Chapter 2
Suffering

The Kraffts came originally from Antwerp. Old Jean Michel had left the country as a result of a boyish quarrel, such as he had often had, for he was devilishly rebellious , and it had had an unfortunate ending.

He settled down, almost fifty years ago, in the little town with its red pointed roofs and shady gardens, lying on the slope of a gentle hill, mirrored in the pale green eyes of the River Rhine. An excellent musician, he had readily gained appreciation in a country of musicians. He had taken root there by marrying, forty years ago, Clara Sartorius, daughter of the Prince’s orchestra director, whose duties he took over. Clara was a peaceful German with two passions , cooking and music. She had for her husband a respect only equaled by that which she had for her father; Jean Michel no less admired his wife.

They had lived together in perfect happiness for fifteen years, and they had four children, though none survived. Then Clara died, and Jean Michel bemoaned her loss. Five months later, he married a girl of twenty, with red cheeks, robust and smiling. After eight years of marriage she also died, but in that time she gave him seven children, of whom only one had survived. Although he loved them much, all these tragedies had not shaken his good humor. The greatest blow had been the death of his young wife, three years ago, which had come to him at an age when it is difficult to start life again and to make a new home. But after a moment’s confusion old Jean Michel regained himself, which no misfortune seemed able to disturb.

He was an affectionate man, but health was the strongest thing in him. Whatever might be his grief , he did not drink one drop the less, nor miss one bite at table, and his band never had one day off. Under his direction the Court orchestra won a small celebrity in the Rhine country, where Jean Michel had become legendary by reason of his athletic stature and outbursts of anger. He could not master them, in spite of all his efforts, for the violent man was at the core timid and afraid of compromising himself.

He feared opinion; his blood ran away with him. He used to see red, and he used to be the victim of sudden fits of crazy impatience, not only at rehearsals, but at the concerts, as well.He felt the impropriety himself, and one day, when his outbursts had all but caused the whole orchestra to strike, he sent in his resignation . He hoped that in consideration of his services they would make difficulties about accepting it, and would ask him to stay. There was nothing of the kind, and as he was too proud to go back on his offer, he left, broken-hearted, and crying out upon the ingratitude of mankind.

Since that time he had not known how to fill his days. He was more than seventy, but he was still vigorous , and he went on working and going up and down the town from morning to night, giving lessons, and entering into discussions, and everything else. He was ingenious , and found all sorts of ways of keeping himself occupied. He began to repair musical instruments; he invented, experimented, and sometimes discovered improvements. He composed also, and stored away his compositions, but knew, with great shame, that none of his works were works of genius.

“There are,” says George Sand, “unhappy geniuses who lack the power of expression, and carry down to their graves the unknown region of their thoughts.” Old Jean Michel belonged to that family. He was no more successful in expressing himself in music than in words, and he always deceived himself. He would so much have loved to talk, to write, to be a great musician, an eloquent speaker! It was his secret sore . He told no one of it, did not admit it to himself, tried not to think of it; but he did think of it, in spite of himself, and so there was the seed of death in his soul. Poor old man! In nothing did he succeed in being absolutely himself. There were in him so many seeds of beauty and power,but they never put forth fruit.

Jean Michel had transferred all his ambitions to his son,and at first Melchior had promised to realize them. From childhood he had shown great musical gifts. He learned with extraordinary facility , and quickly acquired as a violinist a genius which for a long time made him the favorite, almost the idol, of the Court concerts. He played the piano and other instruments pleasantly. He was a fine talker, well, though a little heavily built, and was of the type which passes in Germany for classic beauty; he had a large brow that expressed nothing,large regular features, and a curled beard.

Old Jean Michel enjoyed his son’s success. Melchior would have had no difficulty in expressing what he thought. The trouble was that he did not think; and he did not even bother about it. He had the soul of an ordinary comedian who takes pains with the pronunciation of his voice without caring about what it expresses, and, with anxious vanity , watches their effect on his audience. The odd thing was that, in spite of his constant anxiety about his stage pose , there was in him, as in Jean Michel,in spite of his timid respect for social conventions , a curious,irregular, unexpected and chaotic quality, which made people say that the Kraffts were a bit crazy.

