Years have passed. Jean-Christophe is nearly eleven. His musical education is proceeding1. He is learning harmony with Florian Holzer, the organist of St. Martin's, a friend of his grandfather's, a very learned man, who teaches him that the chords and series of chords that he most loves, and the harmonica which softly greet his heart and ear, those that he cannot hear without a little thrill running down his spine2, are bad and forbidden. When he asks why, no reply is forthcoming but that it is so; the rules forbid them. As he is naturally in revolt against discipline, he loves them only the more. His delight is to find examples of them in the great and admired musicians, and to take them to his grandfather or his master. His grandfather replies that in the great musicians they are admirable, and that Beethoven and Bach can take any liberty. His master, less conciliatory, is angry, and says acidly that the masters did better things.
Jean-Christophe has a free pass for the concerts and the theater. He has learned to play every instrument a little. He is already quite skilful6 with the violin, and his father procured7 him a seat in the orchestra. He acquitted8 himself so well there that after a few months' probation9 he was officially appointed second violin in the Hof Musik Verein. He has begun to earn his living. Not too soon either, for affairs at home have gone from bad to worse. Melchior's intemperance11 has swamped him, and his grandfather is growing old.
Jean-Christophe has taken in the melancholy12 situation. He is already as grave and anxious as a man. He fulfils his task valiantly13, though it does not interest him, and he is apt to fall asleep in the orchestra in the evenings, because it is late and he is tired. The theater no longer rouses in him the emotion it used to do when he was little. When he was little—four years ago—his greatest ambition had been to occupy the place that he now holds. But now he dislikes most of the music he is made to play. He dare not yet pronounce judgment14 upon it, but he does find it foolish; and if by chance they do play lovely things, he is displeased15 by the carelessness with which they are rendered, and his best-beloved works are made to appear like his neighbors and colleagues in the orchestra, who, as soon as the curtain has fallen, when they have done with blowing and scraping, mop their brows and smile and chatter17 quietly, as though they had just finished an hour's gymnastics. And he has been close to his former flame, the fair barefooted singer. He meets her quite often during the entr'acte in the saloon. She knows that he was once in love with her, and she kisses him often. That gives him no pleasure. He is disgusted by her paint and scent18 and her fat arms and her greediness. He hates her now.
The Grand Duke did not forget his pianist in ordinary. Not that the small pension, which was granted to him with this title was regularly paid—it had to be asked for—but from time to time Jean-Christophe used to receive orders to go to the Palace when there were distinguished19 guests, or simply when Their Highnesses took it into their heads that they wanted to hear him. It was almost always in the evening, at the time when Jean-Christophe wanted to be alone. He had to leave everything and hurry off. Sometimes he was made to wait in the anteroom, because dinner was not finished. The servants, accustomed to see him, used to address him familiarly. Then he would be led into a great room full of mirrors and lights, in which well-fed men and women used to stare at him with horrid20 curiosity. He had to cross the waxed floor to kiss Their Highnesses' hands, and the more he grew the more awkward he became, for he felt that he was in a ridiculous position, and his pride used to suffer.
When it was all done he used to sit at the piano and have to play for these idiots. He thought them idiots. There were moments when their indifference21 so oppressed him as he played that he was often on the point of stopping in the middle of a piece. There was no air about him; he was near suffocation22, seemed losing his senses. When he finished he was overwhelmed with congratulations and laden23 with compliments; he was introduced all round. He thought they looked at him like some strange animal in the Prince's menagerie, and that the words of praise were addressed rather to his master than to himself. He thought himself brought low, and he developed a morbid24 sensibility from which he suffered the more as he dared not show it. He saw offense25 in the most simple actions. If any one laughed in a corner of the room, he imagined himself to be the cause of it, and he knew not whether it were his manners, or his clothes, or his person, or his hands, or his feet, that caused the laughter. He was humiliated26 by everything. He was humiliated if people did not talk to him, humiliated if they did, humiliated if they gave him sweets like a child, humiliated especially when the Grand Duke, as sometimes happened, in princely fashion dismissed him by pressing a piece of money into his hand. He was wretched at being poor and at being treated as a poor boy. One evening, as he was going home, the money that he had received weighed so heavily upon him that he threw it through a cellar window, and then immediately he would have done anything to get it back, for at home there was a month's old account with the butcher to pay.
His relatives never suspected these injuries to his pride. They were delighted at his favor with the Prince. Poor Louisa could conceive of nothing finer for her son than these evenings at the Palace in splendid society. As for Melchior, he used to brag27 of it continually to his boon-fellows. But Jean-Christophe's grandfather was happier than any. He pretended to be independent and democratic, and to despise greatness, but he had a simple admiration28 for money, power, honors, social distinction, and he took unbounded pride in seeing his grandson, moving among those who had these things. He delighted in them as though such glory was a reflection upon himself, and in spite of all his efforts to appear calm and indifferent, his face used to glow. On the evenings when Jean-Christophe went to the Palace, old Jean Michel used always to contrive29 to stay about the house on some pretext30 or another. He used to await his grandson's return with childish impatience31, and when Jean-Christophe came in he would begin at once with a careless air to ply3 him with seeming idle questions, such as:
"Well, did things go well to-night?"
Or he would make little hints like:
"Here's our Jean-Christophe; he can tell us some news."
Or he would produce some ingenious compliment by way of flattery:
"Here's our young nobleman!"
But Jean-Christophe, out of sorts and out of temper, would reply with a curt16 "Good-evening!" and go and sulk in a corner. But the old man would persist, and ply him with more direct questions, to which the boy replied only "Yes," or "No." Then the others would join in and ask for details. Jean-Christophe would look more and more thunderous. They had to drag the words from his lips until Jean Michel would lose his temper and hurl32 insults at him. Then Jean-Christophe would reply with scant33 respect, and the end would be a rumpus. The old man would go out and slam the door. So Jean-Christophe spoiled the joy of these poor people, who had no inkling of the cause of his bad temper. It was not their fault if they had the souls of servants, and never dreamed that it is possible to be otherwise.
Jean-Christophe was turned into himself, and though he never judged his family, yet he felt a gulf34 between himself and them. No doubt he exaggerated what lay between them, and in spite of their different ways of thought it is quite probable that they could have understood each other if he had been able to talk intimately to them. But it is known that nothing is more difficult than absolute intimacy36 between children and parents, even when there is much love between them, for on the one side respect discourages confidence, and on the other the idea, often erroneous, of the superiority of age and experience prevents them taking seriously enough the child's feelings, which are often just as interesting as those of grown-up persons, and almost always more sincere.
But the people that Jean-Christophe saw at home and the conversation that he heard there widened the distance between himself and his family.
Melchior's friends used to frequent the house—mostly musicians of the orchestra, single men and hard drinkers. They were not bad fellows, but vulgar. They made the house shake with their footsteps and their laughter. They loved music, but they spoke37 of it with a stupidity that was revolting. The coarse indiscretion of their enthusiasm wounded the boy's modesty39 of feeling. When they praised a work that he loved it was as though they were insulting him personally. He would stiffen40 himself and grow pale, frozen, and pretend not to take any interest in music. He would have hated it had that been possible. Melchior used to say:
"The fellow has no heart. He feels nothing. I don't know where he gets it from."
Sometimes they used to sing German four-part songs—four-footed as well—and these were all exactly like themselves—slow-moving, solemn and broad, fashioned of dull melodies. Then Jean-Christophe used to fly to the most distant room and hurl insults at the wall.
His grandfather also had friends: the organist, the furniture-dealer, the watch-maker, the contra-bass41—garrulous old men, who used always to pass round the same jokes and plunge42 into interminable discussions on art, politics, or the family trees of the countryside, much less interested in the subjects of which they talked than happy to talk and to find an audience.
As for Louisa, she used only to see some of her neighbors who brought her the gossip of the place, and at rare intervals44 a "kind lady," who, under pretext of taking an interest in her, used to come and engage her services for a dinner-party, and pretend to watch over the religious education of the children.
But of all who came to the house, none was more repugnant to Jean-Christophe than his Uncle Theodore, a stepson of his grandfather's, a son by a former marriage of his grandmother Clara, Jean Michel's first wife. He was a partner in a great commercial house which did business in Africa and the Far East. He was the exact type of one of those Germans of the new style, whose affectation it is scoffingly46 to repudiate47 the old idealism of the race, and, intoxicated48 by conquest, to maintain a cult35 of strength and success which shows that they are not accustomed to seeing them on their side. But as it is difficult at once to change the age-old nature of a people, the despised idealism sprang up again in him at every turn in language, manners, and moral habits and the quotations49 from Goethe to fit the smallest incidents of domestic life, for he was a singular compound of conscience and self-interest. There was in him a curious effort to reconcile the honest principles of the old German bourgeoisie with the cynicism of these new commercial condottieri—a compound which forever gave out a repulsive51 flavor of hypocrisy52, forever striving to make of German strength, avarice53, and self-interest the symbols of all right, justice, and truth.
Jean-Christophe's loyalty54 was deeply injured by all this. He could not tell whether his uncle were right or no, but he hated him, and marked him down for an enemy. His grandfather had no great love for him either, and was in revolt against his theories; but he was easily crushed in argument by Theodore's fluency55, which was never hard put to it to turn into ridicule56 the old man's simple generosity57. In the end Jean Michel came to be ashamed of his own good-heartedness, and by way of showing that he was not so much behind the times as they thought, he used to try to talk like Theodore; but the words came hollow from his lips, and he was ill at ease with them. Whatever he may have thought of him, Theodore did impress him. He felt respect for such practical skill, which he admired the more for knowing himself to be absolutely incapable58 of it. He used to dream of putting one of his grandsons to similar work. That was Melchior's idea also. He intended to make Rodolphe follow in his uncle's footsteps. And so the whole family set itself to flatter this rich relation of whom they expected help. He, seeing that he was necessary to them, took advantage of it to cut a fine masterful figure, He meddled59 in everything, gave advice upon everything, and made no attempt to conceal61 his contempt for art and artists. Rather, he blazoned62 it abroad for the mere63 pleasure of humiliating his musicianly relations, and he used to indulge in stupid jokes at their expense, and the cowards used to laugh.
