water's
edge. The plentiful soft grass yielded under their feet, crackling.
Alder-trees leaned over the river, almost half in the water. A cloud of
gnats danced. A boat passed noiselessly, drawn on by the peaceful current,
striding along. The water sucked the branches of the willows with a little
noise like lips. The light was soft and misty, the air fresh, the river
silvery gray. They reached their home, and the crickets chirped, and on the
threshold smiled his mother's dear face....
Oh, delightful memories, kindly visions, which will hum their melody in
their tuneful flight through life!... Journeys in later life, great towns
and moving seas, dream countries and loved faces, are not so exactly graven
in the soul as these childish walks, or the corner of the garden seen every
day through the window, through the steam and mist made by the child's
mouth glued to it for want of other occupation....
Evening now, and the house is shut up. Home ... the refuge from all
terrifying things--darkness, night, fear, things unknown. No enemy can pass
the threshold.... The fire flares. A golden duck turns slowly on the spit;
a delicious smell of fat and of crisping flesh scents the room. The joy of
eating, incomparable delight, a religious enthusiasm, thrills of joy! The
body is too languid with the soft warmth, and the fatigues of the day,
and the familiar voices. The act of digestion plunges it in ecstasy, and
faces, shadows, the lampshade, the tongues of flame dancing with a shower
of stars in the fireplace--all take on a magical appearance of delight.
Jean-Christophe lays his cheek on his plate, the better to enjoy all this
happiness....
He is in his soft bed. How did he come there? He is overcome with
weariness. The buzzing of the voices in the room and the visions of the
day are intermingled in his mind. His father takes his violin; the shrill
sweet sounds cry out complaining in the night. But the crowning joy is
when his mother comes and takes Jean-Christophe's hands. He is drowsy,
and, leaning over him, in a low voice she sings, as he asks, an, old song
with words that have no meaning. His father thinks such music stupid, but
Jean-Christophe never wearies of it. He holds his breath, and is between
laughing and crying. His heart is intoxicated. He does not know where he
is, and he is overflowing with tenderness. He throws his little arms round
his mother's neck, and hugs her with all his strength. She says, laughing:
"You want to strangle me?"
He hugs her close. How he loves her! How he loves everything! Everybody,
everything! All is good, all is beautiful.... He sleeps. The cricket on the
hearth cheeps. His grandfather's tales, the great heroes, float by in the
happy night.... To be a hero like them!... Yes, he will be that ... he is
that.... Ah, how good it is to live!
* * * * *
What an abundance of strength, joy, pride, is in that little creature! What
superfluous energy! His body and mind never cease to move; they are carried
round and round breathlessly. Like a little salamander, he dances day and
night in the flames. His is an unwearying enthusiasm finding its food in
all things. A delicious dream, a bubbling well, a treasure of inexhaustible
hope, a laugh, a song, unending drunkenness. Life does not hold him yet;
always he escapes it. He swims in the infinite. How happy he is! He is made
to be happy! There is nothing in him that does not believe in happiness,
and does not cling to it with all his little strength and passion!...
Life will soon see to it that he is brought to reason.
II
L'alba vinceva l'ora, mattutina.
Che fuggia 'nnanzi, si che di lontano
Conobbi il tremolar della marina....
_Purgatorio_, i.
The Kraffts came originally from Antwerp. Old Jean Michel had left the
country as a result of a boyish freak, a violent quarrel, such as he had
often had, for he was devilish pugnacious, and it had had an unfortunate
ending. He settled down, almost fifty years ago, in the little town of the
principality, with its red-pointed roofs and shady gardens, lying on the
slope of a gentle hill, mirrored in the pale green eyes of _Vater Rhein_.
An excellent musician, he had readily gained appreciation in a country of
musicians. He had taken root there by marrying, forty years ago, Clara
Sartorius, daughter of the Prince's _Kapellmeister_, whose duties he took
over. Clara was a placid German with two passions--cooking and music. She
had for her husband a veneration only equaled by that which she had for her
father, Jean Michel no less admired his wife. They had lived together in
perfect amity for fifteen years, and they had four children. Then Clara
died; and Jean Michel bemoaned her loss, and then, five months later,
married Ottilia Schütz, a girl of twenty, with red cheeks, robust and
smiling. After eight years of marriage she also died, but in that time
she gave him seven children--eleven children in all, of whom only one had
survived. Although he loved them much, all these bereavements had not
shaken his good-humor. The greatest blow had been the death of Ottilia,
three years ago, which had come to him at an age when it is difficult to
start life again and to make a new home. But after a moment's confusion old
Jean Michel regained his equilibrium, which no misfortune seemed able to
disturb.
