country parson, arrived at the house quite ill with shyness. He tried to
persuade himself that Frau and Fräulein Kerich had had no time to remark
his features on the day when they had first seen him. A servant led him
down a long corridor, thickly carpeted, so that his footsteps made no
sound, to a room with a glass-paneled door which opened on to the garden.
It was raining a little, and cold; a good fire was burning in the
fireplace. Near the window, through which he had a peep of the wet trees
in the mist, the two ladies were sitting. Frau Kerich was working and her
daughter was reading a book when Jean-Christophe entered. When they saw him
they exchanged a sly look.
"They know me again," thought Jean-Christophe, abashed.
He bobbed awkwardly, and went on bobbing.
Frau von Kerich smiled cheerfully, and held out her hand.
"Good-day, my dear neighbor," she said. "I am glad to see you. Since I
heard you at the concert I have been wanting to tell you how much pleasure
you gave me. And as the only way of telling you was to invite you here, I
hope you will forgive me for having done so."
In the kindly, conventional words of welcome there was so much cordiality,
in spite of a hidden sting of irony, that Jean-Christophe grew more at his
ease.
"They do not know me again," he thought, comforted.
Frau von Kerich presented her daughter, who had closed her book and was
looking interestedly at Jean-Christophe.
"My daughter Minna," she said, "She wanted so much to see you."
"But, mamma," said Minna, "it is not the first time that we have seen each
other."
And she laughed aloud.
"They do know me again," thought Jean-Christophe, crestfallen.
"True," said Frau von Kerich, laughing too, "you paid us a visit the day we
came."
At these words the girl laughed again, and Jean-Christophe looked so
pitiful that when Minna looked at him she laughed more than ever. She could
not control herself, and she laughed until she cried. Frau von Kerich tried
to stop her, but she, too, could not help laughing, and Jean-Christophe,
in spite of his constraint, fell victim to the contagiousness of it. Their
merriment was irresistible; it was impossible to take offense at it. But
Jean-Christophe lost countenance altogether when Minna caught her breath
again, and asked him whatever he could be doing on the wall. She was
tickled by his uneasiness. He murmured, altogether at a loss. Frau von
Kerich came to his aid, and turned the conversation by pouring out tea.
She questioned him amiably about his life. But he did not gain confidence.
He could not sit down; he could not hold his cup, which threatened to
upset; and whenever they offered him water, milk, sugar or cakes, he
thought that he had to get up hurriedly and bow his thanks, stiff, trussed
up in his frock-coat, collar, and tie, like a tortoise in its shell,
not daring and not being able to turn his head to right or left, and
overwhelmed by Frau von Kerich's innumerable questions, and the warmth of
her manner, frozen by Minna's looks, which he felt were taking in his
features, his hands, his movements, his clothes. They made him even more
uncomfortable by trying to put him at his ease--Frau von Kerich, by her
flow of words, Minna by the coquettish eyes which instinctively she made at
him to amuse herself.
Finally they gave up trying to get anything more from him than bows and
monosyllables, and Frau von Kerich, who had the whole burden of the
conversation, asked him, when she was worn out, to play the piano. Much
more shy of them than of a concert audience, he played an adagio of Mozart.
But his very shyness, the uneasiness which was beginning to fill his heart
from the company of the two women, the ingenuous emotion with which his
bosom swelled, which made him happy and unhappy, were in tune with the
tenderness and youthful modesty of the music, and gave it the charm of
spring. Frau von Kerich was moved by it; she said so with the exaggerated
words of praise customary among men and women of the world; she was none
the less sincere for that, and the very excess of the flattery was sweet
coming from such charming lips. Naughty Minna said nothing, and looked
astonished at the boy who was so stupid when he talked, but was so eloquent
with his fingers. Jean-Christophe felt their sympathy, and grew bold under
it. He went on playing; then, half turning towards Minna, with an awkward
smile and without raising his eyes, he said timidly:
"This is what I was doing on the wall."
He played a little piece in which he had, in fact, developed the musical
ideas which had come to him in his favorite spot as he looked into the
garden, not, be it said, on the evening when he had seen Minna and Frau von
Kerich--for some obscure reason, known only to his heart, he was trying to
persuade himself that it was so--but long before, and in the calm rhythm of
the _andante con moto_, there were to be found the serene impression of the
singing of birds, mutterings of beasts, and the majestic slumber of the
great trees in the peace of the sunset.