Jean-Christophe, especially, was singled out as a butt64 for his uncle's jests. He was not patient under them. He would say nothing, but he used to grind his teeth angrily, and his uncle used to laugh at his speechless rage. But one day, when Theodore went too far in his teasing, Jean-Christophe, losing control of himself, spat65 in his face. It was a fearful affair. The insult was so monstrous66 that his uncle was at first paralyzed by it; then words came back to him, and he broke out into a flood of abuse. Jean-Christophe sat petrified67 by the enormity of the thing that he had done, and did not even feel the blows that rained down upon him; but when they tried to force him down on his knees before his uncle, he broke away, jostled his mother aside, and ran out of the house. He did not stop until he could breathe no more, and then he was right out in the country. He heard voices calling him, and he debated within himself whether he had not better throw himself into the river, since he could not do so with his enemy. He spent the night in the fields. At dawn he went and knocked at his grandfather's door. The old man had been so upset by Jean-Christophe's disappearance—he had not slept for it—that he had not the heart to scold him. He took him home, and then nothing was said to him, because it was apparent that he was still in an excited condition, and they had to smooth him down, for he had to play at the Palace that evening. But for several weeks Melchior continued to overwhelm him with his complaints, addressed to nobody in particular, about the trouble that a man takes to give an example of an irreproachable68 life and good manners to unworthy creatures who dishonor him. And when his Uncle Theodore met him in the street, he turned his head and held his nose by way of showing his extreme disgust.
Finding so little sympathy at home, Jean-Christophe spent as little time there as possible. He chafed69 against the continual restraint which they strove to set upon him. There were too many things, too many people, that he had to respect, and he was never allowed to ask why, and Jean-Christophe did not possess the bump of respect. The more they tried to discipline him and to turn him into an honest little German bourgeois50, the more he felt the need of breaking free from it all. It would have been his pleasure after the dull, tedious, formal performances which he had to attend in the orchestra or at the Palace to roll in the grass like a fowl70, and to slide down the grassy71 slope on the seat of his new trousers, or to have a stone-fight with the urchins72 of the neighborhood. It was not because he was afraid of scoldings and thwackings that he did not do these things more often, but because he had no playmates. He could not get on with other children. Even the little guttersnipes did not like playing with him, because he took every game too seriously, and struck too lustily. He had grown used to being driven in on himself, and to living apart from children of his own age. He was ashamed of not being clever at games, and dared not take part in their sport. And he used to pretend to take no interest in it, although he was consumed by the desire to be asked to play with them. But they never said anything to him, and then he would go away hurt, but assuming indifference.
He found consolation73 in wandering with Uncle Gottfried when he was in the neighborhood. He became more and more friendly with him, and sympathized with his independent temper. He understood so well now Gottfried's delight in tramping the roads without a tie in the world! Often they used to go out together in the evening into the country, straight on, aimlessly, and as Gottfried always forgot the time, they used to come back very late, and then were scolded. Gottfried knew that it was wrong, but Jean-Christophe used to implore74, and he could not himself resist the pleasure of it. About midnight he would stand in front of the house and whistle, an agreed signal. Jean-Christophe would be in his bed fully75 dressed. He would slip out with his shoes in his hand, and, holding his breath, creep with all the artful skill of a savage76 to the kitchen window, which opened on to the road. He would climb on to the table; Gottfried would take him on his shoulders, and then off they would go, happy as truants78.
Sometimes they would go and seek out Jeremy the fisherman, a friend of Gottfried's, and then they would slip out in his boat under the moon. The water dropping from the oars38 gave out little arpeggios, then chromatic79 scales. A milky80 vapor81 hung tremulous over the surface of the waters. The stars quivered. The cocks called to each other from either bank, and sometimes in the depths of the sky they heard the trilling of larks82 ascending83 from earth, deceived by the light of the moon. They were silent. Gottfried hummed a tune84. Jeremy told strange tales of the lives of the beasts—tales that gained in mystery from the curt and enigmatic manner of their telling. The moon hid herself behind the woods. They skirted the black mass of the hills. The darkness of the water and the sky mingled85. There was never a ripple86 on the water. Sounds died down. The boat glided87 through the night. Was she gliding88? Was she moving? Was she still?… The reeds parted with a sound like the rustling89 of silk. The boat grounded noiselessly. They climbed out on to the bank, and returned on foot. They would not return until dawn. They followed the river-bank. Clouds of silver ablets, green as ears of corn, or blue as jewels, teemed90 in the first light of day. They swarmed91 like the serpents of Medusa's head, and flung themselves greedily at the bread thrown to them; they plunged92 for it as it sank, and turned in spirals, and then darted93 away in a flash, like a ray of light. The river took on rosy94 and purple hues95 of reflection. The birds woke one after another. The truants hurried back. Just as carefully as when they had set out, they returned to the room, with its thick atmosphere, and Jean-Christophe, worn out, fell into bed, and slept at once, with his body sweet-smelling with the smell of the fields.
All was well, and nothing would have been known, but that one day Ernest, his younger brother, betrayed Jean-Christophe's midnight sallies. From that moment they were forbidden, and he was watched. But he contrived96 to escape, and he preferred the society of the little peddler and his friends to any other. His family was scandalized. Melchior said that he had the tastes of a laborer97. Old Jean Michel was jealous of Jean-Christophe's affection for Gottfried, and used to lecture him about lowering himself so far as to like such vulgar company when he had the honor of mixing with the best people and of being the servant of princes. It was considered that Jean-Christophe was lacking in dignity and self-respect.
In spite of the penury98 which increased with Melchior's intemperance and folly99, life was tolerable as long as Jean Michel was there. He was the only creature who had any influence over Melchior, and who could hold him back to a certain extent from his vice45. The esteem100 in which he was generally held did serve to pass over the drunkard's freaks, and he used constantly to come to the aid of the household with money. Besides the modest pension which he enjoyed as retired101 Kapellmeister, he was still able to earn small sums by giving lessons and tuning102 pianos. He gave most of it to his daughter-in-law, for he perceived her difficulties, though she strove to hide them from him. Louisa hated the idea that he was denying himself for them, and it was all the more to the old man's credit in that he had always been accustomed to a large way of living and had great needs to satisfy. Sometimes even his ordinary sacrifices were not sufficient, and to meet some urgent debt Jean Michel would have secretly to sell a piece of furniture or books, or some relic103 that he set store by. Melchior knew that his father made presents to Louisa that were concealed104 from himself, and very often he would lay hands on them, in spite of protest. But when this came to the old man's ears—not from Louisa, who said nothing of her troubles to him, but from one of his grandchildren—he would fly into a terrible passion, and there were frightful105 scenes between the two men. They were both extraordinarily106 violent, and they would come to round oaths and threats—almost it seemed as though they would come to blows. But even in his most angry passion respect would hold Melchior in check, and, however drunk he might be, in the end he would bow his head to the torrent107 of insults and humiliating reproach which his father poured out upon him. But for that he did not cease to watch for the first opportunity of breaking out again, and with his thoughts on the future, Jean Michel would be filled with melancholy and anxious fears.
"My poor children," he used to say to Louisa, "what will become, of you when I am no longer here?… Fortunately," he would add, fondling Jean-Christophe, "I can go on until this fellow pulls you out of the mire5." But he was out in his reckoning; he was at the end of his road. No one would have suspected it. He was surprisingly strong. He was past eighty; he had a full head of hair, a white mane, still gray in patches, and in his thick beard were still black hairs. He had only about ten teeth left, but with these he could chew lustily. It was a pleasure to see him at table. He had a hearty108 appetite, and though, he reproached Melchior for drinking, he always emptied his bottle himself. He had a preference for white Moselle. For the rest—wine, beer, cider—he could do justice to all the good things that the Lord hath made. He was not so foolish as to lose his reason in his cups, and he kept to his allowance. It is true that it was a plentiful109 allowance, and that a feebler intelligence must have been made drunk by it. He was strong of foot and eye, and indefatigably110 active. He got up at six, and performed his ablutions scrupulously111, for he cared for his appearance and respected his person. He lived alone in his house, of which he was sole occupant, and never let his daughter-in-law meddle60 with his affairs. He cleaned out his room, made his own coffee, sewed on his buttons, nailed, and glued, and altered; and going to and fro and up and down stairs in his shirt-sleeves, he never stopped singing in a sounding bass which he loved to let ring out as he accompanied himself with operatic gestures. And then he used to go out in all weathers. He went about his business, omitting none, but he was not often punctual. He was to be seen at every street corner arguing with some acquaintance or joking with some woman whose face he had remembered, for he loved pretty women and old friends. And so he was always late, and never knew the time. But he never let the dinner-hour slip by. He dined wherever he might be, inviting112 himself, and he would not go home until late—after nightfall, after a visit to his grandchildren. Then he would go to bed, and before he went to sleep read a page of his old Bible, and during the night—for he never slept for more than an hour or two together—he would get up to take down one of his old books, bought second-hand—history, theology, belles-lettres, or science. He used to read at random113 a few pages, which interested and bored him, and he did not rightly understand them, though he did not skip a word, until sleep came to him again. On Sunday he would go to church, walk with the children, and play bowls. He had never been ill, except for a little gout in his toes, which used to make him swear at night while he was reading his Bible. It seemed as though he might live to be a hundred, and he himself could see no reason why he should not live longer. When people said that he would die a centenarian, he used to think, like another illustrious old man, that no limit can be appointed to the goodness of Providence114, The only sign that he was growing old was that he was more easily brought to tears, and was becoming every day more irritable115. The smallest impatience with him could throw him into a violent fury. His red face and short neck would grow redder than ever. He would stutter angrily, and have to stop, choking. The family doctor, an old friend, had warned him to take care and to moderate both his anger and his appetite. But with an old man's obstinacy116 he plunged into acts of still greater recklessness out of bravado117, and he laughed at medicine and doctors. He pretended to despise death, and did not mince118 his language when he declared that he was not afraid of it.
