them. But never had he heard them as he heard them now. It was true: what
need was there to sing?... His heart was full of tenderness and sorrow. He
was fain to embrace the meadows, the river, the sky, the clear stars. He
was filled with love for his uncle Gottfried, who seemed to him now the
best, the cleverest, the most beautiful of men. He thought how he had
misjudged him, and he thought that his uncle was sad because he,
Jean-Christophe, had misjudged him. He was remorseful. He wanted to cry
out: "Uncle, do not be sad! I will not be naughty again. Forgive me, I love
you!" But he dared not. And suddenly he threw himself into Gottfried's
arms, but the words would not come, only he repeated, "I love you!" and
kissed him passionately. Gottfried was surprised and touched, and went on
saying, "What? What?" and kissed him. Then he got up, took him by the hand,
and said: "We must go in." Jean-Christophe was sad because his uncle had
not understood him. But as they came to the house, Gottfried said: "If you
like we'll go again to hear God's music, and I will sing you some more
songs." And when Jean-Christophe kissed him gratefully as they said
good-night, he saw that his uncle had understood.
Thereafter they often went for walks together in the evening, and they
walked without a word along by the river, or through the fields. Gottfried
slowly smoked his pipe, and Jean-Christophe, a little frightened by the
darkness, would give him his hand. They would sit down on the grass, and
after a few moments of silence Gottfried would talk to him about the stars
and the clouds; he taught him to distinguish the breathing of the earth,
air, and water, the songs, cries, and sounds of the little worlds of
flying, creeping, hopping, and swimming things swarming in the darkness,
and the signs of rain and fine weather, and the countless instruments of
the symphony of the night. Sometimes Gottfried would sing tunes, sad or
gay, but always of the same kind, and always in the end Jean-Christophe
would be brought to the same sorrow. But he would never sing more than one
song in an evening, and Jean-Christophe noticed that he did not sing gladly
when he was asked to do so; it had to come of itself, just when he wanted
to. Sometimes they had to wait for a long time without speaking, and just
when Jean-Christophe was beginning to think, "He is not going to sing this
evening," Gottfried would make up his mind.
One evening, when nothing would induce Gottfried to sing, Jean-Christophe
thought of submitting to him one of his own small compositions, in the
making of which he found so much trouble and pride. He wanted to show what
an artist he was. Gottfried listened very quietly, and then said:
"That is very ugly, my poor dear Jean-Christophe!"
Jean-Christophe was so hurt that he could find nothing to say. Gottfried
went on pityingly:
"Why did you do it? It is so ugly! No one forced you to do it."
Hot with anger, Jean-Christophe protested:
"My grandfather thinks my music fine."
"Ah!" said Gottfried, not turning a hair. "No doubt he is right. He is a
learned man. He knows all about music. I know nothing about it...."
And after a moment:
"But I think that is very ugly."
He looked quietly at Jean-Christophe, and saw his angry face, and smiled,
and said:
"Have you composed any others? Perhaps I shall like the others better than
that."
Jean-Christophe thought that his other compositions might wipe out the
impression of the first, and he sang them all. Gottfried said nothing; he
waited until they were finished. Then he shook his head, and with profound
conviction said:
"They are even more ugly."
Jean-Christophe shut his lips, and his chin trembled; he wanted to cry.
Gottfried went on as though he himself were upset.
"How ugly they are!"
Jean-Christophe, with tears in his voice, cried out: "But why do you say
they are ugly?"
Gottfried looked at him with his frank eyes.
"Why?... I don't know.... Wait.... They are ugly ... first, because they
are stupid.... Yes, that's it.... They are stupid, they don't mean
anything.... You see? When you wrote, you had nothing to say. Why did you
write them?"
"I don't know," said Jean-Christophe, in a piteous voice. "I wanted to
write something pretty."
"There you are! You wrote for the sake of writing. You wrote because you
wanted to be a great musician, and to be admired. You have been proud; you
have been a liar; you have been punished.... You see! A man is always
punished when he is proud and a liar in music. Music must be modest and
sincere--or else, what is it? Impious, a blasphemy of the Lord, who has
given us song to tell the honest truth."
He saw the boy's distress, and tried to kiss him. But Jean-Christophe
turned angrily away, and for several days he sulked. He hated Gottfried.