He was an affectionate man, but health was the strongest thing in him. He
had a physical repugnance from sadness, and a need of gaiety, great gaiety,
Flemish fashion--an enormous and childish laugh. Whatever might be his
grief, he did not drink one drop the less, nor miss one bite at table, and
his band never had one day off. Under his direction the Court orchestra
won a small celebrity in the Rhine country, where Jean Michel had become
legendary by reason of his athletic stature and his outbursts of anger. He
could not master them, in spite of all his efforts, for the violent man was
at bottom timid and afraid of compromising himself. He loved decorum and
feared opinion. But his blood ran away with him. He used to see red, and
he used to be the victim of sudden fits of crazy impatience, not only at
rehearsals, but at the concerts, where once in the Prince's presence he
had hurled his bâton and had stamped about like a man possessed, as he
apostrophized one of the musicians in a furious and stuttering voice. The
Prince was amused, but the artists in question were rancorous against
him. In vain did Jean Michel, ashamed of his outburst, try to pass it by
immediately in exaggerated obsequiousness. On the next occasion he would
break out again, and as this extreme irritability increased with age, in
the end it made his position very difficult. He felt it himself, and one
day, when his outbursts had all but caused the whole orchestra to strike,
he sent in his resignation. He hoped that in consideration of his services
they would make difficulties about accepting it, and would ask him to stay.
There was nothing of the kind, and as he was too proud to go back on his
offer, he left, brokenhearted, and crying out upon the ingratitude of
mankind.
Since that time he had not known how to fill his days. He was more than
seventy, but he was still vigorous, and he went on working and going up and
down the town from morning to night, giving lessons, and entering into
discussions, pronouncing perorations, and entering into everything. He
was ingenious, and found all sorts of ways of keeping himself occupied.
He began to repair musical instruments; he invented, experimented, and
sometimes discovered improvements. He composed also, and set store by his
compositions. He had once written a _Missa Solennis_, of which he used
often to talk, and it was the glory of his family. It had cost him so much
trouble that he had all but brought about a congestion of the mind in the
writing of it. He tried to persuade himself that it was a work of genius,
but he knew perfectly well with what emptiness of thought it had been
written, and he dared not look again at the manuscript, because every time
he did so he recognized in the phrases that he had thought to be his own,
rags taken from other authors, painfully pieced together haphazard. It was
a great sorrow to him. He had ideas sometimes which he thought admirable.
He would run tremblingly to his table. Could he keep his inspiration this
time? But hardly had he taken pen in hand than he found himself alone in
silence, and all his efforts to call to life again the vanished voices
ended only in bringing to his ears familiar melodies of Mendelssohn or
Brahms.
"There are," says George Sand, "unhappy geniuses who lack the power of
expression, and carry down to their graves the unknown region of their
thoughts, as has said a member of that great family of illustrious mutes
or stammerers--Geoffrey Saint-Hilaire." Old Jean Michel belonged to that
family. He was no more successful in expressing himself in music than in
words, and he always deceived himself. He would so much have loved to talk,
to write, to be a great musician, an eloquent orator! It was his secret
sore. He told no one of it, did not admit it to himself, tried not to think
of it; but he did think of it, in spite of himself, and so there was the
seed of death in his soul.
Poor old man! In nothing did he succeed in being absolutely himself. There
were in him so many seeds of beauty and power, but they never put forth
fruit; a profound and touching faith in the dignity of Art and the moral
value of life, but it was nearly always translated in an emphatic and
ridiculous fashion; so much noble pride, and in life an almost servile
admiration of his superiors; so lofty a desire for independence, and,
in fact, absolute docility; pretensions to strength of mind, and every
conceivable superstition; a passion for heroism, real courage, and so much
timidity!--a nature to stop by the wayside.
* * * * *
Jean Michel had transferred all his ambitions to his son, and at first
Melchior had promised to realize them. From childhood he had shown great
musical gifts. He learned with extraordinary facility, and quickly acquired
as a violinist a virtuosity which for a long time made him the favorite,
almost the idol, of the Court concerts. He played the piano and other
instruments pleasantly. He was a fine talker, well, though a little
heavily, built, and was of the type which passes in Germany for classic
beauty; he had a large brow that expressed nothing, large regular features,
and a curled beard--a Jupiter of the banks of the Rhine. Old Jean Michel
enjoyed his son's success; he was ecstatic over the virtuoso's _tours de
force_, he who had never been able properly to play any instrument. In
truth, Melchior would have had no difficulty in expressing what he thought.
The trouble was that he did not think; and he did not even bother about it.
He had the soul of a mediocre comedian who takes pains with the inflexions
of his voice without caring about what they express, and, with anxious
vanity, watches their effect on his audience.
The odd thing was that, in spite of his constant anxiety about his stage
pose, there was in him, as in Jean Michel, in spite of his timid respect
for social conventions, a curious, irregular, unexpected and chaotic
quality, which made people say that the Kraffts were a bit crazy. It did
not harm him at first; it seemed as though these very eccentricities were
the proof of the genius attributed to him; for it is understood among
people of common sense that an artist has none. But it was not long
before his extravagances were traced to their source--usually the bottle.