One summer day, when it was very hot, and he had drunk copiously119, and argued in the market-place, he went home and began to work quietly in his garden. He loved digging. Bareheaded under the sun, still irritated by his argument, he dug angrily. Jean-Christophe was sitting in the arbor120 with a book in his hand, but he was not reading. He was dreaming and listening to the cheeping of the crickets, and mechanically following his grandfather's movements. The old man's back was towards him; he was bending and plucking out weeds. Suddenly Jean-Christophe saw him rise, beat against the air with his arms, and fall heavily with his face to the ground. For a moment he wanted to laugh; then he saw that the old man did not stir. He called to him, ran to him, and shook him with all his strength. Fear seized him. He knelt, and with his two hands tried to raise the great head from the ground. It was so heavy and he trembled so that he could hardly move it. But when he saw the eyes turned up, white and bloody121, he was frozen with horror and, with a shrill122 cry, let the head fall. He got up in terror, ran away and out of the place. He cried and wept. A man passing by stopped the boy. Jean-Christophe could not speak, but he pointed10 to the house. The man went in, and Jean-Christophe followed him. Others had heard his cries, and they came from the neighboring houses. Soon the garden was full of people. They trampled123 the flowers, and bent124 down over the old man. They cried aloud. Two or three men lifted him up. Jean-Christophe stayed by the gate, turned to the wall, and hid his face in his hands. He was afraid to look, but he could not help himself, and when they passed him he saw through his fingers the old man's huge body, limp and flabby. One arm dragged along the ground, the head, leaning against the knee of one of the men carrying the body, bobbed at every step, and the face was scarred, covered with mud, bleeding. The mouth was open and the eyes were fearful. He howled again, and took to flight. He ran as though something were after him, and never stopped until he reached home. He burst into the kitchen with frightful cries. Louisa was cleaning vegetables. He hurled125 himself at her, and hugged her desperately126, imploring127 her help. His face was distorted with his sobs128; he could hardly speak. But at the first word she understood. She went white, let the things fall from her hands, and without a word rushed from the house.
Jean-Christophe was left alone, crouching129 against a cupboard. He went on weeping. His brothers were playing. He could not make out quite what had happened. He did not think of his grandfather; he was thinking only of the dreadful sights he had just seen, and he was in terror lest he should be made to return to see them again.
And as it turned out in the evening, when the other children, tired of doing every sort of mischief130 in the house, were beginning to feel wearied and hungry, Louisa rushed in again, took them by the hand, and led them to their grandfather's house. She walked very fast, and Ernest and Rodolphe tried to complain, as usual; but Louisa bade them be silent in such a tone of voice that they held their peace. An instinctive131 fear seized them, and when they entered the house they began to weep. It was not yet night. The last hours of the sunset cast strange lights over the inside of the house—on the door-handle, on the mirror, on the violin hung on the wall in the chief room, which was half in darkness. But in the old man's room a candle was alight, and the flickering132 flame, vying134 with the livid, dying day, made the heavy darkness of the room more oppressive. Melchior was sitting near the window, loudly weeping. The doctor, leaning over the bed, hid from sight what was lying there. Jean-Christophe's heart beat so that it was like to break. Louisa made the children kneel at the foot of the bed. Jean-Christophe stole a glance. He expected something so terrifying after what he had seen in the afternoon that at the first glimpse he was almost comforted. His grandfather lay motionless, and seemed to be asleep. For a moment the child believed that the old man was better, and that all was at an end. But when he heard his heavy breathing; when, as he looked closer, he saw the swollen135 face, on which the wound that he had come by in the fall had made a broad scar; when he understood that here was a man at point of death, he began to tremble; and while he repeated Louisa's prayer for the restoration of his grandfather, in his heart he prayed that if the old man could not get well he might be already dead. He was terrified at the prospect136 of what was going to happen.
The old man had not been conscious since the moment of his fall. He only returned to consciousness for a moment, enough to learn his condition, and that was lamentable137. The priest was there, and recited the last prayers over him. They raised the old man on his pillow. He opened his eyes slowly, and they seemed no longer to obey his will. He breathed noisily, and with unseeing eyes looked at the faces and the lights, and suddenly he opened his mouth. A nameless terror showed on his features.
"But then …" he gasped—"but I am going to die!"
The awful sound of his voice pierced Jean-Christophe's heart. Never, never was it to fade from his memory. The old man said no more. He moaned like a little child. The stupor138 took him once more, but his breathing became more and more difficult. He groaned139, he fidgeted with his hands, he seemed to struggle against the mortal sleep. In his semi-consciousness he cried once:
"Mother!"
Oh, the biting impression that it made, this mumbling140 of the old man, calling in anguish141 on his mother, as Jean-Christophe would himself have done—his mother, of whom he was never known to talk in life, to whom he now turned instinctively142, the last futile143 refuge in the last terror!… Then he seemed to be comforted for a moment. He had once more a flicker133 of consciousness. His heavy eyes, the pupils of which seemed to move aimlessly, met those of the boy frozen in his fear. They lit up. The old man tried to smile and speak. Louisa took Jean-Christophe and led him to the bedside. Jean Michel moved his lips, and tried to caress144 his head with his hand, but then he fell back into his torpor145. It was the end.
They sent the children into the next room, but they had too much to do to worry about them, and Jean-Christophe, under the attraction of the horror of it, peeped through the half-open door at the tragic146 face on the pillow; the man strangled by the firm, clutch that had him by the neck; the face which grew ever more hollow as he watched; the sinking of the creature into the void, which seemed to suck it down like a pump; and the horrible death-rattle, the mechanical breathing, like a bubble of air bursting on the surface of waters; the last efforts of the body, which strives to live when the soul is no longer. Then the head fell on one side on the pillow. All, all was silence.
A few moments later, in the midst of the sobs and prayers and the confusion caused by the death, Louisa saw the child, pale, wide-eyed, with gaping147 mouth, clutching convulsively at the handle of the door. She ran to him. He had a seizure148 in her arms. She carried him away. He lost consciousness. He woke up to find himself in his bed. He howled in terror, because he had been left alone for a moment, had another seizure, and fainted again. For the rest of the night and the next day he was in a fever. Finally, he grew calm, and on the next night fell into a deep sleep, which lasted until the middle of the following day. He felt that some one was walking in his room, that his mother was leaning over his bed and kissing him. He thought he heard the sweet distant sound of bells. But he would not stir; he was in a dream.
When he opened his eyes again his Uncle Gottfried was sitting at the foot of his bed. Jean-Christophe was worn out, and could remember nothing. Then his memory returned, and: he began to weep. Gottfried got up and kissed him.
"Well, my boy—well?" he said gently.
"Cry, then …" said Gottfried. "Cry!"
He also was weeping.
When he was a little comforted Jean-Christophe dried his eyes and looked at
Gottfried. Gottfried understood that he wanted to ask something.
"No," he said, putting a finger to his lips, "you must not talk. It is good to cry, bad to talk."
The boy insisted.
"It is no good."
"Only one thing—only one!…"
"What?"
Jean-Christophe hesitated.
"Oh, uncle!" he asked, "where is he now?"
Gottfried answered:
"He is with the Lord, my boy."
But that was not what Jean-Christophe had asked.
"No; you do not understand. Where is he—he himself?" (He meant the body.)
He went on in a trembling voice:
"Is he still in the house?"
"They buried the good man this morning," said Gottfried. "Did you not hear the bells?"
Jean-Christophe was comforted. Then, when he thought that he would never see his beloved grandfather again, he wept once more bitterly.
"Poor little beast!" said Gottfried, looking pityingly at the child.
Jean-Christophe expected Gottfried to console him, but Gottfried made no attempt to do so, knowing that it was useless.
"Uncle Gottfried," asked the boy, "are not you afraid of it, too?"
(Much did he wish that Gottfried should not have been afraid, and would tell him the secret of it!)
"'Ssh!" he said, in a troubled voice….
"And how is one not to be afraid?" he said, after a moment. "But what can one do? It is so. One must put up with it."
Jean-Christophe shook his head in protest.
"One has to put up with it, my boy," said Gottfried. "He ordered it up yonder. One has to love what He has ordered."
"I hate Him!" said Jean-Christophe, angrily shaking his fist at the sky.
Gottfried fearfully bade him be silent. Jean-Christophe himself was afraid of what he had just said, and he began to pray with Gottfried. But blood boiled, and as he repeated the words of servile humility150 and resignation there was in his inmost heart a feeling of passionate151 revolt and horror of the abominable152 thing and the monstrous Being who had been able to create it.
Days passed and nights of rain over the freshly-turned earth under which lay the remains153 of poor old Jean Michel. At the moment Melchior wept and cried and sobbed much, but the week was not out before Jean-Christophe heard him laughing heartily154. When the name of the dead man was pronounced in his presence, his face grew longer and a lugubrious155 expression came into it, but in a moment he would begin to talk and gesticulate excitedly. He was sincerely afflicted156, but it was impossible for him to remain sad for long.
Louisa, passive and resigned, accepted the misfortune as she accepted everything. She added a prayer to her daily prayers; she went regularly to the cemetery157, and cared for the grass as if it were part of her household.
Gottfried paid touching158 attention to the little patch of ground where the old man slept. When he came to the neighborhood, he brought a little souvenir—a cross that he had made, or flowers that Jean Michel had loved. He never missed, even if he were only in the town for a few hours, and he did it by stealth.