But it was in vain that he said over and over to himself: "He is an ass! He
knows nothing--nothing! My grandfather, who is much cleverer, likes my
music." In his heart he knew that his uncle was right, and Gottfried's
words were graven on his inmost soul; he was ashamed to have been a liar.
And, in spite of his resentment, he always thought of it when he was
writing music, and often he tore up what he had written, being ashamed
already of what Gottfried would have thought of it. When he got over it,
and wrote a melody which he knew to be not quite sincere, he hid it
carefully from his uncle; he was fearful of his judgment, and was quite
happy when Gottfried just said of one of his pieces: "That is not so very
ugly.... I like it...."
Sometimes, by way of revenge, he used to trick him by giving him as his own
melodies from the great musicians, and he was delighted when it happened
that Gottfried disliked them heartily. But that did not trouble Gottfried.
He would laugh loudly when he saw Jean-Christophe clap his hands and dance
about him delightedly, and he always returned to his usual argument: "It is
well enough written, but it says nothing." He always refused to be present
at one of the little concerts given in Melchior's house. However beautiful
the music might be, he would begin to yawn and look sleepy with boredom.
Very soon he would be unable to bear it any longer, and would steal away
quietly. He used to say:
"You see, my boy, everything that you write in the house is not music.
Music in a house is like sunshine in a room. Music is to be found outside
where you breathe God's dear fresh air."
He was always talking of God, for he was very pious, unlike the two
Kraffts, father and son, who were free-thinkers, and took care to eat meat
on Fridays.
* * * * *
Suddenly, for no apparent reason, Melchior changed his opinion. Not only
did he approve of his father having put together Jean-Christophe's
inspirations, but, to the boy's great surprise, he spent several evenings
in making two or three copies of his manuscript. To every question put to
him on the subject, he replied impressively, "We shall see; ..." or he
would rub his hands and laugh, smack the boy's head by way of a joke, or
turn him up and blithely spank him. Jean-Christophe loathed these
familiarities, but he saw that his father was pleased, and did not know
why.
Then there were mysterious confabulations between Melchior and his father.
And one evening Jean-Christophe, to his astonishment, learned that he,
Jean-Christophe, had dedicated to H.S.H. the Grand Duke Leopold the
_Pleasures of Childhood_. Melchior had sounded the disposition of the
Prince, who had shown himself graciously inclined to accept the homage.
Thereupon Melchior declared that without losing a moment they must,
_primo_, draw up the official request to the Prince; _secondo_, publish the
work; _tertio_, organize a concert to give it a hearing.
There were further long conferences between Melchior and Jean Michel. They
argued heatedly for two or three evenings. It was forbidden to interrupt
them. Melchior wrote, erased; erased, wrote. The old man talked loudly, as
though he were reciting verses. Sometimes they squabbled or thumped on the
table because they could not find a word.
Then Jean-Christophe was called, made to sit at the table with a pen in his
hand, his father on his right, his grandfather on his left, and the old man
began to dictate words which he did not understand, because he found it
difficult to write every word in his enormous letters, because Melchior was
shouting in his ear, and because the old man declaimed with such emphasis
that Jean-Christophe, put out by the sound of the words, could not bother
to listen to their meaning. The old man was no less in a state of emotion.
He could not sit still, and he walked up and down the room, involuntarily
illustrating the text of what he read with gestures, but he came every
minute to look over what the boy had written, and Jean-Christophe,
frightened by the two large faces looking over his shoulder, put out his
tongue, and held his pen clumsily. A mist floated before his eyes; he made
too many strokes, or smudged what he had written; and Melchior roared, and
Jean Michel stormed; and he had to begin again, and then again, and when he
thought that they had at last come to an end, a great blot fell on the
immaculate page. Then they pulled his ears, and he burst into tears; but
they forbade him to weep, because he was spoiling the paper, and they began
to dictate, beginning all over again, and he thought it would go on like
that to the end of his life.
