Chapter 1
Beginnings

From behind the house rises the murmur of the river. All day long the rain has been beating against the windows; a stream of water trickles down the window at the corner where it is broken. The room is dim and dull.

The newborn child stirs in his cradle .

Although the old man left his shoes at the door when he entered, his footsteps make the floor creak. The child begins to cry. The mother leans out of her bed to comfort it; and the grandfather gropes to light the lamp, so that the child shall not be frightened by the night when he awakes.

The flame of the lamp lights up old Jean Michel’s red face,with its rough white beard and quick eyes. He goes near the cradle. Louisa signs to him not to go too near. She is fair, almost white; her features are drawn; her eyes devour the child with an infi nite tenderness.

The child wakes and cries; his eyes are troubled. Oh! How terrible! The darkness, the sudden flash of the lamp. He has not the strength to cry out; terror holds him motionless; with eyes and mouth wide open, he rattles in his throat. The skin of his face and hands is brown and purple, and spotted with yellow.

“Dear God!” said the old man with conviction . “How ugly he is!”

Louisa looked like a scolded child. Jean Michel looked at her out of the corner of his eye and laughed. “You don’t want me to say that he is beautiful. You would not believe it. Come, it is not your fault. They are all like that.”

She held out her arms for him and said, “Give him to me.”

The old man began, as usual, to air his theories: “You ought not to give way to children when they cry. You must just let them cry.” But he came and took the child and grumbled, “I never saw one quite so ugly.”

Louisa took the child feverishly and pressed it to her bosom . She looked at it with a timid and delighted smile.

“Oh, my poor child!” she said shamefacedly. “How ugly you are! How ugly! And how I love you!”

“Good girl!” said Jean Michel. “Don’t worry about it. He has plenty of time to alter . And even so, what does it matter?Only one thing is asked of him: that he should grow into an honest man.” Jean Michel then turned in his chair, and said once more, with some emphasis , “There’s nothing finer than an honest man.”

He was silent for a moment, pondering whether it would not be proper to elaborate this thought; but he found nothing more to say, and after a silence he said irritably , “Why isn’t your husband here?”

“I think he is at the theater,” said Louisa timidly. “There is a rehearsal .”

“The theater is closed. I passed it just now. One of his lies.”

“No. Don’t be always blaming him. I must have misunderstood. He must have been kept for one of his lessons.”

“He ought to have come back,” said the old man, not satisfied.He stopped for a moment, and then asked, in a rather lower voice and with some shame, “Has he been... again?”

“No, father, no,” said Louisa hurriedly.

The old man looked at her; she avoided his eyes.

“It’s not true. You’re lying.”

She wept in silence.

“Dear God!” said the old man, kicking at the fire with his foot. The poker fell with a clatter. The mother and the child trembled.

“Father, please! Please!” said Louisa. “You will make him cry.”

“What have I done to the good God to have this drunkard for my son? What is the use of my having lived as I have lived,and of having denied myself everything all my life! But you?You can’t do anything to stop it. Heavens! That’s what you ought to do.... You should keep him at home! ...”

Louisa wept still more. “Don’t scold me! I am unhappy enough as it is! I have done everything I could. If you knew how terrified I am when I am alone! Always I seem to hear his step on the stairs. Then I wait for the door to open. It makes me ill to think of it!”

She was shaken by her sobs. The old man grew anxious.He went to her and caressed her head with his hands. “Come,come, don’t be afraid. I am here.”

She calmed herself for the child’s sake , and tried to smile. “I was wrong to tell you that.”

“My poor child, it was not much of a present that I gave you.”

“It’s my own fault,” she said. “He ought not to have married me. He is sorry for what he did.”

“What, do you mean that he regrets...”

“You know. You were angry yourself because I became his wife.”

“We won’t talk about that. It is true I was upset. I can say without hurting you that a young man whom I had carefully brought up, a distinguished musician, a real artist might have looked higher than you, who had nothing and were of a lower class, and not even of the same trade. For more than a hundred years no Krafft has ever married a woman who was not a musician! But, you know, I bear you no grudge, and am fond of you, and have been ever since I learned to know you. Besides,there’s no going back on a choice once it’s made; there’s nothing left but to do one’s duty honestly.”

They said no more. Both Jean Michel, sitting by the fi reside , and Louisa, in her bed, dreamed sadly.

The old man, in spite of what he had said, had bitter thoughts about his son’s marriage, and Louisa was thinking of it also, and blaming herself, although she had nothing to reproach herself with. She had been a servant when, to everybody’s surprise, and her own especially, she married Melchior Krafft,Jean Michel’s son.

The Kraffts were without fortune, but were considerable people in the little Rhine town in which the old man had settled down more than fifty years before. Both father and son were musicians, and known to all the musicians of the country from Cologne to Mannheim. Melchior played the violin, while Jean Michel had formerly been a conductor.