Sometimes Louisa took Jean-Christophe with her on her visits to the cemetery. Jean-Christophe revolted in disgust against the fat patch of earth clad in its sinister159 adornment160 of flowers and trees, and against the heavy scent which mounts to the sun, mingling161 with the breath of the sonorous162 cypress163. But he dared not confess his disgust, because he condemned164 it in himself as cowardly and impious. He was very unhappy. His grandfather's death haunted him incessantly165, and yet he had long known what death was, and had thought about it and been afraid of it. But he had never before seen it, and he who sees it for the first time learns that he knew nothing, neither of death nor of life. One moment brings everything tottering166. Reason is of no avail. You thought you were alive, you thought you had some experience of life; you see then that you knew nothing, that you have been living in a veil of illusions spun167 by your own mind to hide from your eyes the awful countenance168 of reality. There is no connection between the idea of suffering and the creature who bleeds and suffers. There is no connection between the idea of death and the convulsions of body and soul in combat and in death. Human language, human wisdom, are only a puppet-show of stiff mechanical dolls by the side of the grim charm of reality and the creatures of mind and blood, whose desperate and vain efforts are strained to the fixing of a life which crumbles169 away with every day.
Jean-Christophe thought of death day and night. Memories of the last agony pursued him. He heard that horrible breathing; every night, whatever he might be doing, he saw his grandfather again. All Nature was changed; it seemed as though there were an icy vapor drawn170 over her. Round him, everywhere, whichever way he turned, he felt upon his face the fatal breathing of the blind, all-powerful Beast; he felt himself in the grip of that fearful destructive Form, and he felt that there was nothing to be done. But, far from crushing him, the thought of it set him aflame with hate and indignation. He was never resigned to it. He butted171 head down against the impossible; it mattered nothing that he broke his head, and was forced to realize that he was not the stronger. He never ceased to revolt against suffering. From that time on his life was an unceasing struggle against the savagery172 of a Fate which he could not admit.
The very misery173 of his life afforded him relief from the obsession174 of his thoughts. The ruin of his family, which only Jean Michel had withheld175, proceeded apace when he was removed. With him the Kraffts had lost their chief means of support, and misery entered the house.
Melchior increased it. Far from working more, he abandoned himself utterly176 to his vice when he was free of the only force that had held him in check. Almost every night he returned home drunk, and he never brought back his earnings177. Besides, he had lost almost all his lessons. One day he had appeared at the house of one of his pupils in a state of complete intoxication178, and, as a consequence of this scandal, all doors were closed to him. He was only tolerated in the orchestra out of regard for the memory of his father, but Louisa trembled lest he should he dismissed any day after a scene. He had already been threatened with it on several evenings when he had turned up in his place about the end of the performance.
Twice or thrice he had forgotten altogether to put in an appearance. And of what was he not capable in those moments of stupid excitement when he was taken with the itch77 to do and say idiotic179 things! Had he not taken it into his head one evening to try and play his great violin concerto180 in the middle of an act of the Valkyrie? They were hard put to it to stop him. Sometimes, too, he would shout with laughter in the middle of a performance at the amusing pictures that were presented on the stage or whirling in his own brain. He was a joy to his colleagues, and they passed over many things because he was so funny. But such indulgence was worse than severity, and Jean-Christophe could have died for shame.
The boy was now first violin in the orchestra. He sat so that he could watch over his father, and, when necessary, beseech181 him, and make him be silent. It was not easy, and the best thing was not to pay any attention to him, for if he did, as soon as the sot felt that eyes were upon him, he would take to making faces or launch out into a speech. Then Jean-Christophe would turn away, trembling with fear lest he should commit some outrageous182 prank183. He would try to be absorbed in his work, but he could not help hearing Melchior's utterances184 and the laughter of his colleagues. Tears would come into his eyes. The musicians, good fellows that they were, had seen that, and were sorry for him. They would hush185 their laughter, and only talk about his father when Jean-Christophe was not by. But Jean-Christophe was conscious of their pity. He knew that as soon as he had gone their jokes would break out again, and that Melchior was the laughing-stock of the town. He could not stop him, and he was in torment186. He used to bring his father home after the play. He would take his arm, put up with his pleasantries, and try to conceal the stumbling in his walk. But he deceived no one, and in spite of all his efforts it was very rarely that he could succeed in leading Melchior all the way home. At the corner of the street Melchior would declare that he had an urgent appointment with some friends, and no argument could dissuade187 him from keeping this engagement. Jean-Christophe took care not to insist too much, so as not to expose himself to a scene and paternal188 imprecations which might attract the neighbors to their windows.
All the household money slipped away in this fashion. Melchior was not satisfied with drinking away his earnings; he drank away all that his wife and son so hardly earned. Louisa used to weep, but she dared not resist, since her husband had harshly reminded her that nothing in the house belonged to her, and that he had married her without a sou. Jean-Christophe tried to resist. Melchior boxed his ears, treated him like a naughty child, and took the money out of his hands. The boy was twelve or thirteen. He was strong, and was beginning to kick against being beaten; but he was still afraid to rebel, and rather than expose himself to fresh humiliations of the kind he let himself be plundered190. The only resource that Louisa and Jean-Christophe had was to hide their money; but Melchior was singularly ingenious in discovering their hiding-places when they were not there.
Soon that was not enough for him. He sold the things that he had inherited from his father. Jean-Christophe sadly saw the precious relics191 go—the books, the bed, the furniture, the portraits of musicians. He could say nothing. But one day, when Melchior had crashed into Jean Michel's old piano, he swore as he rubbed his knee, and said that there was no longer room to move about in his own house, and that he would rid the house of all such gimcrackery. Jean-Christophe cried aloud. It was true that the rooms were too full, since all Jean Michel's belongings192 were crowded into them, so as to be able to sell the house, that dear house in which Jean-Christophe had spent the happiest hours of his childhood. It was true also that the old piano was not worth much, that it was husky in tone, and that for a long time Jean-Christophe had not used it, since he played on the fine new piano due to the generosity of the Prince; but however old and useless it might be, it was Jean-Christophe's best friend. It had awakened194 the child to the boundless195 world of music; on its worn yellow keys he had discovered with his fingers the kingdom of sounds and its laws; it had been his grandfather's work (months had gone to repairing it for his grandson), and he was proud of it; it was in some sort a holy relic, and Jean-Christophe protested that his father had no right to sell it. Melchior bade him be silent. Jean-Christophe cried louder than ever that the piano was his, and that he forbade any one to touch it; but Melchior looked at him with an evil smile, and said nothing.
Next day Jean-Christophe had forgotten the affair. He came home tired, but in a fairly good temper. He was struck by the sly looks of his brothers. They pretended to be absorbed in their books, but they followed him with their eyes, and watched all his movements, and bent over their books again when he looked at them. He had no doubt that they had played some trick upon him, but he was used to that, and did not worry about it, but determined196, when he had found it out, to give them a good thrashing, as he always did on such occasions. He scorned to look into the matter, and he began to talk to his father, who was sitting by the fire, and questioned him as to the doings of the day with an affectation of interest which suited him but ill; and while he talked he saw that Melchior was exchanging stealthy nods and winks197 with the two children. Something caught at his heart. He ran into his room. The place where the piano had stood was empty! He gave a cry of anguish. In the next room he heard the stifled198 laughter of his brothers. The blood rushed to his face. He rushed in to them, and cried:
"My piano!"
Melchior raised his head with an air of calm bewilderment which made the children roar with laughter. He could not contain himself when he saw Jean-Christophe's piteous look, and he turned aside to guffaw199. Jean-Christophe no longer knew what he was doing. He hurled himself like a mad thing on his father. Melchior, lolling in his chair, had no time to protect himself. The boy seized him by the throat and cried:
"Thief! Thief!"
It was only for a moment. Melchior shook himself, and sent Jean-Christophe rolling down on to the tile floor, though in his fury he was clinging to him like grim death. The boy's head crashed against the tiles. Jean-Christophe got upon his knees. He was livid, and he went on saying in a choking voice:
"Thief, thief!… You are robbing us—mother and me…. Thief!… You are selling my grandfather!"
Melchior rose to his feet, and held his fist above Jean-Christophe's head.
The boy stared at him with hate; in his eyes. He was trembling with rage.
Melchior began to tremble, too.
He sat down, and hid his face in his hands. The two children had run away screaming. Silence followed the uproar200. Melchior groaned and mumbled201. Jean-Christophe, against the wall, never ceased glaring at him with clenched202 teeth, and he trembled in every limb. Melchior began to blame himself.
"I am a thief! I rob my family! My children despise me! It were better if
I were dead!"
"Where is the piano?"
"At Wormser's," said Melchior, not daring to look at him.
Jean-Christophe took a step forward, and said:
"The money!"
Melchior, crushed, took the money from his pocket and gave it to his son.
Jean-Christophe turned towards the door. Melchior called him:
"Jean-Christophe!"
Jean-Christophe stopped. Melchior went on in a quavering voice:
"Dear Jean-Christophe … do not despise me!"
Jean-Christophe flung his arms round his neck and sobbed:
"No, father—dear father! I do not despise you! I am so unhappy!"
"It is not my fault. I am not bad. That's true, Jean-Christophe? I am not bad?"
He promised that he would drink no more. Jean-Christophe wagged his head doubtfully, and Melchior admitted that he could not resist it when he had money in his hands. Jean-Christophe thought for a moment and said:
"You see, father, we must…"
He stopped.
"What then?"
"I am ashamed…"
"Of whom?" asked Melchior naïvely.
"Of you."
Melchior made a face and said:
"That's nothing."
Jean-Christophe explained that they would have to put all the family money, even Melchior's contribution, into the hands of some one else, who would dole206 it out to Melchior day by day, or week by week, as he needed it. Melchior, who was in humble207 mood—he was not altogether starving—agreed to the proposition, and declared that he would then and there write a letter to the Grand Duke to ask that the pension which came to him should be regularly paid over in his name to Jean-Christophe. Jean-Christophe refused, blushing for his father's humiliation189. But Melchior, thirsting for self-sacrifice, insisted on writing. He was much moved by his own magnanimity. Jean-Christophe refused to take the letter, and when Louisa came in and was acquainted with the turn of events, she declared that she would rather beg in the streets than expose her husband to such an insult. She added that she had every confidence in him, and that she was sure he would make amends208 out of love for the children and herself. In the end there was a scene of tender reconciliation209 and Melchior's letter was left on the table, and then fell under the cupboard, where it remained concealed.