At last it was finished, and Jean Michel leaned against the mantelpiece,
and read over their handiwork in a voice trembling with pleasure, while
Melchior sat straddled across a chair, and looked at the ceiling and wagged
his chair and, as a connoisseur, rolled round his tongue the style of the
following epistle:
"_Most Noble and Sublime Highness! Most
Gracious Lord!_
"From my fourth year Music has been the first occupation of my childish
days. So soon as I allied myself to the noble Muse, who roused my soul to
pure harmony, I loved her, and, as it seemed to me, she returned my love.
Now I am in my sixth year, and for some time my Muse in hours of
inspiration has whispered in my ears: 'Be bold! Be bold! Write down the
harmonies of thy soul!' 'Six years old,' thought I, 'and how should I be
bold? What would the learned in the art say of me?' I hesitated. I
trembled. But my Muse insisted. I obeyed. I wrote.
"And now shall I,
"_O Most Sublime Highness!_
"--shall I have the temerity and audacity to place upon the steps of Thy
Throne the first-fruits of my youthful labors?... Shall I make so bold as
to hope that Thou wilt let fall upon them the august approbation of Thy
paternal regard?...
"Oh, yes! For Science and the Arts have ever found in Thee their sage
Mæcenas, their generous champion, and talent puts forth its flowers under
the ægis of Thy holy protection.
"In this profound and certain faith I dare, then, approach Thee with these
youthful efforts. Receive them as a pure offering of my childish
veneration, and of Thy goodness deign,
"_O Most Sublime Highness!_
"to glance at them, and at their young author, who bows at Thy feet deeply
and in humility!
"_From the most submissive, faithful, and obedient servant of His Most
Noble and Most Sublime Highness_,
"JEAN-CHRISTOPHE KRAFFT."
Jean-Christophe heard nothing. He was very happy to have finished, and,
fearing that he would be made to begin again, he ran away to the fields. He
had no idea of what he had written, and he cared not at all. But when the
old man had finished his reading he began again to taste the full flavor of
it, and when the second reading came to an end Melchior and he declared
that it was a little masterpiece. That was also the opinion of the Grand
Duke, to whom the letter was presented, with a copy of the musical work. He
was kind enough to send word that he found both quite charming. He granted
permission for the concert, and ordered that the hall of his Academy of
Music should be put at Melchior's disposal, and deigned to promise that he
would have the young artist presented to himself on the day of the
performance.
Melchior set about organizing the concert as quickly as possible. He
engaged the support of the _Hof Musik Verein_, and as the success of his
first ventures had blown out his sense of proportion, he undertook at the
same time to publish a magnificent edition of the _Pleasures of Childhood_.
He wanted to have printed on the cover of it a portrait of Jean-Christophe
at the piano, with himself, Melchior, standing by his side, violin in hand.
He had to abandon that, not on account of the cost--Melchior did not stop
at any expense--but because there was not time enough. He fell back on an
allegorical design representing a cradle, a trumpet, a drum, a wooden
horse, grouped round a lyre which put forth rays like the sun. The
title-page bore, together with a long dedication, in which the name of the
Prince stood out in enormous letters, a notice to the effect that "Herr
Jean-Christophe Krafft was six years old." He was, in fact, seven and a
half. The printing of the design was very expensive. To meet the bill for
it, Jean Michel had to sell an old eighteenth-century chest, carved with
faces, which he had never consented to sell, in spite of the repeated
offers of Wormser, the furniture-dealer. But Melchior had no doubt but the
subscriptions would cover the cost, and beyond that the expenses of
printing the composition.
One other question occupied his mind: how to dress Jean-Christophe on the
day of the concert. There was a family council to decide the matter.
Melchior would have liked the boy to appear in a short frock and bare legs,
like a child of four. But Jean-Christophe was very large for his age, and
everybody knew him. They could not hope to deceive any one. Melchior had a
great idea. He decided that the boy should wear a dress-coat and white tie.
In vain did Louisa protest that they would make her poor boy ridiculous.
Melchior anticipated exactly the success and merriment that would be
produced by such an unexpected appearance. It was decided on, and the
tailor came and measured Jean-Christophe for his little coat. He had also
to have fine linen and patent-leather pumps, and all that swallowed up
their last penny. Jean-Christophe was very uncomfortable in his new
clothes. To make him used to them they made him try on his various
garments. For a whole month he hardly left the piano-stool. They taught him
to bow. He had never a moment of liberty. He raged against it, but dared
not rebel, for he thought that he was going to accomplish something
startling. He was both proud and afraid of it. They pampered him; they were
afraid he would catch cold; they swathed his neck in scarves; they warmed
his boots in case they were wet; and at table he had the best of
everything.