The old man had been profoundly humiliated by his son’s marriage, for he had built great hopes upon Melchior; he had wished to make him the distinguished man which he had failed to become himself. This mad child of his destroyed all his ambitions . Jean Michel had stormed at first and showered curses upon Melchior and Louisa. But, being a goodhearted creature , he forgave his daughter-in-law when he learned to know her better; and he even came by a fatherly affection for her.

No one ever understood what it was that drove Melchior to such a marriage, least of all Melchior. It was certainly not Louisa’s beauty. She had no seductive quality: she was small, rather pale, and delicate , and she was a striking contrast to Melchior and Jean Michel, who were both big and broad,red-faced giants, heavy-handed, hearty eaters and drinkers,laughter-loving and noisy.

She seemed to be crushed by them; no one noticed her,and she seemed to wish to escape even what little notice she attracted. If Melchior had been a kind-hearted man, it would have been credible that he should prefer Louisa’s simple goodness to every other advantage; but a vainer man never was. It seemed incredible that a young man of his kidney ,fairly good-looking, and quite conscious of it, very foolish, but not without talent, and in a position to look for some wealthy match, should suddenly have chosen a girl of the people: poor,uneducated, without beauty, a girl who could in no way advance his career. But Melchior was one of those men who always do the opposite of what is expected of them and of what they expect of themselves.

Hardly was he married when he was appalled by what he had done, and he did not hide what he felt from poor Louisa,who humbly asked his pardon. He was not a bad fellow, and he willingly granted her that; but immediately remorse would seize him again when he was with his friends or in the houses of his rich pupils, who were disdainful in their treatment of him, and no longer trembled at the touch of his hand when he corrected the position of their fingers on the keyboard. Then he would return gloomy , and Louisa, with a catch at her heart, would read in it with the first glance the customary reproach; or he would stay out late at one inn or another, there to seek self-respect or kindness from others.

On such evenings he would return shouting with laughter,and this was more doleful for Louisa than the hidden reproach and gloomy resentment that prevailed on other days. She felt that she was to a certain extent responsible for the fits of madness in which the small remnant of her husband’s sense would disappear, together with the household money.

Melchior sank lower and lower. At an age when he should have been engaged in unceasing toil to develop his talent, he just let things slide, and others took his place.

But what did that matter to the unknown force which had thrown him in with the little fair-haired servant? He had played his part, and little Jean Christophe had just set foot on this earth. Louisa had been for hours lying in her bed, weary and suffering. Her hands and her body were burning; the heavy blanket crushed her; she felt crushed and oppressed by the darkness; but she dared not move. She looked at the child, and the night did not prevent her reading his features, that looked so old. Sleep overcame her; fevered images passed through her brain. She thought she heard Melchior open the door, and her heart leaped .

All this time Jean Michel was waiting outside the house, dripping with rain, his beard wet with the mist. He was waiting for the return of his wretched son, for his mind, never ceasing ,had insisted on telling him all sorts of tragedies brought about by drunkenness; and although he did not believe them, he could not have slept a wink if he had gone away without having seen his son return. He remembered all his shattered hopes. He thought of what he was doing at such an hour in the street, and for very shame, he wept.

The vast tide of the days moves slowly. Day and night come up and go down with unfailing regularity, like the ebb and low of an infinite ocean. Weeks and months go by, and then begin again, and the succession of days is like one day.

When Jean Christophe grew older, his grandfather used often to take him for evening walks. The little boy used to trot by his grandfather’s side and give his hand to the old man. They used to go by the roads, across plowed fields, which smelled strong and good.

His grandfather would cough. Jean Christophe knew quite well what that meant. The old man was burning with the desire to tell a story; but he wanted it to appear that the child had asked him for one. Jean Christophe did not fail him; they understood each other. The old man had a tremendous affection for his grandson, and it was a great joy to find in him a willing audience. He loved to tell of episodes in his own life, or stories of great men, ancient and modern alike . His voice would then become emphatic and filled with emotion, and would tremble with a childish joy, which he used to try to stifle. He seemed delighted to hear his own voice.

The boy used to listen with profound respect, and thought his grandfather very eloquent , but a little tiresome. Both of them loved to return again and again to the fabulous legend of the Corsican conqueror who had taken Europe.

How he loves his grandfather’s stories! How he loves everything! Everybody, everything! All is good, all is beautiful...He sleeps. 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.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.