After his absurd marriage, absurd in the eyes of the world, and therefore also in his own, Melchior gave himself up to his irregular behaviors more and more. He neglected his playing, so secure in his own superiority that very soon he lost it.Other violinists came to succeed him in public favor. That was bitter to him, but instead of rousing his energy, these defeats only discouraged him. In his foolish arrogance he counted on succeeding his father as musical director; another man was appointed . He thought himself persecuted , and took on the airs of a misunderstood genius. Thanks to the esteem in which old Krafft was held, he kept his place as a violinist in the orchestra,but gradually he lost all his lessons in the town. And if this blow struck most at his vanity, it touched his purse even more.

For several years the resources of his household had grown less and less, following on various reverses of fortune. After having known plenty, want came, and every day increased.Melchior refused to take notice of it; he did not spend one penny the less on his toilet or his pleasures. He was not a bad man, but a half-good man, which is perhaps worse.

Melchior gave his wife a child every year, without troubling to think what was to become of it later. Two had died young; two others were three and four years old. Melchior never bothered about them.

Louisa, when she had to go out, left them with Jean Christophe, now six years old. He was proud of being treated as a man, and gravely fulfilled his task. He amused the children as best he could by showing them his games, and he set himself to talk to them as he had heard his mother talking to the baby. Or he would carry them in his arms, one after another, as he had seen her do; he bent under their weight, and clenched his teeth,and with all his strength clutched his little brother to his breast ,so as to prevent his falling. They made him very unhappy, and he was often troubled about them. Jean Christophe did not know what to do. They took advantage of him. Sometimes he wanted to slap them, but he thought, “They are little; they do not know,” and he let them pinch him, and beat him, and tease him.

There were now times of extremely straitened circumstances at home, which became more and more frequent. No one was more sensible of it than Jean Christophe. His father saw nothing. He was served first, and there was always enough for him. He talked noisily, and roared with laughter at his own jokes, and he never noticed his wife’s glances as she gave a forced laugh, while she watched him helping himself. When he passed the dish it was more than half empty. Louisa gave the children two potatoes each. When it came to Jean Christophe’s turn there were sometimes only three left, and his mother was not helped. He knew that beforehand ; he had counted them before they came to him. Then he summoned up courage, and said carelessly, “Only one, mother.”

She was a little put out.

“Two, like the others.”

“No, please; only one.”

“Aren’t you hungry?”

“No, I’m not very hungry.”

But she, too, only took one, and they peeled them carefully,cut them up in little pieces, and tried to eat them as slowly as possible. His mother watched him. When he had finished, she said, “Come, take it!”

“No, mother.”

“You are ill?”

“I am not ill, but I have eaten enough.”

Then his father would reproach him with being stubborn ,and take the last potato for himself.

It was in the midst of these gloomy times that there began to shine the light which was to illuminate his life: divine music!

His grandfather gave the children an old piano, which one of his clients , anxious to be rid of it, had asked him to take. His patient ingenuity had almost put it in order. The present had not been very well received. Louisa thought her room already too small, without filling it up any more; and Melchior said that Jean Michel had not ruined himself over it: just firewood. Only Jean Christophe was glad of it without exactly knowing why. It seemed to him a magic box, full of marvelous stories.

When no one was nearby, Jean Christophe would go to the piano and raise the lid, softly pressing down a key, just as if he were moving with his finger the living shell of some great insect; he wanted to push out the creature that was locked up in it.

Sometimes in his haste he would strike too hard, and then his mother would cry out, “Will you not be quiet? Don’t go touching everything!” or else he would pinch himself cruelly in closing the piano, and make pitiful faces as he sucked his bruised fingers.

Now his greatest joy is when his mother would go out for a day’s service, or pay some visit in the town. He listens as she goes down the stairs, and into the street, and away. He is alone. He opens the piano, and brings up a chair, and perches on it. His shoulders just about reach the keyboard; it is enough for what he wants. Why does he wait until he is alone? No one would prevent his playing so long as he did not make too much noise. But he is ashamed before the others, and dare not. And then they talk and move about: that spoils his pleasure.