Nietzsche says that Bacchus is the God of Music, and Melchior's instinct
was of the same opinion; but in his case his god was very ungrateful to
him; far from giving him the ideas he lacked, he took away from him the few
that he had. After his absurd marriage--absurd in the eyes of the world,
and therefore also in his own--he gave himself up to it more and more. He
neglected his playing--so secure in his own superiority that very soon he
lost it. Other _virtuosi_ came to succeed him in public favor. That
was bitter to him, but instead of rousing his energy, these rebuffs only
discouraged him. He avenged himself by crying down his rivals with his
pot-fellows. In his absurd conceit he counted on succeeding his father as
musical director: another man was appointed. He thought himself persecuted,
and took on the airs of a misunderstood genius. Thanks to the esteem in
which old Krafft was held, he kept his place as a violin in the orchestra,
but gradually he lost all his lessons in the town. And if this blow struck
most at his vanity, it touched his purse even more. For several years the
resources of his household had grown less and less, following on various
reverses of fortune. After having known plenty, want came, and every day
increased. Melchior refused to take notice of it; he did not spend one
penny the less on his toilet or his pleasures.
He was not a bad man, but a half-good man, which is perhaps worse--weak,
without spring, without moral strength, but for the rest, in his own
opinion, a good father, a good son, a good husband, a good man--and perhaps
he was good, if to be so it is enough to possess an easy kindness, which
is quickly touched, and that animal affection by which a man loves his kin
as a part of himself. It cannot even be said that he was very egoistic; he
had not personality enough for that. He was nothing. They are a terrible
thing in life, these people who are nothing. Like a dead weight thrown into
the air, they fall, and must fall; and in their fall they drag with them
everything that they have.
It was when the situation of his family had reached its most difficult
point, that little Jean-Christophe began to understand what was going on
about him.
He was no longer the only child. Melchior gave his wife a child every year,
without troubling to think what was to become of it later. Two had died
young; two others were three and four years old. Melchior never bothered
about them. Louisa, when she had to go out, left them with Jean-Christophe,
now six years old.
The charge cost Jean-Christophe something, for he had to sacrifice to his
duty his splendid afternoons in the fields. But he was proud of being
treated as a man, and gravely fulfilled his task. He amused the children as
best he could by showing them his games, and he set himself to talk to them
as he had heard his mother talking to the baby. Or he would carry them in
his arms, one after another, as he had seen her do; he bent under their
weight, and clenched his teeth, and with all his strength clutched his
little brother to his breast, so as to prevent his falling. The children
always wanted to be carried--they were never tired of it; and when
Jean-Christophe could do no more, they wept without ceasing. They made him
very unhappy, and he was often troubled about them. They were very dirty,
and needed maternal attentions. Jean-Christophe did not know what to do.
They took advantage of him. Sometimes he wanted to slap them, but he
thought, "They are little; they do not know," and, magnanimously, he let
them pinch him, and beat him, and tease him. Ernest used to howl for
nothing; he used to stamp his feet and roll about in a passion; he was a
nervous child, and Louisa had bidden Jean-Christophe not to oppose his
whims. As for Rodolphe, he was as malicious as a monkey; he always took
advantage of Jean-Christophe having Ernest in his arms, to play all sorts
of silly pranks behind his back; he used to break toys, spill water, dirty
his frock, and knock the plates over as he rummaged in the cupboard.
And when Louisa returned, instead of praising Jean-Christophe, she used to
say to him, without scolding him, but with an injured air, as she saw the
havoc; "My poor child, you are not very clever!"
Jean-Christophe would be mortified, and his heart would grow big within
him.
* * * * *
Louisa, who let no opportunity escape of earning a little money, used to
go out as cook for exceptional occasions, such, as marriages or baptismal
feasts. Melchior pretended to know nothing about it--it touched his
vanity--but he was not annoyed with her for doing it, so long as he did not
know. Jean-Christophe had as yet no idea of the difficulties of life; he
knew no other limit to his will than the will of his parents, and that did
not stand much in his way, for they let him do pretty much as he pleased.
His one idea was to grow up, so as to be able to do as he liked. He had no
conception of obstacles standing in the way at every turn, and he had never
the least idea but that his parents were completely their own masters. It
was a shock to his whole being when, for the first time, he perceived that
among men there are those who command, and those who are commanded, and
that his own people were not of the first class; it was the first crisis of
his life.
It happened one afternoon. His mother had dressed him in his cleanest
clothes, old clothes given to her which Louisa's ingenuity and patience had
turned to account. He went to find her, as they had agreed, at the house
in which she was working. He was abashed at the idea of entering alone. A
footman was swaggering in the porch; he stopped the boy, and asked him
patronizingly what he wanted. Jean-Christophe blushed, and murmured that
he had come to see "Frau Krafft"--as he had been told to say.
"Frau Krafft? What do you want with Frau Krafft?" asked the footman,
ironically emphasizing the word _Frau_, "Your mother? Go down there.
You will find Louisa in the kitchen at the end of the passage."
He went, growing redder and redder. He was ashamed to hear his mother
called familiarly _Louisa_. He was humiliated; he would have liked to run
away down to his dear river, and the shelter of the brushwood where he used
to tell himself stories.