But a few days later, when she was cleaning up, Louisa found it there, and as she was very unhappy about Melchior's fresh outbreaks—he had forgotten all about it—instead of tearing it up, she kept it. She kept it for several months, always rejecting the idea of making use of it, in spite of the suffering she had to endure. But one day, when she saw Melchior once more beating Jean-Christophe and robbing him of his money, she could bear it no longer, and when she was left alone with the boy, who was weeping, she went and fetched the letter, and gave it him, and said:
"Go!"
Jean-Christophe hesitated, but he understood that there was no other way if they wished to save from the wreck210 the little that was left to them. He went to the Palace. He took nearly an hour to walk a distance that ordinarily took twenty minutes. He was overwhelmed by the shame of what he was doing. His pride, which had grown great in the years of sorrow and isolation211, bled at the thought of publicly confessing his father's vice. He knew perfectly212 well that it was known to everybody, but by a strange and natural inconsequence he would not admit it, and pretended to notice nothing, and he would rather have been hewn in pieces than agree. And now, of his own accord, he was going!… Twenty times he was on the point of turning back. He walked two or three times round the town, turning away just as he came near the Palace. He was not alone in his plight213. His mother and brothers had also to be considered. Since his father had deserted214 them and betrayed them, it was his business as eldest215 son to take his place and come to their assistance. There was no room for hesitation216 or pride; he had to swallow down his shame. He entered the Palace. On the staircase he almost turned and fled. He knelt down on a step; he stayed for several minutes on the landing, with his hand on the door, until some one coming made him go in.
Every one in the offices knew him. He asked to see His Excellency the Director of the Theaters, Baron217 de Hammer Langbach. A young clerk, sleek218, bald, pink-faced, with a white waistcoat and a pink tie, shook his hand familiarly, and began to talk about the opera of the night before. Jean-Christophe repeated his question. The clerk replied that His Excellency was busy for the moment, but that if Jean-Christophe had a request to make they could present it with other documents which were to be sent in for His Excellency's signature. Jean-Christophe held out his letter. The clerk read it, and gave a cry of surprise.
"Oh, indeed!" he said brightly. "That is a good idea. He ought to have thought of that long ago! He never did anything better in his life! Ah, the old sot! How the devil did he bring himself to do it?"
He stopped short. Jean-Christophe had snatched the paper out of his hands, and, white with rage, shouted:
"I forbid you!… I forbid you to insult me!"
The clerk was staggered.
"But, my dear Jean-Christophe," he began to say, "whoever thought of insulting you? I only said what everybody thinks, and what you think yourself."
"No!" cried Jean-Christophe angrily.
"What! you don't think so? You don't think that he drinks?"
"It is not true!" said Jean-Christophe.
He stamped his foot.
"In that case, why did he write this letter?"
"Because," said Jean-Christophe (he did not know what to say)—"because, when I come for my wages every month, I prefer to take my father's at the same time. It is no good our both putting ourselves out…. My father is very busy."
He reddened at the absurdity221 of his explanation. The clerk looked at him with pity and irony222 in his eyes. Jean-Christophe crumpled223 the paper in his hands, and turned to go. The clerk got up and took him by the arm.
"Wait a moment," he said. "I'll go and fix it up for you."
He went into the Director's office. Jean-Christophe waited, with the eyes of the other clerks upon him. His blood boiled. He did not know what he was doing, what to do, or what he ought to do. He thought of going away before the answer was brought to him, and he had just made up his mind to that when the door opened.
"His Excellency will see you," said the too obliging clerk.
Jean-Christophe had to go in.
His Excellency Baron de Hammer Langbach, a little neat old man with whiskers, mustaches, and a shaven chin, looked at Jean-Christophe over his golden spectacles without stopping writing, nor did he give any response to the boy's awkward bow.
"So," he said, after a moment, "you are asking, Herr Krafft …?"
"Your Excellency," said Jean-Christophe hurriedly, "I ask your pardon. I have thought better of it. I have nothing to ask."
The old man sought no explanation for this sudden reconsideration. He looked more closely at Jean-Christophe, coughed, and said:
"Herr Krafft, will you give me the letter that is in your hand?"
Jean-Christophe saw that the Director's gaze was fixed224 on the paper which he was still unconsciously holding crumpled up in his hand.
"It is no use, Your Excellency," he murmured. "It is not worth while now."
"Please give it me," said the old man quietly, as though he had not heard.
Mechanically Jean-Christophe gave him the crumpled letter, but he plunged into a torrent of stuttered words while he held out his hand for the letter. His Excellency carefully smoothed out the paper, read it, looked at Jean-Christophe, let him flounder about with his explanations, then checked him, and said with a malicious225 light in his eyes:
"Very well, Herr Krafft; the request is granted."
He dismissed him with a wave of his hand and went on with his writing.
Jean-Christophe went out, crushed.
"No offense, Jean-Christophe!" said the clerk kindly226, when the boy came into the office again. Jean-Christophe let him shake his hand without daring to raise his eyes. He found himself outside the Palace. He was cold with shame. Everything that had been said to him recurred227 in his memory, and he imagined that there was an insulting irony in the pity of the people who honored and were sorry for him. He went home, and answered only with a few irritable words Louisa's questions, as though he bore a grudge228 against her for what he had just done. He was racked by remorse229 when he thought of his father. He wanted to confess everything to him, and to beg his pardon. Melchior was not there. Jean-Christophe kept awake far into the night, waiting for him. The more he thought of him the more his remorse quickened. He idealized him; he thought of him as weak, kind, unhappy, betrayed by his own family. As soon as he heard his step on the stairs he leaped from his bed to go and meet him, and throw himself in his arms; but Melchior was in such a disgusting state of intoxication that Jean-Christophe had not even the courage to go near him, and he went to bed again, laughing bitterly at his own illusions.
When Melchior learned a few days later of what had happened, he was in a towering passion, and, in spite of all Jean-Christophe's entreaties230, he went and made a scene at the Palace. But he returned with his tail between his legs, and breathed not a word of what had happened. He had been very badly received. He had been told that he would have to take a very different tone about the matter, that the pension had only been continued out of consideration for the worth of his son, and that if in the future there came any scandal concerning him to their ears, it would be suppressed. And so Jean-Christophe was much surprised and comforted to see his father accept his living from day to day, and even boast about having taken, the initiative in the sacrifice.
But that did not keep Melchior from complaining outside that he had been robbed by his wife and children, that he had put himself out for them all his life, and that now they let him want for everything. He tried also to extract money from Jean-Christophe by all sorts of ingenious tricks and devices, which often used to make Jean-Christophe laugh, although he was hardly ever taken in by them. But as Jean-Christophe held firm, Melchior did not insist. He was curiously231 intimidated232 by the severity in the eyes of this boy of fourteen who judged him. He used to avenge233 himself by some stealthy, dirty trick. He used to go to the cabaret and eat and drink as much as he pleased, and then pay nothing, pretending that his son would pay his debts. Jean-Christophe did not protest, for fear of increasing the scandal, and he and Louisa exhausted234 their resources in discharging Melchior's debts. In the end Melchior more and more lost interest in his work as violinist, since he no longer received his wages, and his absence from the theater became so frequent that, in spite of Jean-Christophe's entreaties, they had to dismiss him. The boy was left to support his father, his brothers, and the whole household.
So at fourteen Jean-Christophe became the head of the family.
He stoutly235 faced his formidable task. His pride would not allow him to resort to the charity of others. He vowed236 that he would pull through alone. From his earliest days he had suffered too much from seeing his mother accept and even ask for humiliating charitable offerings. He used to argue the matter with her when she returned home triumphant237 with some present that she had obtained from one of her patronesses. She saw no harm in it, and was glad to be able, thanks to the money, to spare Jean-Christophe a little, and to bring another meager238 dish forth4 for supper. But Jean-Christophe would become gloomy, and would not talk all evening, and would even refuse, without giving any reason, to touch food gained in this way. Louisa was vexed239, and clumsily urged her son to eat. He was not to be budged240, and in the end she would lose her temper, and say unkind things to him, and he would retort. Then he would fling his napkin on the table and go out. His father would shrug220 his shoulders and call him a poseur241; his brothers would laugh at him and eat his portion.
But he had somehow to find a livelihood242. His earnings from the orchestra were not enough. He gave lessons. His talents as an instrumentalist, his good reputation, and, above all, the Prince's patronage243, brought him a numerous clientèle among the middle classes. Every morning from nine o'clock on he taught the piano to little girls, many of them older than himself, who frightened him horribly with their coquetry and maddened him with the clumsiness of their playing. They were absolutely stupid as far as music went, but, on the other hand, they had all, more or less, a keen sense of ridicule, and their mocking looks spared none of Jean-Christophe's awkwardnesses. It was torture for him. Sitting by their side on the edge of his chair, stiff, and red in the face; bursting with anger, and not daring to stir; controlling himself so as not to say stupid things, and afraid of the sound of his own voice, so that he could hardly speak a word; trying to look severe, and feeling that his pupil was looking at him out of the corner of her eye, he would lose countenance, grow confused in the middle of a remark; fearing to make himself ridiculous, he would become so, and break out into violent reproach. But it was very easy for his pupils to avenge themselves, and they did not fail to do so, and upset him by a certain way of looking at him, and by asking him the simplest questions, which made him blush up to the roots of his hair; or they would ask him to do them some small service, such as fetching something they had forgotten from a piece of furniture, and that was for him a most painful ordeal244, for he had to cross the room under fire of malicious looks, which pitilessly remarked the least awkwardness in his movements and his clumsy legs, his stiff arms, his body cramped245 by his shyness.