It is so much more beautiful when he is alone! Jean Christophe holds his breath so that the silence may be even greater, and also because he is a little excited, as though he were going to let off a gun.

One day Melchior came upon him thus. Father made him jump with fear at the sound of his great voice. Jean Christophe,thinking he was doing wrong, quickly put his hands up to his ears to ward off the blows he feared. But Melchior did not scold him, strange to say; he was in a good temper , and laughed. “You like that, boy?” he asked, patting his head kindly. “Would you like me to teach you to play it?”

Would he like! Delighted, he murmured , “Yes.”

The two of them sat down at the piano, Jean Christophe perched this time on a pile of big books, and very attentively took his first lesson. He learned first of all that the buzzing spirits have strange names, like Chinese names, of one syllable , or even of one letter. He was astonished; he imagined them to be different from that: beautiful, caressing names, like the princesses in fairy stories. He did not like the familiarity with which his father talked of them.

Again, when Melchior evoked them they were not the same;they seemed to become indifferent as they rolled out from under his fingers. But Jean Christophe was glad to learn about the relationships between them, their hierarchy , the scales,which were like a King commanding an army.

He set himself to learn, for it was not tiresome, and he was surprised at his father’s patience. Melchior did not weary of it either; he made him begin the same thing over again ten times. Jean Christophe did not understand why he should take so much trouble; his father loved him then. That was good! The boy worked away; his heart was filled with gratitude . He would have been less obliging had he known what thoughts were springing into being in his father’s head.

From that day on, Melchior took him to the house of a neighbor, where three times a week there was chamber music.Melchior played first violin, Jean Michel the cello . The other two were a bank clerk and the old watchmaker. They began at five, and went on till nine. Between each piece they drank beer.Neighbors used to come in and out, and listen without a word,leaning against the wall, and nodding their heads, and beating time with their feet, and filling the room with clouds of tobacco smoke.

Jean Christophe sat apart in a corner, which was his own,behind the piano. He was so restless listening to the music that in the end a head would peer over the piano, and say, “Boy, are you mad? Leave the piano... or I’ll pull your ears!”

And that made him crestfallen and angry. Why did they want to spoil his pleasure? He was not doing any harm. Must he always be tormented ! These honest citizens grinding out concertos would have been astonished if they had been told that the only person in the company who really felt the music was the little boy.

On the day when Melchior, stealing on tiptoe, had surprised the boy at the keyboard that was too high for him, he had stayed to watch him for a moment, and suddenly there had flashed upon him: “A little prodigy! Why had he not thought of it? What luck for the family!” No doubt he had thought that the boy would be a little peasant like his mother. “It would cost nothing to try. What a great thing it would be! He would take him all over Germany, perhaps abroad. It would be a jolly life,and noble to boot.”

Melchior never failed to look for the nobility hidden in all he did, for it was not often that he failed to find it, after some reflection . Strong in this assurance , immediately after supper,as soon as he had taken his last mouthful, he dumped the child once more in front of the piano, and made him go through the day’s lesson until his eyes closed in weariness . Then three times the next day. Then the day after that. Then every day.Jean Christophe soon tired of it; then he was sick to death of it.Finally he could stand it no more, and tried to revolt against it.

There was no point in what he was made to do, nothing but learning to run as fast as possible over the keys. It got on his nerves; there was nothing beautiful in it. There was an end to the magic sounds, and fascinating monsters, and the universe of dreams felt in one moment... Nothing but scales and exercises.

He decided that he would play no more, or as badly as possible, and would discourage his father. It would be hard,but at all costs he must keep his independence. The very next lesson he began to put his plan into execution . He set himself conscientiously to hit the notes amiss . Melchior cried out, then roared, and blows began to rain.

Melchior was as stubborn as his son, and he swore that even if they were to stay there two days and two nights he would not let him off a single note until it had been properly played. The blows became more frequent; Jean Christophe was no longer conscious of his fingers. He wept pitifully and silently, sniffi ng , and swallowing down his sobs and tears. He understood that he had nothing to gain by going on like that, and that he would have to resort to desperate measures.