The two hearers listened delightedly. When he had finished Frau von Kerich
rose, took his hands with her usual vivacity, and thanked him effusively.
Minna clapped her hands, and cried that it was "admirable," and that to
make him compose other works as "sublime" as that, she would have a ladder
placed against the wall, so that he might work there at his case. Frau von
Kerich told Jean-Christophe not to listen to silly Minna; she begged him to
come as often as he liked to her garden, since he loved it, and she added
that he need never bother to call on them if he found it tiresome.
"You need never bother to come and see us," added Minna. "Only if you do
not come, beware!"
She wagged her finger in menace.
Minna was possessed by no imperious desire that Jean-Christophe should come
to see her, or should even follow the rules of politeness with regard to
herself, but it pleased her to produce a little effect which instinctively
she felt to be charming.
Jean-Christophe blushed delightedly. Frau von Kerich won him completely by
the tact with which she spoke of his mother and grandfather, whom she had
known. The warmth and kindness of the two ladies touched his heart; he
exaggerated their easy urbanity, their worldly graciousness, in his desire
to think it heartfelt and deep. He began to tell them, with his naïve
trustfulness, of his plans and his wretchedness. He did not notice that
more than an hour had passed, and he jumped with surprise when a servant
came and announced dinner. But his confusion turned to happiness when Frau
von Kerich told him to stay and dine with them, like the good friends that
they were going to be, and were already. A place was laid for him between
the mother and daughter, and at table his talents did not show to such
advantage as at the piano. That part of his education had been much
neglected; it was his impression that eating and drinking were the
essential things at table, and not the manner of them. And so tidy Minna
looked at him, pouting and a little horrified.
They thought that he would go immediately after supper. But he followed
them into the little room, and sat with them, and had no idea of going.
Minna stifled her yawns, and made signs to her mother. He did not notice
them, because he was dumb with his happiness, and thought they were like
himself--because Minna, when she looked at him, made eyes at him from
habit--and finally, once he was seated, he did not quite know how to get up
and take his leave. He would have stayed all night had not Frau von Kerich
sent him away herself, without ceremony, but kindly.
He went, carrying in his heart the soft light of the brown eyes of Frau von
Kerich and the blue eyes of Minna; on his hands he felt the sweet contact
of soft fingers, soft as flowers, and a subtle perfume, which he had never
before breathed, enveloped him, bewildered him, brought him almost to
swooning.
* * * * *
He went again two days later, as was arranged, to give Minna a
music-lesson. Thereafter, under this arrangement, he went regularly twice a
week in the morning, and very often he went again in the evening to play
and talk.
Frau von Kerich was glad to see him. She was a clever and a kind woman. She
was thirty-five when she lost her husband, and although young in body and
at heart, she was not sorry to withdraw from the world in which she had
gone far since her marriage. Perhaps she left it the more easily because
she had found it very amusing, and thought wisely that she could not both
eat her cake and have it. She was devoted to the memory of Herr von Kerich,
not that she had felt anything like love for him when they married; but
good-fellowship was enough for her; she was of an easy temper and an
affectionate disposition.
She had given herself up to her daughter's education; but the same
moderation which she had had in her love, held in check the impulsive and
morbid quality which is sometimes in motherhood, when the child is the only
creature upon whom the woman can expend her jealous need of loving and
being loved. She loved Minna much, but was clear in her judgment of her,
and did not conceal any of her imperfections any more than she tried to
deceive herself about herself. Witty and clever, she had a keen eye for
discovering at a glance the weakness, and ridiculous side, of any person;
she took great pleasure in it, without ever being the least malicious, for
she was as indulgent as she was scoffing, and while she laughed at people
she loved to be of use to them.
Young Jean-Christophe gave food both to her kindness and to her critical
mind. During the first days of her sojourn in the little town, when her
mourning kept her out of society, Jean-Christophe was a distraction
for her--primarily by his talent. She loved music, although she was no
musician; she found in it a physical and moral well-being in which thoughts
could idly sink into a pleasant melancholy. Sitting by the fire--while
Jean-Christophe played--a book in her hands, and smiling vaguely, she took
a silent delight in the mechanical movements of his fingers, and the
purposeless wanderings of her reverie, hovering among the sad, sweet images
of the past.
