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

very elaborate and almost dramatic. The whole formed a series

of impressions, joyous or mild, linked together naturally and written

alternately for the piano and the voice, alone or accompanied. “For,” said

Christophe, “when I dream, I do not always formulate what I feel. I suffer,

I am happy, and have no words to say; but then comes a moment when I must

say what I am feeling, and I sing without thinking of what I am doing;

sometimes I sing only vague words, a few disconnected phrases, sometimes

whole poems; then I begin to dream again. And so the day goes by; and I

have tried to give the impression of a day. Why these gathered impressions

composed only of songs or preludes? There is nothing more false or less

harmonious. One must try to give the free play of the soul.” He had called

his suite: A Day. The different parts of the composition bore sub-titles,

shortly indicating the succession of his inward dreams. Christophe had

written mysterious dedications, initials, dates, which only he could

understand, as they reminded Mm of poetic moments or beloved faces: the gay

Corinne, the languishing Sabine, and the little unknown Frenchwoman.

 

Besides this work he selected thirty of his Lieder—those which

pleased him most, and consequently pleased the public least. He avoided

choosing the most “melodious” of his melodies, but he did choose the

most characteristic. (The public always has a horror of anything

“characteristic.” Characterless things are more likely to please them.)

 

These Lieder were written to poems of old Silesian poets of the

seventeenth century that Christophe had read by chance in a popular

collection, and whose loyalty he had loved. Two especially were dear to

him, dear as brothers, two creatures full of genius and both had died at

thirty: the charming Paul Fleming, the traveler to the Caucasus and to

Ispahan, who preserved his soul pure, loving and serene in the midst of

the savagery of war, the sorrows of life, and the corruption of his time,

and Johann Christian Günther, the unbalanced genius who wore himself out

in debauchery and despair, casting his life to the four winds. He had

translated Günther’s cries of provocation and vengeful irony against the

hostile God who overwhelms His creatures, his furious curses like those of

a Titan overthrown hurling the thunder back against the heavens. He had

selected Fleming’s love songs to Anemone and Basilene, soft and sweet as

flowers, and the rondo of the stars, the Tanzlied (dancing song) of

hearts glad and limpid—and the calm heroic sonnet To Himself (_An Sich_),

which Christophe used to recite as a prayer every morning.

 

The smiling optimism of the pious Paul Gerhardt also had its charm for

Christophe. It was a rest for him on recovering from his own sorrows. He

loved that innocent vision of nature as God, the fresh meadows, where

the storks walk gravely among the tulips and white narcissus, by little

brooks singing on the sands, the transparent air wherein there pass the

wide-winged, swallows and flying doves, the gaiety of a sunbeam piercing

the rain, and the luminous sky smiling through the clouds, and the serene

majesty of the evening, the sweet peace of the forests, the cattle, the

bowers and the fields. He had had the impertinence to set to music several

of those mystic canticles which are still sung in Protestant communities.

And he had avoided preserving the choral character. Far from it: he had

a horror of it; he had given them a free and vivacious character. Old

Gerhardt would have shuddered at the devilish pride which was breathed

forth now in certain lines of his Song of the Christian Traveler, or

the pagan delight which made this peaceful stream of his Song of Summer

bubble over like a torrent.

 

The collection was published without any regard for common sense, of

course. The publisher whom Christophe paid for printing and storing his

Lieder had no other claim to his choice than that of being his neighbor.

He was not equipped for such important work; the printing went on for

months; there were mistakes and expensive corrections. Christophe knew

nothing about it and the whole thing cost more by a third than it need have

done; the expenses far exceeded anything he had anticipated. Then when it

was done, Christophe found an enormous edition on his hands and did not

know what to do with it. The publisher had no customers; he took no steps

to circulate the work. And his apathy was quite in accord with Christophe’s

attitude. When he asked him, to satisfy his conscience, to write him a

short advertisement of it, Christophe replied that “he did not want any

advertisement; if his music was good it would speak for itself.” The

publisher religiously respected his wishes; he put the edition away in his

warehouse. It was well kept; for in six months not a copy was sold.