He stopped, and, trembling at the thought of the storm which was about to let loose, he said bravely, “Papa, I won’t play any more.”

“What! What!” he cried.

He took and almost broke the boy’s arm with shaking it.Jean Christophe, trembling more and more, and raising his arms elbow to ward off the blows, said again, “I won’t play any more. First, because I don’t like being beaten. And then...”

He could not finish. A terrifi c blow knocked the wind out of him, and Melchior roared, “Ah! You don’t like being beaten? You don’t like it?”

Blows rained. Jean Christophe wept, “And then... I don’t like music! I don’t like music!”

He slipped down from his chair. Melchior roughly put him back, and knocked his knuckles against the keyboard. He cried,“You shall play!”

And Jean Christophe shouted, “No! No! I won’t play!”

Melchior had to surrender . He thrashed the boy, thrust him from the room, and said that he should have nothing to eat all day, or the whole month, until he had played all his exercises without a mistake. Melchior kicked him out and slammed the door after him; the boy found himself on the stairs. He felt alone, lost in his misery. And little Jean Christophe, with a face pale and dirty, was soon asleep.

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devilishly /ˈdevəlɪʃlɪ/ adv. 过分地，厉害地

rebellious /rɪˈbeljəs/ adj. 叛逆的

slope /sləʊp/ n. 斜坡，斜面；倾斜

readily /ˈredɪlɪ/ adv. 乐意地；容易地

orchestra /ˈɔ:kɪstrə/ n. 管弦乐队

passion /ˈpæʃən/ n. 激情，热情

bemoan /bɪˈməʊn/ vt. 哀叹

robust /rəʊˈbʌst/ adj. 精力充沛的

confusion /kənˈfju:ʒən/ n. 混乱，混淆

affectionate /əˈfekʃənət/ adj. 充满深情的

grief /ɡri:f/ n. 悲痛，忧伤

miss /mɪs/ vt. 错过；避免

band /bænd/ n. 乐队

celebrity /səˈlebrətɪ/ n. 名声；名人

stature /ˈstætʃə/ n. 身材

victim /ˈvɪktɪm/ n. 受害人，牺牲品

impropriety /ˌɪmprəˈpraɪətɪ/ n. 不适当；不合适的举动

resignation /ˌrezɪɡˈneɪʃən/ n. 辞职，辞职书

ingratitude /ɪnˈɡrætɪtju:d/ n. 忘恩负义

vigorous /ˈvɪɡərəs/ adj. 精力旺盛的

ingenious /ɪnˈdʒi:njəs/ adj. 有独创性的，具有创造才能的

compose /kəmˈpəʊz/ vi. 作曲

grave /ɡreɪv/ n. 坟墓

deceive /dɪˈsi:v/ vt. 欺骗，行骗

sore /sɔ:/ n. 痛处；伤心事

absolutely /ˈæbsəlu:tlɪ/ adv. 完全地，绝对地

transfer /trænsˈfɜ:/ vt. 转移，转让

facility /fəˈsɪlətɪ/ n. 熟练；容易

acquire /əˈkwaɪə/ vt. 获得，后天通过自己的努力得到