At last the great day arrived. The barber came to preside over his toilet
and curl Jean-Christophe's rebellious hair. He did not leave it until he
had made it look like a sheep-skin. All the family walked round
Jean-Christophe and declared that he was superb. Melchior, after looking
him up and down, and turning him about and about, was seized with an idea,
and went off to fetch a large flower, which he put in his buttonhole. But
when Louisa saw him she raised her hands, and cried out distressfully that
he looked like a monkey. That hurt him cruelly. He did not know whether to
be ashamed or proud of his garb. Instinctively he felt humiliated, and he
was more so at the concert. Humiliation was to be for him the outstanding
emotion of that memorable day.
* * * * *
The concert was about to begin. The hall was half empty; the Grand Duke had
not arrived. One of those kindly and well-informed friends who always
appear on these occasions came and told them that there was a Council being
held at the Palace, and that the Grand Duke would not come. He had it on
good authority. Melchior was in despair. He fidgeted, paced up and down,
and looked repeatedly out of the window. Old Jean Michel was also in
torment, but he was concerned, for his grandson. He bombarded him with
instructions. Jean-Christophe was infected by the nervousness of his
family. He was not in the least anxious about his compositions, but he was
troubled by the thought of the bows that he had to make to the audience,
and thinking of them brought him to agony.
However, he had to begin; the audience was growing impatient. The orchestra
of the _Hof Musik Verein_ began the _Coriolan Overture_. The boy knew
neither Coriolan nor Beethoven, for though he had often heard Beethoven's
music, he had not known it. He never bothered about the names of the works
he heard. He gave them names of his own invention, while he created little
stories or pictures for them. He classified them usually in three
categories: fire, water, and earth, with a thousand degrees between each.
Mozart belonged almost always to water. He was a meadow by the side of a
river, a transparent mist floating over the water, a spring shower, or a
rainbow. Beethoven was fire--now a furnace with gigantic flames and vast
columns of smoke; now a burning forest, a heavy and terrible cloud,
flashing lightning; now a wide sky full of quivering stars, one of which
breaks free, swoops, and; dies on a fine September night setting the heart
beating. Now; the imperious ardor of that heroic soul burned him like fire.
Everything else disappeared. What was it all to him?--Melchior in despair,
Jean Michel agitated, all the busy world, the audience, the Grand Duke,
little Jean-Christophe. What had.' he to do with all these? What lay
between them and him? Was that he--he, himself?... He was given up to the
furious will that carried him headlong. He followed it breathlessly, with
tears in his eyes, and his legs numb, thrilling from the palms of his hands
to the soles of his feet. His blood drummed! "Charge!" and he trembled in
every limb. And as he listened so intensely, Hiding behind a curtain, his
heart suddenly leaped violently. The orchestra had stopped short in the
middle of a bar, and after a moment's silence, it broke into a crashing of
brass and cymbals with a military march, officially strident. The
transition from one sort of music to another was so brutal, so unexpected,
that Jean-Christophe ground his teeth and stamped his foot with rage, and
shook his fist at the wall. But Melchior rejoiced. The Grand Duke had come
in, and the orchestra was saluting him with the National Anthem. And in a
trembling voice Jean Michel gave his last instructions to his grandson.
The overture began again, and this time was finished. It was now
Jean-Christophe's turn. Melchior had arranged the programme to show off at
the same time the skill of both father and son. They were to play together
a sonata of Mozart for violin and piano. For the sake of effect he had
decided that Jean-Christophe should enter alone. He was led to the entrance
of the stage and showed the piano at the front, and for the last time it
was explained what he had to do, and then he was pushed on from the wings.
He was not much afraid, for he was used to the theater; but when he found
himself alone on the platform, with hundreds of eyes staring at him, he
became suddenly so frightened that instinctively he moved backwards and
turned towards the wings to go back again. He saw his father there
gesticulating and with his eyes blazing. He had to go on. Besides, the
audience had seen him. As he advanced there arose a twittering of
curiosity, followed soon by laughter, which grew louder and louder.