From these lessons he had to hasten to rehearsal246 at the theater. Often he had no time for lunch, and he used to carry a piece of bread and some cold meat in his pocket to eat during the interval43. Sometimes he had to take the place of Tobias Pfeiffer, the Musik Direktor, who was interested in him, and sometimes had him to conduct the orchestra rehearsals247 instead of himself. And he had also to go on with his own musical education. Other piano lessons filled his day until the hour of the performance, and very often in the evening after the play he was sent for to play at the Palace. There he had to play for an hour or two. The Princess laid claim to a knowledge of music. She was very fond of it, but had never been able to perceive the difference between good and bad. She used to make Jean-Christophe play through strange programmes, in which dull rhapsodies stood side by side with masterpieces. But her greatest pleasure was to make him improvise248, and she used to provide him with heartbreakingly sentimental249 themes.
Jean-Christophe used to leave about midnight, worn out, with his hands burning, his head aching, his stomach empty. He was in a sweat, and outside snow would be falling, or there would be an icy fog. He had to walk across half the town to reach home. He went on foot, his teeth chattering250, longing193 to sleep and to cry, and he had to take care not to splash his only evening dress-suit in the puddles251.
He would go up to his room, which he still shared with his brothers, and never was he so overwhelmed by disgust and despair with his life as at the moment when in his attic252, with its stifling253 smell, he was at last permitted to take off the halter of his misery. He had hardly the heart to undress himself. Happily, no sooner did his head touch the pillow than he would sink into a heavy sleep which deprived him of all consciousness of his troubles.
But he had to get up by dawn in summer, and before dawn in winter. He wished to do his own work. It was all the free time that he had between five o'clock and eight. Even then he had to waste some of it by work to command, for his title of Hof Musicus and his favor with the Grand Duke exacted from him official compositions for the Court festivals.
So the very source of his life was poisoned. Even his dreams were not free, but, as usual, this restraint made them only the stronger. When nothing hampers254 action, the soul has fewer reasons for action, and the closer the walls of Jean-Christophe's prison of care and banal255 tasks were drawn about him, the more his heart in its revolt felt its independence. In a life without obstacles he would doubtless have abandoned himself to chance and to the voluptuous256 sauntering of adolescence257. As he could be free only for an hour or two a day, his strength flowed into that space of time like a river between walls of rock. It is a good discipline for art for a man to confine his efforts between unshakable bounds. In that sense it may be said that misery is a master, not only of thought, but of style; it teaches sobriety to the mind as to the body. When time is doled258 out and thoughts measured, a man says no word too much, and grows accustomed to thinking only what is essential; so he lives at double pressure, having less time for living.
This had happened in Jean-Christophe's case. Under his yoke259 he took full stock of the value of liberty and he never frittered away the precious minutes with useless words or actions. His natural tendency to write diffusely260, given up to all the caprice of a mind sincere but indiscriminating, found correction in being forced to think and do as much as possible in the least possible time. Nothing had so much influence on his artistic261 and moral development—not the lessons of his masters, nor the example of the masterpieces. During the years when the character is formed he came to consider music as an exact language, in which every sound has a meaning, and at the same time he came to loathe262 those musicians who talk without saying anything.
And yet the compositions which he wrote at this time were still far from expressing himself completely, because he was still very far from having completely discovered himself. He was seeking himself through the mass of acquired feelings which education imposes on a child as second nature. He had only intuitions of his true being, until he should feel the passions of adolescence, which strip the personality of its borrowed garments as a thunder-clap purges263 the sky of the mists that hang over it. Vague and great forebodings were mingled in him with strange memories, of which he could not rid himself. He raged against these lies; he was wretched to see how inferior what he wrote was to what he thought; he had bitter doubts of himself. But he could not resign himself to such a stupid defeat. He longed passionately264 to do better, to write great things, and always he missed fire. After a moment of illusion as he wrote, he saw that what he had done was worthless. He tore it up; he burned everything that he did; and, to crown his humiliation, he had to see his official works, the most mediocre265 of all, preserved, and he could not destroy them—the concerto, The Royal Eagle, for the Prince's birthday and the cantata266, The Marriage of Pallas, written on the occasion of the marriage of Princess Adelaide—published at great expense in éditions de luxe, which perpetuated267 his imbecilities for posterity268; for he believed in posterity. He wept in his humiliation.
Fevered years! No respite269, no release—nothing to create a diversion from such maddening toil270; no games, no friends. How should he have them? In the afternoon, when other children played, young Jean-Christophe, with his brows knit in attention, was at his place in the orchestra in the dusty and ill-lighted theater; and in the evening, when other children were abed, he was still there, sitting in his chair, bowed with weariness.
No intimacy with his brothers. The younger, Ernest, was twelve. He was a little ragamuffin, vicious and impudent271, who spent his days with other rapscallions like himself, and from their company had caught not only deplorable manners, but shameful272 habits which good Jean-Christophe, who had never so much as suspected their existence, was horrified273 to see one day. The other, Rodolphe, the favorite of Uncle Theodore, was to go into business. He was steady, quiet, but sly. He thought himself much superior to Jean-Christophe, and did not admit his authority in the house, although it seemed natural to him to eat the food that he provided. He had espoused274 the cause of Theodore and Melchior's ill-feeling against Jean-Christophe and used to repeat their absurd gossip. Neither of the brothers cared for music, and Rodolphe, in imitation of his uncle, affected275 to despise it. Chafing276 against Jean-Christophe's authority and lectures—for he took himself very seriously as the head of the family—the two boys had tried to rebel; but Jean-Christophe, who had lusty fists and the consciousness of right, sent them packing. Still they did not for that cease to do with him as they liked. They abused his credulity, and laid traps for him, into which he invariably fell. They used to extort277 money from him with barefaced278 lies, and laughed at him behind his back. Jean-Christophe was always taken in. He had so much need of being loved that an affectionate word was enough to disarm279 his rancor280. He would have forgiven them everything for a little love. But his confidence was cruelly shaken when he heard them laughing at his stupidity after a scene of hypocritical embracing which had moved him to tears, and they had taken advantage of it to rob him of a gold watch, a present from the Prince, which they coveted281. He despised them, and yet went on letting himself be taken in from his unconquerable tendency to trust and to love. He knew it. He raged against himself, and he used to thrash his brothers soundly when he discovered once more that they had tricked him. That did not keep him from swallowing almost immediately the fresh hook which it pleased them to bait for him.
A more bitter cause of suffering was in store for him. He learned from officious neighbors that his father was speaking ill of him. After having been proud of his son's successes, and having boasted of them everywhere, Melchior was weak and shameful enough to be jealous of them. He tried to decry282 them. It was stupid to weep; Jean-Christophe could only shrug his shoulders in contempt. It was no use being angry about it, for his father did not know what he was doing, and was embittered283 by his own downfall. The boy said nothing. He was afraid, if he said anything, of being too hard; but he was cut to the heart.
They were melancholy gatherings284 at the family evening meal round the lamp, with a spotted285 cloth, with all the stupid chatter and the sound of the jaws286 of these people whom he despised and pitied, and yet loved in spite of everything. Only between himself and his brave mother did Jean-Christophe feel a bond of affection. But Louisa, like himself, exhausted herself during the day, and in the evening she was worn out and hardly spoke, and after dinner used to sleep in her chair over her darning. And she was so good that she seemed to make no difference in her love between her husband and her three sons. She loved them all equally. Jean-Christophe did not find in her the trusted friend that he so much needed.
So he was driven in upon himself. For days together he would not speak, fulfilling his tiresome287 and wearing task with a sort of silent rage. Such a mode of living was dangerous, especially for a child at a critical age, when he is most sensitive, and is exposed to every agent of destruction and the risk of being deformed288 for the rest of his life. Jean-Christophe's health suffered seriously. He had been endowed by his parents with a healthy constitution and a sound and healthy body; but his very healthiness only served to feed his suffering when the weight of weariness and too early cares had opened up a gap by which it might enter. Quite early in life there were signs of grave nervous disorders289. When he was a small boy he was subject to fainting-fits and convulsions and vomiting290 whenever he encountered opposition291. When he was seven or eight, about the time of the concert, his sleep had been troubled. He used to talk, cry, laugh and weep in his sleep, and this habit returned to him whenever he had too much to think of. Then he had cruel headaches, sometimes shooting pains at the base of his skull292 or the top of his head, sometimes a leaden heaviness. His eyes troubled him. Sometimes it was as though red-hot needles were piercing his eyeballs. He was subject to fits of dizziness, when he could not see to read, and had to stop for a minute or two. Insufficient293 and unsound food and irregular meals ruined the health of his stomach. He was racked by internal pains or exhausted by diarrhea. But nothing brought him more suffering than his heart. It beat with a crazy irregularity. Sometimes it would leap in his bosom294, and seem like to break; sometimes it would hardly beat at all, and seem like to stop. At night his temperature would vary alarmingly; it would change suddenly from fever-point to next to nothing. He would burn, then shiver with cold, pass through agony. His throat would go dry; a lump in it would prevent his breathing. Naturally his imagination took fire. He dared not say anything to his family of what he was going through, but he was continually dissecting295 it with a minuteness which either enlarged his sufferings or created new ones. He decided296 that he had every known illness one after the other. He believed that he was going blind, and as he sometimes used to turn giddy as he walked, he thought that he was going to fall down dead. Always that dreadful fear of being stopped on his road, of dying before his time, obsessed297 him, overwhelmed him, and pursued him. Ah, if he had to die, at least let it not be now, not before he had tasted victory!…
Victory … the fixed idea which never ceases to burn within him without his being fully aware of it—the idea which bears him up through all his disgust and fatigues298 and the stagnant299 morass300 of such a life! A dim and great foreknowledge of what he will be some day, of what he is already!… What is he? A sick, nervous child, who plays the violin in the orchestra and writes mediocre concertos301? No; far more than such a child. That is no more than the wrapping, the seeming of a day; that is not his Being. There is no connection between his Being and the existing shape of his face and thought. He knows that well. When he looks at himself in the mirror he does not know himself. That broad red face, those prominent eyebrows302, those little sunken eyes, that short thick nose, that sullen303 mouth—the whole mask, ugly and vulgar, is foreign to himself. Neither does he know himself in his writings. He judges, he knows that what he does and what he is are nothing; and yet he is sure of what he will be and do. Sometimes he falls foul304 of such certainty as a vain lie. He takes pleasure in humiliating himself and bitterly mortifying305 himself by way of punishment. But his certainty endures; nothing can alter it. Whatever he does, whatever he thinks, none of his thoughts, actions, or writings contain him or express him, He knows, he has this strange presentiment306, that the more that he is, is not contained in the present but is what he will be, what he will be to-morrow. He will be!… He is fired by that faith, he is intoxicated by that light! Ah, if only To-day does not block the way! If only he does not fall into one of the cunning traps which To-day is forever laying for him!