brow /braʊ/ n. 额；眉毛

curled /kɜ:ld/ adj. 卷曲的，卷发状的

vanity /ˈvænətɪ/ n. 虚荣（心）；空虚

anxiety /æŋˈzaɪətɪ/ n. 忧虑，焦急

pose /pəʊz/ n. 姿势，姿态

convention /kənˈvenʃən/ n. （行为的）规范，习俗

chaotic /keɪˈɒtɪk/ adj. 混乱的，无秩序的

absurd /əbˈsɜ:d/ adj. 荒谬的，可笑的

behavior /bɪˈheɪvjə/ n. 举止，行为

neglect /nɪˈɡlekt/ vt. 忽视

secure /sɪˈkjʊə/ adj. 安全的，可靠的，放心的

superiority /sju:ˌpɪərɪˈɒrətɪ/ n. 优越，高傲

rouse /raʊz/ vt. 鼓舞

arrogance /ˈærəɡəns/ n. 傲慢态度，自大

appoint /əˈpɔɪnt/ vt. 指定，任命

persecute /ˈpɜ:sɪkju:t/ vt. 迫害

esteem /ɪˈsti:m/ n. 尊敬，尊重

resource /rɪˈsɔ:s/ n. 资源

reverse /rɪˈvɜ:s/ n. 倒转

bother /ˈbɒðə/ vi. （为……而）苦恼，烦恼

gravely /ˈgreɪvlɪ/ adv. 严峻地

clutch /klʌtʃ/ vt. 抓住，攫住

breast /brest/ n. 胸部，胸膛

slap /slæp/ vt. 拍，掌击

pinch /pɪntʃ/ vt. 捏，拧

tease /ti:z/ vt. 取笑，奚落

circumstance /ˈsɜ:kəmstəns/ n. 环境，境况

roar /rɔ:/ vi. 吼叫

beforehand /bɪˈfɔ:hænd/ adv. 预先

summon /ˈsʌmən/ vt. 鼓起，振作

peel /pi:l/ vt. 剥，削，剥落

stubborn /ˈstʌbən/ adj. 顽固的

midst /mɪdst/ n. 中间

illuminate /ɪˈlju:mɪneɪt/ vt. 照明，阐明

divine /dɪˈvaɪn/ adj. 神圣的；非凡的

client /ˈklaɪənt/ n. 顾客，客户

haste /heɪst/ n. 匆忙，急忙

bruise /bru:z/ vt. 打伤，撞伤

spoil /spɔɪl/ vt. 损坏

temper /ˈtempə/ n. 性情，脾气

pat /pæt/ vt. 轻拍

murmur /ˈmɜ:mə/ vi. 咕哝，怨言；低语

buzzing /ˈbʌzɪŋ/ adj. 嗡嗡响的

syllable /ˈsɪləbl/ n. 【语】音节

caressing /kəˈresɪŋ/ adj. 爱抚的，亲切的

princess /prɪnˈses/ n. 公主

fairy /ˈfeərɪ/ n. 仙女，精灵，<美俚>漂亮姑娘

evoke /ɪˈvəʊk/ vt. 唤起，引起，博得

hierarchy /ˈhaɪərɑ:kɪ/ n. 层次

gratitude /ˈɡrætɪtju:d/ n. 感激

obliging /əˈblaɪdʒɪŋ/ adj. 热情的；乐于助人的

chamber /ˈtʃeɪmbə/ n. 房间；议院

cello /ˈtʃeləʊ/ n. 大提琴

peer /pɪə/ vi. 凝视，盯着看

torment /ˈtɔ:ment/ vt. 使痛苦，折磨

grind /ɡraɪnd/ vt. 演奏

jolly /ˈdʒɒlɪ/ adj. 欢乐的，高兴的，快活的

refl ection /rɪˈfl ekʃən/ n. 沉思，深思

assurance /əˈʃʊərəns/ n. 确信

dump /dʌmp/ vt. 猛地扔下；倾倒（垃圾）

weariness /ˈwɪərɪnəs/ n. 疲倦，厌烦，疲劳

fascinating /ˈfæsɪneɪtɪŋ/ adj. 迷人的，醉人的

execution /ˌeksɪˈkju:ʃən/ n. 实施，完成，执行

conscientiously /ˌkɒnʃɪˈenʃəslɪ/ adv. 认真地

amiss /əˈmɪs/ adv. 错误地，不正确地

swear /sweə/ vt. 宣誓，发誓

sniff /snɪf/ vi. 用力吸，嗅

desperate /ˈdespərət/ adj. 不顾一切的；绝望的

elbow /ˈelbəʊ/ n. 肘

terrifi c /təˈrɪfɪk/ adj. 可怕的；极大的

surrender /səˈrendə/ vi. 屈服（于），让步；投降

thrust /θrʌst/ vt. 猛推；插，刺

slam /slæm/ vt. 砰地关上 Q1QItnRZWWmEGaZBxNzQGibGRdLeCR3Vr+/EcAc8ebu56+XnSKkL0KZajonfJrZ8