Jean-Christophe, vol 1 by Romain Rolland (the red fox clan .TXT) 📖

works. At heart Hassler had a

supreme contempt for everybody, friends and enemies alike; and this bitter

jeering contempt was extended to himself and life in general. He was

all the more driven back into his ironic skepticism because he had once

believed in a number of generous and simple things. As he had not been

strong enough to ward off the slow destruction of the passing of the days,

nor hypocritical enough to pretend to believe in the faith he had lost, he

was forever gibing at the memory of it. He was of a Southern German nature,

soft and indolent, not made to resist excess of fortune or misfortune, of

heat or cold, needing a moderate temperature to preserve its balance. He

had drifted insensibly into a lazy enjoyment of life. He loved good food,

heavy drinking, idle lounging, and sensuous thoughts. His whole art smacked

of these things, although he was too gifted for the flashes of his genius

not still to shine forth from his lax music which drifted with the fashion.

No one was more conscious than himself of his decay. In truth, he was

the only one to be conscious of it—at rare moments which, naturally, he

avoided. Besides, he was misanthropic, absorbed by his fearful moods, his

egoistic preoccupations, his concern about his health—he was indifferent

to everything which had formerly excited his enthusiasm or hatred.

 

*

 

Such was the man to whom Christophe came for assistance, With what joy and

hope he arrived, one cold, wet morning, in the town wherein then lived

the man who symbolized for him the spirit of independence in his art! He

expected words of friendship and encouragement from him—words that he

needed to help him to go on with the ungrateful, inevitable battle which

every true artist has to wage against the world until he breathes his last,

without even for one day laying down his arms; for, as Schiller has said,

“the only relation with the public of which a man never repents—is war.”

 

Christophe was so impatient that he just left his bag at the first hotel he

came to near the station, and then ran to the theater to find out Hassler’s

address. Hassler lived some way from the center of the town, in one of the

suburbs. Christophe took an electric train, and hungrily ate a roll. His

heart thumped as he approached his goal.

 

The district in which Hassler had chosen his house was almost entirely

built in that strange new architecture into which young Germany has thrown

an erudite and deliberate barbarism struggling laboriously to have genius.

In the middle of the commonplace town, with its straight, characterless

streets, there suddenly appeared Egyptian hypogea, Norwegian chalets,

cloisters, bastions, exhibition pavilions, pot-bellied houses, fakirs,

buried in the ground, with expressionless faces, with only one enormous

eye; dungeon gates, ponderous gates, iron hoops, golden cryptograms on

the panes of grated windows, belching monsters over the front door, blue

porcelain tiles plastered on in most unexpected places; variegated mosaics

representing Adam and Eve; roofs covered with tiles of jarring colors;

houses like citadels with castellated walls, deformed animals on the roofs,

no windows on one side, and then suddenly, close to each other, gaping

holes, square, red, angular, triangular, like wounds; great stretches of

empty wall from which suddenly there would spring a massive balcony with

one window—a balcony supported by Nibelungesque Caryatides, balconies from

which there peered through the stone balustrade two pointed heads of old

men, bearded and long-haired, mermen of Boecklin. On the front of one of

these prisons—a Pharaohesque mansion, low and one-storied, with two naked

giants at the gate—the architect had written:

 

Let the artist show his universe,

Which never was and yet will ever be.

 

_Seine Welt zeige der Künstler,

Die niemals war noch jemals sein wird._

 

Christophe was absorbed by the idea of seeing Hassler, and looked with the

eyes of amazement and under no attempt to understand. He reached the house

he sought, one of the simplest—in a Carolingian style. Inside was rich

luxury, commonplace enough. On the staircase was the heavy atmosphere of

hot air. There was a small lift which Christophe did not use, as he wanted

to gain time to prepare himself for his call by going up the four flights

of stairs slowly, with his legs giving and his heart thumping with his

excitement. During that short ascent his former interview with Hassler, his

childish enthusiasm, the image of his grandfather were as clearly in his

mind as though it had all been yesterday.

 

It was nearly eleven when he rang the bell. He was received by a sharp

maid, with a serva padrona manner, who looked at him impertinently and

began to say that “Herr Hassler could not see him, as Herr Hassler was

tired.” Then the naïve disappointment expressed in Christophe’s face amused

her; for after making an unabashed scrutiny of him from head to foot, she

softened suddenly and introduced him to Hassler’s study, and said she would

go and see if Herr Hassler would receive him. Thereupon she gave him a

little wink and closed the door.

 

On the walls were a few impressionist paintings and some gallant French

engravings of the eighteenth century: for Hassler pretended to some

knowledge of all the arts, and Manet and Watteau were joined together in

his taste in accordance with the prescription of his coterie. The same

mixture of styles appeared in the furniture, and a very fine Louis XV

bureau was surrounded by new art armchairs and an oriental divan with a

mountain of multi-colored cushions. The doors were ornamented with mirrors,

and Japanese bric-a-brac covered the shelves and the mantelpiece, on which

stood a bust of Hassler. In a bowl on a round table was a profusion of

photographs of singers, female admirers and friends, with witty remarks and

enthusiastic interjections. The bureau was incredibly untidy. The piano was

open. The shelves were dusty, and half-smoked cigars were lying about

everywhere.