So he steers307 his bark across the sea of days, turning his eyes neither to right nor left, motionless at the helm, with his gaze fixed on the bourne, the refuge, the end that he has in sight. In the orchestra, among the talkative musicians, at table with his own family, at the Palace, while he is playing without a thought of what he is playing, for the entertainment of Royal folk—it is in that future, that future which a speck308 may bring toppling to earth—no matter, it is in that that he lives.
He is at his old piano, in his garret, alone. Night falls. The dying light of day is cast upon his music. He strains his eyes to read the notes until the last ray of light is dead. The tenderness of hearts that are dead breathed forth from the dumb page fills him with love. His eyes are filled with tears. It seems to him that a beloved creature is standing309 behind him, that soft breathing caresses310 his cheek, that two arms are about his neck. He turns, trembling. He feels, he knows, that he is not alone. A soul that loves and is loved is there, near him. He groans311 aloud because he cannot perceive it, and yet that shadow of bitterness falling upon his ecstasy312 has sweetness, too. Even sadness has its light. He thinks of his beloved masters, of the genius that is gone, though its soul lives on in the music which it had lived in its life. His heart is overflowing313 with love; he dreams of the superhuman happiness which must have been the lot of these glorious men, since the reflection only of their happiness is still so much aflame. He dreams of being like them, of giving out such love as this, with lost rays to lighten his misery with a godlike smile. In his turn to be a god, to give out the warmth of joy, to be a sun of life!…
Alas314! if one day he does become the equal of those whom he loves, if he does achieve that brilliant happiness for which he longs, he will see the illusion that was upon him….
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1
proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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spine
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| n.脊柱，脊椎；(动植物的)刺；书脊 | |
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ply
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| v.(搬运工等)等候顾客，弯曲 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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mire
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| n.泥沼，泥泞；v.使...陷于泥泞，使...陷入困境 | |
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skilful
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| (=skillful)adj.灵巧的，熟练的 | |
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procured
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的过去式和过去分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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acquitted
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| 宣判…无罪( acquit的过去式和过去分词 )； 使（自己）作出某种表现 | |
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probation
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| n.缓刑(期)，(以观后效的)察看；试用(期) | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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intemperance
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| n.放纵 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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valiantly
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| adv.勇敢地，英勇地；雄赳赳 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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displeased
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| a.不快的 | |
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curt
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| adj.简短的，草率的 | |
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chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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suffocation
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| n.窒息 | |
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laden
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| adj.装满了的；充满了的；负了重担的；苦恼的 | |
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morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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offense
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| n.犯规，违法行为；冒犯，得罪 | |
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humiliated
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| 感到羞愧的 | |
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brag
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| v./n.吹牛，自夸；adj.第一流的 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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contrive
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| vt.谋划，策划；设法做到；设计，想出 | |
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pretext
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| n.借口，托词 | |
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impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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hurl
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| vt.猛投，力掷，声叫骂 | |
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scant
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| adj.不充分的，不足的；v.减缩，限制，忽略 | |
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gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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cult
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| n.异教，邪教；时尚，狂热的崇拜 | |
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intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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oars
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| n.桨，橹( oar的名词复数 )；划手v.划（行）( oar的第三人称单数 ) | |
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modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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40
stiffen
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| v.(使)硬，(使)变挺，(使)变僵硬 | |
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bass
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| n.男低音(歌手)；低音乐器；低音大提琴 | |
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plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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45
vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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46
scoffingly
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| 带冷笑地 | |
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repudiate
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| v.拒绝，拒付，拒绝履行 | |
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intoxicated
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| 喝醉的，极其兴奋的 | |
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quotations
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| n.引用( quotation的名词复数 )；[商业]行情（报告）；（货物或股票的）市价；时价 | |
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bourgeois
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| adj./n.追求物质享受的(人)；中产阶级分子 | |
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51
repulsive
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| adj.排斥的，使人反感的 | |
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52
hypocrisy
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| n.伪善，虚伪 | |
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avarice
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| n.贪婪；贪心 | |
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loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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fluency
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| n.流畅，雄辩，善辩 | |
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ridicule
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| v.讥讽，挖苦；n.嘲弄 | |
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57
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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58
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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59
meddled
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| v.干涉，干预（他人事务）( meddle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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meddle
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| v.干预，干涉，插手 | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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blazoned
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| v.广布( blazon的过去式和过去分词 )；宣布；夸示；装饰 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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butt
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| n.笑柄；烟蒂；枪托；臀部；v.用头撞或顶 | |
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65
spat
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| n.口角，掌击；v.发出呼噜呼噜声 | |
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monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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petrified
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| adj.惊呆的；目瞪口呆的v.使吓呆，使惊呆；变僵硬；使石化(petrify的过去式和过去分词) | |
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68
irreproachable
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| adj.不可指责的，无过失的 | |
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69
chafed
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| v.擦热（尤指皮肤）( chafe的过去式 )；擦痛；发怒；惹怒 | |
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70
fowl
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| n.家禽，鸡，禽肉 | |
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grassy
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| adj.盖满草的；长满草的 | |
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urchins
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| n.顽童( urchin的名词复数 )；淘气鬼；猬；海胆 | |
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consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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implore
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| vt.乞求，恳求，哀求 | |
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75
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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77
itch
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| n.痒，渴望，疥癣；vi.发痒，渴望 | |
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truants
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| n.旷课的小学生( truant的名词复数 )；逃学生；逃避责任者；懒散的人 | |
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chromatic
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| adj.色彩的，颜色的 | |
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milky
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| adj.牛奶的，多奶的；乳白色的 | |
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81
vapor
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| n.蒸汽，雾气 | |
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82
larks
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| n.百灵科鸟（尤指云雀）( lark的名词复数 )；一大早就起床；鸡鸣即起；（因太费力而不想干时说）算了v.百灵科鸟（尤指云雀）( lark的第三人称单数 )；一大早就起床；鸡鸣即起；（因太费力而不想干时说）算了 | |
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83
ascending
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| adj.上升的，向上的 | |
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84
tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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85
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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86
ripple
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| n.涟波，涟漪，波纹，粗钢梳；vt.使...起涟漪，使起波纹； vi.呈波浪状，起伏前进 | |
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87
glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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88
gliding
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| v. 滑翔 adj. 滑动的 | |
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89
rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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90
teemed
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| v.充满( teem的过去式和过去分词 )；到处都是；（指水、雨等）暴降；倾注 | |
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91
swarmed
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| 密集( swarm的过去式和过去分词 )； 云集； 成群地移动； 蜜蜂或其他飞行昆虫成群地飞来飞去 | |
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92
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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93
darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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94
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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95
hues
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| 色彩( hue的名词复数 )； 色调； 信仰； 观点 | |
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96
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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97
laborer
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| n.劳动者，劳工 | |
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98
penury
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| n.贫穷，拮据 | |
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99
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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100
esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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101
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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102
tuning
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| n.调谐，调整，调音v.调音( tune的现在分词 )；调整；（给收音机、电视等）调谐；使协调 | |
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103
relic
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| n.神圣的遗物，遗迹，纪念物 | |
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104
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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105
frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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106
extraordinarily
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| adv.格外地；极端地 | |
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107
torrent
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| n.激流，洪流；爆发，(话语等的)连发 | |
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108
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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109
plentiful
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| adj.富裕的，丰富的 | |
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110
indefatigably
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| adv.不厌倦地，不屈不挠地 | |
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111
scrupulously
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| adv.一丝不苟地；小心翼翼地，多顾虑地 | |
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112
inviting
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| adj.诱人的，引人注目的 | |
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113
random
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| adj.随机的；任意的；n.偶然的(或随便的)行动 | |
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114
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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115
irritable
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| adj.急躁的；过敏的；易怒的 | |
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116
obstinacy
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| n.顽固；（病痛等）难治 | |
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117
bravado
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| n.虚张声势，故作勇敢，逞能 | |
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118
mince
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| n.切碎物；v.切碎，矫揉做作地说 | |
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119
copiously
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| adv.丰富地，充裕地 | |
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120
arbor
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| n.凉亭；树木 | |
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121
bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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122
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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123
trampled
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| 踩( trample的过去式和过去分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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124
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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125
hurled
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| v.猛投，用力掷( hurl的过去式和过去分词 )；大声叫骂 | |
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126
desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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127
imploring
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| 恳求的，哀求的 | |
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128
sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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129
crouching
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的现在分词 ) | |
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130
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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131
instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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132
flickering
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| adj.闪烁的，摇曳的，一闪一闪的 | |
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133
flicker
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| vi./n.闪烁，摇曳，闪现 | |
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134
vying
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| adj.竞争的；比赛的 | |
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135
swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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136
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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137
lamentable
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| adj.令人惋惜的，悔恨的 | |
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138
stupor
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| v.昏迷；不省人事 | |
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139
groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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140
mumbling
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| 含糊地说某事，叽咕，咕哝( mumble的现在分词 ) | |
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141
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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142
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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143
futile
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| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
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144
caress
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| vt./n.爱抚，抚摸 | |
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145
torpor
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| n.迟钝；麻木；（动物的）冬眠 | |
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146
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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147
gaping
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| adj.口的；张口的；敞口的；多洞穴的v.目瞪口呆地凝视( gape的现在分词 )；张开，张大 | |
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148
seizure
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| n.没收；占有；抵押 | |
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149
sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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150
humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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151
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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152
abominable
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| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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153
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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154
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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155
lugubrious
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| adj.悲哀的，忧郁的 | |
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156
afflicted
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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157
cemetery
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| n.坟墓，墓地，坟场 | |
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158
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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159
sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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160
adornment