Melchior had not been wrong, and the boy's garb had all the effect
anticipated. The audience rocked with laughter at the sight of the child
with his long hair and gipsy complexion timidly trotting across the
platform in the evening dress of a man of the world. They got up to see him
better. Soon the hilarity was general. There was nothing unkindly in it,
but it would have made the most hardened musician lose his head.
Jean-Christophe, terrified by the noise, and the eyes watching, and the
glasses turned upon him, had only one idea: to reach the piano as quickly
as possible, for it seemed to him a refuge, an island in the midst of the
sea. With head down, looking neither to right nor left, he ran quickly
across the platform, and when he reached the middle of it, instead of
bowing to the audience, as had been arranged, he turned his back on it, and
plunged straight for the piano. The chair was too high for him to sit down
without his father's help, and in his distress, instead of waiting, he
climbed up on to it on his knees. That increased the merriment of the
audience, but now Jean-Christophe was safe. Sitting at his instrument, he
was afraid of no one.
Melchior came at last. He gained by the good-humor of the audience, who
welcomed him with warm applause. The sonata began. The boy played it with
imperturbable certainty, with his lips pressed tight in concentration, his
eyes fixed on the keys, his little legs hanging down from the chair. He
became more at ease as the notes rolled out; he was among friends that he
knew. A murmur of approbation reached him, and waves of pride and
satisfaction surged through him as he thought that all these people were
silent to listen to him and to admire him. But hardly had he finished when
fear overcame him again, and the applause which greeted him gave him more
shame than pleasure. His shame increased when Melchior took him by the
hand, and advanced with him to the edge of the platform, and made him bow
to the public. He obeyed, and bowed very low, with a funny awkwardness; but
he was humiliated, and blushed for what he had done, as though it were a
thing ridiculous and ugly.
He had to sit at the piano again, and he played the _Pleasures of
Childhood_. Then the audience was enraptured. After each piece they shouted
enthusiastically. They wanted him to begin again, and he was proud of his
success and at the same time almost hurt by such applause, which was also a
command. At the end the whole audience rose to acclaim him; the Grand Duke
led the applause. But as Jean-Christophe was now alone on the platform he
dared not budge from his seat. The applause redoubled. He bent his head
lower and lower, blushing and hang-dog in expression, and he looked
steadily away from the audience. Melchior came. He took him in his arms,
and told him to blow kisses. He pointed out to him the Grand Duke's box.
Jean-Christophe turned a deaf ear. Melchior took his arm, and threatened
him in a low voice. Then he did as he was told passively, but he did not
look at anybody, he did not raise his eyes, but went on turning his head
away, and he was unhappy. He was suffering; how, he did not know. His
vanity was suffering. He did not like the people who were there at all. It
was no use their applauding; he could not forgive them for having laughed
and for being amused by his humiliation; he could not forgive them for
having seen him in such a ridiculous position--held in mid-air to blow
kisses. He disliked them even for applauding, and when Melchior did at last
put him down, he ran away to the wings. A lady threw a bunch of violets up
at him as he went. It brushed his face. He was panic-stricken and ran as
fast as he could, turning over a chair that was in his way. The faster he
ran the more they laughed, and the more they laughed the faster he ran.
At last he reached the exit, which was filled with people looking at him.
He forced his way through, butting, and ran and hid himself at the back of
the anteroom. His grandfather was in high feather, and covered him with
blessings. The musicians of the orchestra shouted with laughter, and
congratulated the boy, who refused to look at them or to shake hands with
them. Melchior listened intently, gaging the applause, which had not yet
ceased, and wanted to take Jean-Christophe on to the stage again. But the
boy refused angrily, clung to his grandfather's coat-tails, and kicked at
everybody who came near him. At last he burst into tears, and they had to
let him be.
Just at this moment an officer came to say that the Grand Duke wished the
artists to go to his box. How could the child be presented in such a state?
Melchior swore angrily, and his wrath only had the effect of making
Jean-Christophe's tears flow faster. To stop them, his grandfather promised
him a pound of chocolates if he would not cry any more, and
Jean-Christophe, who was greedy, stopped dead, swallowed down his tears,
and let them carry him off; but they had to swear at first most solemnly
that they would not take him on to the platform again.