But more even than the music, the musician interested her. She was clever
enough to be conscious of Jean-Christophe's rare gifts, although she was
not capable of perceiving his really original quality. It gave her a
curious pleasure to watch the waking of those mysterious fires which she
saw kindling in him. She had quickly appreciated his moral qualities, his
uprightness, his courage, the sort of Stoicism in him, so touching in
a child. But for all that she did mot view him the less with the usual
perspicacity of her sharp, mocking eyes. His awkwardness, his ugliness, his
little ridiculous qualities amused her; she did not take him altogether
seriously; she did not take many things seriously. Jean-Christophe's antic
outbursts, his violence, his fantastic humor, made her think sometimes
that he was a little unbalanced; she saw in him one of the Kraffts, honest
men and good musicians, but always a little wrong in the head. Her light
irony escaped Jean-Christophe; he was conscious only of Frau von Kerich's
kindness. He was so unused to any one being kind to him! Although his
duties at the Palace brought him into daily contact with the world, poor
Jean-Christophe had remained a little savage, untutored and uneducated. The
selfishness of the Court was only concerned in turning him to its profit
and not in helping him in any way. He went to the Palace, sat at the
piano, played, and went away again, and nobody ever took the trouble to
talk to him, except absently to pay him some banal compliment. Since his
grandfather's death, no one, either at home or outside, had ever thought
of helping him to learn the conduct of life, or to be a man. He suffered
cruelly from his ignorance and the roughness of his manners. He went
through an agony and bloody sweat to shape himself alone, but he did not
succeed. Books, conversation, example--all were lacking. He would fain have
confessed his distress to a friend, but could not bring himself to do so.
Even with Otto he had not dared, because at the first words he had uttered,
Otto had assumed a tone of disdainful superiority which had burned into him
like hot iron.
And now with Frau von Kerich it all became easy. Of her own accord, without
his having to ask anything--it cost Jean-Christophe's pride so much!--she
showed him gently what he should not do, told him what he ought to do,
advised him how to dress, eat, walk, talk, and never passed over any fault
of manners, taste, or language; and he could not be hurt by it, so light
and careful was her touch in the handling of the boy's easily injured
vanity. She took in hand also his literary education without seeming to be
concerned with it; she never showed surprise at his strange ignorance, but
never let slip an opportunity of correcting his mistakes simply, easily, as
if it were natural for him to have been in error; and, instead of alarming
him with pedantic lessons, she conceived the idea of employing their
evening meetings by making Minna or Jean-Christophe read passages of
history, or of the poets, German and foreign. She treated him as a son of
the house, with a few fine shades of patronizing familiarity which he never
saw. She was even concerned with his clothes, gave him new ones, knitted
him a woolen comforter, presented him with little toilet things, and all so
gently that he never was put about by her care or her presents. In short,
she gave him all the little attentions and the quasi-maternal care which
come to every good woman instinctively for a child who is intrusted to
her, or trusts himself to her, without her having any deep feeling for
it. But Jean-Christophe thought that all the tenderness was given to him
personally, and he was filled with gratitude; he would break out into
little awkward, passionate speeches, which seemed a little ridiculous to
Frau von Kerich, though they did not fail to give her pleasure.