 

In the next room Christophe heard a cross voice grumbling, It was answered

by the shrill tones of the little maid. It was dear that Hassler was not

very pleased at having to appear. It was clear, also, that the young woman

had decided that Hassler should appear; and she answered him with extreme

familiarity and her shrill voice penetrated the walls. Christophe was

rather upset at hearing some of the remarks she made to her master. But

Hassler did not seem to mind. On the contrary, it rather seemed as though

her impertinence amused him; and while he went on growling, he chaffed the

girl and took a delight in exciting her. At last Christophe heard a door

open, and, still growling and chaffing, Hassler came shuffling.

 

He entered. Christophe’s heart sank. He recognized him. Would to God he had

not! It was Hassler, and yet it was not he. He still had his great smooth

brow, his face as unwrinkled as that of a babe; but he was bald, stout,

yellowish, sleepy-looking; his lower lip drooped a little, his mouth looked

bored and sulky. He hunched his shoulders, buried his hands in the pockets

of his open waistcoat; old shoes flopped on his feet; his shirt was bagged

above his trousers, which he had not finished buttoning. He looked at

Christophe with his sleepy eyes, in which there was no light as the young

man murmured his name. He bowed automatically, said nothing, nodded towards

a chair, and with a sigh, sank down on the divan and piled the cushions

about himself. Christophe repeated:

 

“I have already had the honor…. You were kind enough…. My name is

Christophe Krafft….”

 

Hassler lay back on the divan, with his legs crossed, his lands clasped

together on his right knee, which he held up to his chin as he replied:

 

“I don’t remember.”

 

Christophe’s throat went dry, and he tried to remind him of their former

meeting. Under any circumstances it would have been difficult for him to

talk of memories so intimate; now it was torture for him. He bungled his

sentences, could not find words, said absurd things which made him blush.

Hassler let him flounder on and never ceased to look at him with his vague,

indifferent eyes. When Christophe had reached the end of his story, Hassler

went on rocking his knee in silence for a moment, as though he were waiting

for Christophe to go on. Then he said:

 

“Yes…. That does not make us young again….” and stretched his legs.

 

After a yawn he added:

 

“… I beg pardon…. Did not sleep…. Supper at the theater last

night….” and yawned again.

 

Christophe hoped that Hassler would make some reference to what he had

just told him, but Hassler, whom the story had not interested at all, said

nothing about it, and he did not ask Christophe anything about his life.

When he had done yawning he asked:

 

“Have you been in Berlin long?”

 

“I arrived this morning,” said Christophe.

 

“Ah!” said Hassler, without any surprise. “What hotel?”

 

He did not seem to listen to the reply, but got up lazily and pressed an

electric bell.

 

“Allow me,” he said.

 

The little maid appeared with her impertinent manner.

 

“Kitty,” said he, “are you trying to make me go without breakfast this

morning?”

 

“You don’t think I am going to bring it here while you have some one with

you?”

 

“Why not?” he said, with a wink and a nod in Christophe’s direction. “He

feeds my mind: I must feed my body.”

 

“Aren’t you ashamed to have some one watching you eat—like an animal in a

menagerie?”

 

Instead of being angry, Hassler began to laugh and corrected her:

 

“Like a domestic animal,” he went on. “But do bring it. I’ll eat my shame

with it.”

 

Christophe saw that Hassler was making no attempt to find out what he

was doing, and tried to lead the conversation back. He spoke of the

difficulties of provincial life, of the mediocrity of the people, the

narrow-mindedness, and of his own isolation. He tried to interest him in

his moral distress. But Hassler was sunk deep in the divan, with his head

lying back on a cushion and his eyes half closed, and let him go on talking

without even seeming to listen; or he would raise his eyelids for a moment

and pronounce a few coldly ironical words, some ponderous jest at the

expense of provincial people, which cut short Christophe’s attempts to talk

more intimately. Kitty returned with the breakfast tray: coffee, butter,

ham, etc. She put it down crossly on the desk in the middle of the untidy

papers. Christophe waited until she had gone before he went on with his

sad story which he had such difficulty in continuing. Hassler drew the

tray towards himself. He poured himself out some coffee and sipped at it.

Then in a familiar and cordial though rather contemptuous way he stopped

Christophe in the middle of a sentence to ask if he would take a cup.

 

Christophe refused. He tried to pick up the thread of his sentence, but he

was more and more nonplussed, and did not know what he was saying. He was

distracted by the sight of Hassler with his plate under his chin, like a

child, gorging pieces of bread and butter and slices of ham which he held

in his fingers. However, he did succeed in saying that he composed, that he

had had an overture in the Judith of Hebbel performed. Hassler listened

absently.

 

“Was?” (What?) he asked.

 

Christophe repeated the title.

 

“Ach! So, so!” (Ah! Good, good!) said Hassler, dipping his bread and