 

*

 

While he was waiting for the public to make up its mind Christophe had to

find some way of repairing the hole he had made in his means; and he could

not be nice about it, for he had to live and pay his debts. Not only were

his debts larger than he had imagined but he saw that the moneys on which

he had counted were less than he had thought. Had he lost money without

knowing it or—what was infinitely more probable—had he reckoned up

wrongly? (He had never been able to add correctly.) It did not matter much

why the money was missing; it was missing without a doubt. Louisa had to

give her all to help her son. He was bitterly remorseful and tried to pay

her back as soon as possible and at all costs. He tried to get lessons,

though it was painful to him to ask and to put up with refusals. He was out

of favor altogether; he found it very difficult to obtain pupils again. And

so when it was suggested that he should teach at a school he was only too

glad.

 

It was a semi-religious institution. The director, an astute gentleman, had

seen, though he was no musician, how useful Christophe might be, and how

cheaply in his present position. He was pleasant and paid very little. When

Christophe ventured to make a timid remark the director told him with a

kindly smile that as he no longer held an official position he could not

very well expect more.

 

It was a sad task! It was not so much a matter of teaching the pupils music

as of making their parents and themselves believe that they had learned it.

The chief thing was to make them able to sing at the ceremonies to which

the public were admitted. It did not matter how it was done, Christophe

was in despair; he had not even the consolation of telling himself as he

fulfilled his task that he was doing useful work; his conscience reproached

him with it as hypocrisy. He tried to give the children more solid

instruction and to make them acquainted with and love serious music; but

they did not care for it a bit. Christophe could not succeed in making them

listen to it; he had no authority over them; in truth he was not made for

teaching children. He took no interest in their floundering; he tried to

explain to them all at once the theory of music. When he had to give a

piano lesson he would set his pupil a symphony of Beethoven which he would

play as a duet with her. Naturally that could not succeed; he would explode

angrily, drive the pupil from the piano and go on playing alone for a long

time. He was just the same with his private pupils outside the school. He

had not an ounce of patience; for instance he would tell a young lady who

prided herself on her aristocratic appearance and position, that she played

like a kitchen maid; or he would even write to her mother and say that he

gave it up, that it would kill him if he went on long bothering about a

girl so devoid of talent. All of which did not improve his position. His

few pupils left him; he could not keep any of them more than a few months.

His mother argued with him; he would argue with himself. Louisa made him

promise that at least he would not break with the school he had joined;

for if he lost that position he did not know what he should do for a

living. And so he restrained himself in spite of his disgust; he was most

exemplarily punctual. But how could he conceal his thoughts when a donkey

of a pupil blundered for the tenth time in some passages, or when he had to

coach his class for the next concert in some foolish chorus!—(For he was

not even allowed to choose his programme: his taste was not trusted)—He

was not exactly zealous about it all. And yet he went stubbornly on,

silent, frowning, only betraying his secret wrath by occasionally thumping

on his desk and making his pupils jump in their seats. But sometimes the

pill was too bitter; he could not bear it any longer. In the middle of the

chorus he would interrupt the singers:

 

“Oh! Stop! Stop! I’ll play you some Wagner instead.”

 

They asked nothing better. They played cards behind his back. There was

always someone who reported the matter to the director; and Christophe

would be reminded that he was not there to make his pupils like music

but to make them sing. He received his scoldings with a shudder; but he

accepted them; he did not want to lose his work. Who would have thought a

few years before, when his career looked so assured and brilliant (when he

had done nothing), that he would be reduced to such humiliation just as he

was beginning to be worth something?

 

Among the hurts to his vanity that he came by in his work at the school,

one of the most painful was having to call on his colleagues. He paid two

calls at random; and they bored him so that he had not the heart to go on.

The two privileged persons were not at all pleased about it, but the others

were personally affronted. They all regarded Christophe as their inferior

in position and intelligence; and they assumed a patronizing manner towards

him. Sometimes he was overwhelmed by it, for they seemed to be so sure of

themselves and the opinion they had of him that he began to share it; he

felt stupid with them; what could he have found to say to them? They were

full of their profession and saw nothing beyond it. They were not men. If

only they had been books! But they were only notes to books, philological

commentaries.

 

Christophe avoided meeting them. But sometimes he was forced to do so. The

director was at home once a month in the afternoon; and he insisted on

all his people being there. Christophe, who had cut the first afternoon,

without excuse, in the vain hope that his absence would not be noticed, was

ever afterwards the object of sour attention. Next time he was lectured by

his mother and decided to go; he was as solemn about it as though he were

going to a funeral.

 

He found himself at a gathering of the teachers of the school and other

institutions of the town, and their wives and daughters. They were all

huddled together in a room too small for them, and grouped hierarchically.

They paid no attention to him. The group nearest him was talking of

pedagogy and cooking.