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murmur /ˈmɜ:mə/ n. 沙沙声

dim /dɪm/ adj. 昏暗的；模糊的

stir /stɜ:/ vi. 活动，起床；轰动；搅动

cradle /ˈkreɪdl/ n. 摇篮

footstep /ˈfʊtstep/ n. 脚步，脚步声

lean /li:n/ vi. 倾斜；倚靠

grope /ɡrəʊp/ vi. 摸索

feature /ˈfi :tʃə/ n. 容貌；特征

infi nite /ˈɪnfɪnət/ adj. 无穷的，无限的

conviction /kənˈvɪkʃən/ n. 深信，确信

bosom /ˈbʊzəm/ n. 胸部，胸；胸怀

timid /ˈtɪmɪd/ adj. 羞怯的，胆小的

alter /ˈɔ:ltə/ vi. 变样，改变

emphasis /ˈemfəsɪs/ n. （对某个词或短语的）强调

ponder /ˈpɒndə/ vt. 思索，考虑

elaborate /ɪˈlæbəreɪt/ vt. 详细阐述；精心制作

irritably /ˈɪrɪtəblɪ/ adv. 暴躁地，性急地

rehearsal /rɪˈhɜ:səl/ n. 预演，排演，试演

poker /ˈpəʊkə/ n. 拨火棒

caress /kəˈres/ vt. 轻抚，轻拍

sake /seɪk/ n. 缘故，目的

distinguished /dɪsˈtɪŋɡwɪʃt/ adj. 杰出的

fi reside /ˈfaɪəsaɪd/ n. 炉边

in spite of 不顾，不管

reproach /rɪˈprəʊtʃ/ vt. 责备

profoundly /prəˈfaʊndlɪ/ adv. 深深地，衷心地

ambition /æmˈbɪʃən/ n. 雄心，野心

curse /kɜ:s/ n. 咒骂，骂人话

creature /ˈkri:tʃə/ n. 人

delicate /ˈdelɪkət/ adj. 病弱的；精巧的

contrast /ˈkɒntrɑ:st/ n. 对比

crush /krʌʃ/ vt. 压服；压碎

credible /ˈkredəbl/ adj. 可信的，可靠的

kidney /ˈkɪdnɪ/ n. 脾气，性格；肾

conscious /ˈkɒnʃəs/ adj. 意识到的

appall /əˈpɔ:l/ vt. 使胆寒，使惊骇

humbly /ˈhʌmblɪ/ adv. 谦恭地

grant /ɡrɑ:nt/ vt. 承认（某事为真）

gloomy /ˈɡlu:mɪ/ adj. 令人沮丧的；阴郁的

doleful /ˈdəʊlfʊl/ adj. 悲哀的

resentment /rɪˈzentmənt/ n. 怨恨，愤恨

prevail /prɪˈveɪl/ vi. 流行，盛行

remnant /ˈremnənt/ n. 残余，剩余

household /ˈhaʊshəʊld/ n. 家庭

unceasing /ˌʌnˈsi:sɪŋ/ adj. 不断的，不停的

weary /ˈwɪərɪ/ adj. 疲倦的；厌倦的

oppress /əˈpres/ vt. 压迫；压抑

leap /li:p/ vi. 跳，跳跃

drip /drɪp/ vi. 滴下，湿淋淋

wretched /ˈretʃɪd/ adj. 可怜的，悲惨的

cease /si:s/ vi. 停，终止

tragedy /ˈtrædʒɪdɪ/ n. 惨事，灾难

wink /wɪŋk/ n. 小睡，打盹；眨眼

shattered /ˈʃætəd/ adj. 破碎的，遭受极大打击的

tide /taɪd/ n. 潮，潮汐；潮流

ebb /eb/ n. 退潮；衰落

plow /plaʊ/ vt. 耕，犁耕

tremendous /trɪˈmendəs/ adj. 极大的，巨大的

episode /ˈepɪsəʊd/ n. （人生的）一段经历；一段情节

alike /əˈlaɪk/ adv. 同样地

eloquent /ˈeləkwənt/ adj. 有口才的，雄辩的

fabulous /ˈfæbjʊləs/ adj. 难以置信的；寓言中的

conqueror /ˈkɒŋkərə/ n. 征服者，胜利者

abundance /əˈbʌndəns/ n. 丰富，充裕

superfl uous /sju:ˈpɜ:fl ʊəs/ adj. 过剩的，多余的，过量的

unwearying /ˌʌnˈwɪərɪɪŋ/ adj. 不倦的；坚持不懈的

enthusiasm /ɪnˈθju:zɪæzəm/ n. 热情，热心

bubble /ˈbʌbl/ vi. 冒泡

inexhaustible /ˌɪnɪɡˈzɔ:stəbl/ adj. 无穷无尽的

cling /klɪŋ/ vi. 粘紧，附着 4wMJ2QspbjNwKwQ9OBS140QJ4YUE52furr+AZPlEPt7MUFmRmDYCbnE35lQ3grDn