With Minna his relation was very different. When Jean-Christophe met her
again at her first lesson, he was still intoxicated by his memories of
the preceding evening and of the girl's soft looks, and he was greatly
surprised to find her an altogether different person from the girl he had
seen only a few hours before. She hardly looked at him, and did not listen
to what he said, and when she raised her eyes to him, he saw in them so
icy a coldness that he was chilled by it. He tortured himself for a long
time to discover wherein lay his offense. He had given none, and Minna's
feelings were neither more nor less favorable than on the preceding day;
just as she had been then, Minna was completely indifferent to him. If on
the first occasion she had smiled upon him in welcome, it was from a girl's
instinctive coquetry, who delights to try the power of her eyes on the
first comer, be it only a trimmed poodle who turns up to fill her idle
hours. But since the preceding day the too-easy conquest had already lost
interest for her. She had subjected Jean-Christophe to a severe scrutiny
and she thought him an ugly boy, poor, ill-bred, who played the piano well,
though he had ugly hands, held his fork at table abominably, and ate his
fish with a knife. Then he seemed to her very uninteresting. She wanted to
have music-lessons from him; she wanted, even, to amuse herself with him,
because for the moment she had no other companion, and because in spite of
her pretensions of being no longer a child, she had still in gusts a crazy
longing to play, a need of expending her superfluous gaiety, which was, in
her as in her mother, still further roused by the constraint imposed by
their mourning. But she took no more account of Jean-Christophe than of
a domestic animal, and if it still happened occasionally during the days
of her greatest coldness that she made eyes at him, it was purely out of
forgetfulness, and because she was thinking of something else, or simply
so as not to get out of practice. And when she looked at him like that,
Jean-Christophe's heart used to leap. It is doubtful if she saw it; she was
telling herself stories. For she was at the age when we delight the senses
with sweet fluttering dreams. She was forever absorbed in thoughts of love,
filled with a curiosity which was only innocent from ignorance. And she
only thought of love, as a well-taught young lady should, in terms of
marriage. Her ideal was far from having taken definite shape. Sometimes she
dreamed of marrying a lieutenant, sometimes of marrying a poet, properly
sublime, _à la_ Schiller. One project devoured another and the last
was always welcomed with the same gravity and just the same amount of
conviction. For the rest, all of them were quite ready to give way before
a profitable reality, for it is wonderful to see how easily romantic girls
forget their dreams, when something less ideal, but more certain, appears
before them.
As it was, sentimental Minna was, in spite of all, calm and cold. In spite
of her aristocratic name, and the pride with which the ennobling particle
filled her, she had the soul of a little German housewife in the exquisite
days of adolescence.
* * * * *
Naturally Jean-Christophe did not in the least understand the complicated
mechanism--more complicated in appearance than in reality--of the feminine
heart. He was often baffled by the ways of his friends, but he was so happy
in loving them that he credited them with all that disturbed and made him
sad with them, so as to persuade himself that he was as much loved by them
as he loved them himself. A word or an affectionate look plunged him in
delight. Sometimes he was so bowled over by it that he would burst into
tears.
Sitting by the table in the quiet little room, with Frau von Kerich a few
yards away sewing by the light of the lamp--Minna reading on the other
side of the table, and no one talking, he looking through the half-open
garden-door at the gravel of the avenue glistening under the moon, a soft
murmur coming from the tops of the trees--his heart would be so full of
happiness that suddenly, for no reason, he would leap from his chair, throw
himself at Frau von Kerich's feet, seize her hand, needle or no needle,
cover it with kisses, press it to his lips, his cheeks, his eyes, and sob.
Minna would raise her eyes, lightly shrug her shoulders, and make a face.
Frau von Kerich would smile down at the big boy groveling at her feet, and
pat his head with her free hand, and say to him in her pretty voice,
affectionately and ironically:
"Well, well, old fellow! What is it?"
Oh, the sweetness of that voice, that peace, that silence, that soft air
in which were no shouts, no roughness, no violence, that oasis in the
harsh desert of life, and--heroic light gilding with its rays people and
things--the light of the enchanted world conjured up by the reading of the
divine poets! Goethe, Schiller, Shakespeare, springs of strength, of
sorrow, and of love!...
Minna, with her head down over the book, and her face faintly colored by
her animated delivery, would read in her fresh voice, with its slight lisp,
and try to sound important when she spoke in the characters of warriors
and kings. Sometimes Frau von Kerich herself would take the book; then she
would lend to tragic histories the spiritual and tender graciousness of her
own nature, but most often she would listen, lying back in her chair, her
never-ending needlework in her lap; she would smile at her own thoughts,
for always she would come back to them through every book.
Jean-Christophe also had tried to read, but he had had to give it up; he
stammered, stumbled over the words, skipped the punctuation, seemed to
understand nothing, and would be so moved that he would have to stop in the
middle of the pathetic passages, feeling tears coming. Then in a tantrum he
would throw the book down on the table, and his two friends would burst out
laughing.... How he loved them! He carried the image of them everywhere
with him, and they were mingled with the persons in Shakespeare and Goethe.