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| n.装饰；装饰品 | |
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161
mingling
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| adj.混合的 | |
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162
sonorous
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| adj.响亮的，回响的；adv.圆润低沉地；感人地；n.感人，堂皇 | |
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163
cypress
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| n.柏树 | |
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164
condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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165
incessantly
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| ad.不停地 | |
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166
tottering
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| adj.蹒跚的，动摇的v.走得或动得不稳( totter的现在分词 )；踉跄；蹒跚；摇摇欲坠 | |
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167
spun
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| v.纺，杜撰，急转身 | |
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168
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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169
crumbles
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| 酥皮水果甜点( crumble的名词复数 ) | |
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170
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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171
butted
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| 对接的 | |
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172
savagery
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| n.野性 | |
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173
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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174
obsession
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| n.困扰，无法摆脱的思想(或情感) | |
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175
withheld
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| withhold过去式及过去分词 | |
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176
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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177
earnings
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| n.工资收人；利润，利益，所得 | |
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178
intoxication
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| n.wild excitement;drunkenness；poisoning | |
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179
idiotic
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| adj.白痴的 | |
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180
concerto
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| n.协奏曲 | |
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181
beseech
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| v.祈求，恳求 | |
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182
outrageous
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| adj.无理的，令人不能容忍的 | |
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183
prank
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| n.开玩笑，恶作剧；v.装饰；打扮；炫耀自己 | |
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184
utterances
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| n.发声( utterance的名词复数 )；说话方式；语调；言论 | |
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185
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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186
torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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187
dissuade
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| v.劝阻，阻止 | |
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188
paternal
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| adj.父亲的，像父亲的，父系的，父方的 | |
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189
humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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190
plundered
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| 掠夺，抢劫( plunder的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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191
relics
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| [pl.］n.遗物，遗迹，遗产；遗体，尸骸 | |
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192
belongings
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| n.私人物品，私人财物 | |
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193
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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194
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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195
boundless
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| adj.无限的；无边无际的；巨大的 | |
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196
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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197
winks
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| v.使眼色( wink的第三人称单数 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
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198
stifled
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| （使）窒息， （使）窒闷( stifle的过去式和过去分词 )； 镇压，遏制； 堵 | |
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199
guffaw
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| n.哄笑；突然的大笑 | |
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200
uproar
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| n.骚动，喧嚣，鼎沸 | |
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201
mumbled
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| 含糊地说某事，叽咕，咕哝( mumble的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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202
clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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203
whining
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| n. 抱怨，牢骚 v. 哭诉，发牢骚 | |
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204
budge
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| v.移动一点儿；改变立场 | |
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205
lamented
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| adj.被哀悼的，令人遗憾的v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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206
dole
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| n.救济，（失业）救济金；vt.（out）发放，发给 | |
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207
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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208
amends
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| n. 赔偿 | |
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209
reconciliation
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| n.和解，和谐，一致 | |
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210
wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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211
isolation
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| n.隔离，孤立，分解，分离 | |
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212
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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213
plight
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| n.困境，境况，誓约，艰难；vt.宣誓，保证，约定 | |
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214
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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215
eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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216
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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217
baron
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| n.男爵；(商业界等)巨头，大王 | |
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218
sleek
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| adj.光滑的，井然有序的；v.使光滑，梳拢 | |
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219
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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220
shrug
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| v.耸肩(表示怀疑、冷漠、不知等) | |
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221
absurdity
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| n.荒谬，愚蠢；谬论 | |
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222
irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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223
crumpled
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| adj. 弯扭的, 变皱的 动词crumple的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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224
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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225
malicious
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| adj.有恶意的，心怀恶意的 | |
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226
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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227
recurred
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| 再发生，复发( recur的过去式和过去分词 )； 治愈 | |
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228
grudge
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| n.不满，怨恨，妒嫉；vt.勉强给，不情愿做 | |
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229
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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230
entreaties
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| n.恳求，乞求( entreaty的名词复数 ) | |
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231
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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232
intimidated
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| v.恐吓；威胁adj.害怕的；受到威胁的 | |
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233
avenge
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| v.为...复仇，为...报仇 | |
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234
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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235
stoutly
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| adv.牢固地，粗壮的 | |
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236
vowed
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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237
triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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238
meager
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| adj.缺乏的，不足的，瘦的 | |
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239
vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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240
budged
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| v.（使）稍微移动( budge的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）改变主意，（使）让步 | |
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241
poseur
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| n.装模作样的人 | |
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242
livelihood
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| n.生计，谋生之道 | |
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243
patronage
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| n.赞助，支援，援助；光顾，捧场 | |
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244
ordeal
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| n.苦难经历，（尤指对品格、耐力的）严峻考验 | |
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245
cramped
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| a.狭窄的 | |
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246
rehearsal
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| n.排练，排演；练习 | |
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247
rehearsals
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| n.练习( rehearsal的名词复数 )；排练；复述；重复 | |
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248
improvise
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| v.即兴创作；临时准备，临时凑成 | |
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249
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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250
chattering
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| n. （机器振动发出的）咔嗒声，(鸟等)鸣，啁啾 adj. 喋喋不休的，啾啾声的 动词chatter的现在分词形式 | |
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251
puddles
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| n.水坑， （尤指道路上的）雨水坑( puddle的名词复数 ) | |
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252
attic
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| n.顶楼，屋顶室 | |
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253
stifling
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| a.令人窒息的 | |
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254
hampers
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| 妨碍，束缚，限制( hamper的第三人称单数 ) | |
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255
banal
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| adj.陈腐的，平庸的 | |
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256
voluptuous
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| adj.肉欲的，骄奢淫逸的 | |
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257
adolescence
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| n.青春期，青少年 | |
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258
doled
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| 救济物( dole的过去式和过去分词 )； 失业救济金 | |
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259
yoke
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| n.轭；支配；v.给...上轭，连接，使成配偶 | |
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260
diffusely
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| 广泛地 | |
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261
artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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262
loathe
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| v.厌恶，嫌恶 | |
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263
purges
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| 清除异己( purge的名词复数 )； 整肃（行动）； 清洗； 泻药 | |
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264
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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265
mediocre
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| adj.平常的，普通的 | |
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266
cantata
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| n.清唱剧，大合唱 | |
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267
perpetuated
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| vt.使永存（perpetuate的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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268
posterity
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| n.后裔，子孙，后代 | |
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269
respite
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| n.休息，中止，暂缓 | |
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270
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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271
impudent
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| adj.鲁莽的，卑鄙的，厚颜无耻的 | |
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272
shameful
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| adj.可耻的，不道德的 | |
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273
horrified
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| a.(表现出)恐惧的 | |
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274
espoused
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| v.（决定）支持，拥护（目标、主张等）( espouse的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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275
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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276
chafing
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| n.皮肤发炎v.擦热（尤指皮肤）( chafe的现在分词 )；擦痛；发怒；惹怒 | |
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277
extort
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| v.勒索，敲诈，强要 | |
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278
barefaced
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| adj.厚颜无耻的，公然的 | |
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279
disarm
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| v.解除武装，回复平常的编制，缓和 | |
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280
rancor
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| n.深仇，积怨 | |
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281
coveted
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| adj.令人垂涎的；垂涎的，梦寐以求的v.贪求，觊觎(covet的过去分词)；垂涎；贪图 | |
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282
decry
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| v.危难，谴责 | |
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283
embittered
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| v.使怨恨，激怒( embitter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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284
gatherings
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| 聚集( gathering的名词复数 )； 收集； 采集； 搜集 | |
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285
spotted
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| adj.有斑点的，斑纹的，弄污了的 | |
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286
jaws
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| n.口部；嘴 | |
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287
tiresome
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| adj.令人疲劳的，令人厌倦的 | |
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288
deformed
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| adj.畸形的；变形的；丑的，破相了的 | |
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289
disorders
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| n.混乱( disorder的名词复数 )；凌乱；骚乱；（身心、机能）失调 | |
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290
vomiting
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| 吐 | |
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291
opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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292
skull
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| n.头骨；颅骨 | |
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293
insufficient
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| adj.(for，of)不足的，不够的 | |
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294
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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295
dissecting
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| v.解剖（动物等）( dissect的现在分词 )；仔细分析或研究 | |
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296
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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297
obsessed
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| adj.心神不宁的,鬼迷心窍的,沉迷的 | |
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298
fatigues
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| n.疲劳( fatigue的名词复数 )；杂役；厌倦；（士兵穿的）工作服 | |
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299
stagnant
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| adj.不流动的，停滞的，不景气的 | |
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300
morass
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| n.沼泽，困境 | |
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301
concertos
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| n. [音]协奏曲 | |
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302
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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303
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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304
foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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305
mortifying
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| adj.抑制的，苦修的v.使受辱( mortify的现在分词 )；伤害（人的感情）；克制；抑制（肉体、情感等） | |
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306
presentiment
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| n.预感，预觉 | |
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307
steers
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| n.阉公牛，肉用公牛( steer的名词复数 )v.驾驶( steer的第三人称单数 )；操纵；控制；引导 | |
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308
speck
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| n.微粒，小污点，小斑点 | |
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309
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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310
caresses
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| 爱抚，抚摸( caress的名词复数 ) | |
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311
groans
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| n.呻吟，叹息( groan的名词复数 )；呻吟般的声音v.呻吟( groan的第三人称单数 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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312
ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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313
overflowing
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| n. 溢出物,溢流 adj. 充沛的，充满的 动词overflow的现在分词形式 | |
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314
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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