He could hardly distinguish between them. Some fragrant word of the poets
which called up from the depths of his being passionate emotions could not
in him be severed from the beloved lips that had made him hear it for the
first time. Even twenty years later he could never read Egmont or Romeo, or
see them played, without there leaping up in him at certain lines the
memory of those quiet evenings, those dreams of happiness, and the beloved
faces of Frau von Kerich and Minna.
He would spend hours looking at them in the evening when they were reading;
in the night when he was dreaming in his bed, awake, with his eyes closed;
during the day, when he was dreaming at his place in the orchestra, playing
mechanically with his eyes half closed. He had the most innocent tenderness
for them, and, knowing nothing of love, he thought he was in love. But he
did not quite know whether it was with the mother or the daughter. He went
into the matter gravely, and did not know which to choose. And yet, as it
seemed to him he must at all costs make his choice, he inclined towards
Frau von Kerich. And he did in fact discover, as soon as he had made up
his mind to it, that it was she that he loved. He loved her quick eyes,
the absent smile upon her half-open lips, her pretty forehead, so young in
seeming, and the parting to one side in her fine, soft hair, her rather
husky voice, with its little cough, her motherly hands, the elegance of her
movements, and her mysterious soul. He would thrill with happiness when,
sitting by his side, she would kindly explain to him the meaning of some
passage in a book which he did not understand; she would lay her hand on
Jean-Christophe's shoulder; he would feel the warmth of her fingers, her
breath on his cheek, the sweet perfume of her body; he would listen in
ecstasy, lose all thought of the book, and understand nothing at all. She
would see that and ask him to repeat what she had said; then he would say
nothing, and she would laughingly be angry, and tap his nose with her book,
telling him that he would always be a little donkey. To that he would reply
that he did not care so long as he was _her_ little donkey, and she did not
drive him out of her house. She would pretend to make objections; then she
would say that although he was an ugly little donkey, and very stupid, she
would agree to keep him--and perhaps even to love him--although he was good
for nothing, if at the least he would be just _good_. Then they would both
laugh, and he would go swimming in his joy.
* * * * *
When he discovered that he loved Frau von Kerich, Jean-Christophe broke
away from Minna. He was beginning to be irritated by her coldness and
disdain, and as, by dint of seeing her often, he had been emboldened little
by little to resume his freedom of manner with her, he did not conceal his
exasperation from her. She loved to sting him, and he would reply sharply.
They were always saying unkind things to each other, and Frau von Kerich
only laughed at them. Jean-Christophe, who never got the better in such
passages of words, used sometimes to issue from them so infuriated that he
thought he detested Minna; and he persuaded himself that he only went to
her house again because of Frau von Kerich.
He went on giving her music lessons. Twice a week, from nine to ten in the
morning, he superintended the girl's scales and exercises. The room in
which they did this was Minna's studio--an odd workroom, which, with an
amusing fidelity, reflected the singular disorder of her little feminine
mind.
On the table were little figures of musical cats--a whole orchestra--one
playing a violin, another the violoncello--a little pocket-mirror, toilet
things and writing things, tidily arranged. On the shelves were tiny busts
of musicians--Beethoven frowning, Wagner with his velvet cap, and the
Apollo Belvedere. On the mantelpiece, by a frog smoking a red pipe, a paper
fan on which was painted the Bayreuth Theater. On the two bookshelves
were a few books--Lübke, Mommsen, Schiller, "Sans Famille," Jules Verne,
Montaigne. On the walls large photographs of the Sistine Madonna, and
pictures by Herkomer, edged with blue and green ribbons. There was also
a view of a Swiss hotel in a frame of silver thistles; and above all,
everywhere in profusion, in every corner of the room, photographs of
officers, tenors, conductors, girl-friends, all with inscriptions, almost
all with verse--or at least what is accepted as verse in Germany. In the
center of the room, on a marble pillar, was enthroned a bust of Brahms,
with a beard; and, above the piano, little plush monkeys and cotillion
trophies hung by threads.