One evening when Melchior was dining out, Gottfried was left alone in the living-room, while Louisa put the children to bed. He went out, and sat by the river a few yards away from the house. Jean-Christophe, having nothing better to do, followed him, and, as usual, tormented him with his puppy tricks until he was out of breath, and dropped down on the grass at his feet. Lying on his belly, he buried his nose in the turf. When he had recovered his breath, he cast about for some new crazy thing to say. When he found it he shouted it out, and rolled about with laughing, with his face still buried in the earth. He received no answer. Surprised by the silence, he raised his head, and began to repeat his joke. He saw Gottfried’s face lit up by the last beams of the setting sun cast through golden mists. He swallowed down his words. Gottfried smiled with his eyes half closed and his mouth half open, and in his sorrowful face was an expression of sadness and unutterable melancholy. Jean-Christophe, with his face in his hands, watched him. The night came; little by little Gottfried’s face disappeared. Silence reigned. Jean-Christophe in his turn was filled with the mysterious impressions which had been reflected on Gottfried’s face. He fell into a vague stupor. The earth was in darkness, the sky was bright; the stars peeped out. The little waves of the river chattered against the bank. The boy grew sleepy. Without seeing them, he bit off little blades of grass. A grasshopper chirped near him. It seemed to him that he was going to sleep.
Suddenly, in the dark, Gottfried began to sing. He sang in a weak, husky voice, as though to himself; he could not have been heard twenty yards away. But there was sincerity and emotion in his voice; it was as though he were thinking aloud, and that through the song, as through clear water, the very inmost heart of him was to be seen. Never had Jean-Christophe heard such singing, and never had he heard such a song. Slow, simple, childish, it moved gravely, sadly, a little monotonously, never hurrying—with long pauses—then setting out again on its way, careless where it arrived, and losing itself in the night. It seemed to come from far away, and it went no man knows whither. Its serenity was full of sorrow, and beneath its seeming peace there dwelt an agony of the ages. Jean-Christophe held his breath; he dared not move; he was cold with emotion. When it was done he crawled towards Gottfried, and in a choking voice said:
“Uncle!”
Gottfried did not reply.
“Uncle!” repeated the boy, placing his hands and chin on Gottfried’s knees.
Gottfried said kindly:
“Well, boy …”
“What is it, uncle? Tell me! What were you singing?”
“I don’t know.”
“Tell me what it is!”
“I don’t know. Just a song.”
“A song that you made.”
“No, not I! What an idea! … It is an old song.”
“Who made it?”
“No one knows. …”
“When?”
“No one knows. …”
“When you were little?”
“Before I was born, before my father was born, and before his father, and before his father’s father. … It has always been.”
“How strange! No one has ever told me about it.”
He thought for a moment.
“Uncle, do you know any other?”
“Yes.”
“Sing another, please.”
“Why should I sing another? One is enough. One sings when one wants to sing, when one has to sing. One must not sing for the fun of it.”
“But what about when one makes music?”
“That is not music.”
The boy was lost in thought. He did not quite understand. But he asked for no explanation. It was true, it was not music, not like all the rest. He went on:
“Uncle, have you ever made them?”
“Made what?”
“Songs!”
“Songs? Oh! How should I make them? They can’t be made.”
With his usual logic the boy insisted:
“But, uncle, it must have been made once. …”
Gottfried shook his head obstinately.
“It has always been.”
The boy returned to the attack:
“But, uncle, isn’t it possible to make other songs, new songs?”
“Why make them? There are enough for everything. There are songs for when you are sad, and for when you are gay; for when you are weary, and for when you are thinking of home; for when you despise yourself, because you have been a vile sinner, a worm upon the earth; for when you want to weep, because people have not been kind to you; and for when your heart is glad because the world is beautiful, and you see God’s heaven, which, like Him, is always kind, and seems to laugh at you. … There are songs for everything, everything. Why should I make them?”
“To be a great man!” said the boy, full of his grandfather’s teaching and his simple dreams.
Gottfried laughed softly. Jean-Christophe, a little hurt, asked him:
“Why are you laughing?”
Gottfried said:
“Oh! I? … I am nobody.”
He kissed the boy’s head, and said:
“You want to be a great man?”
“Yes,” said Jean-Christophe proudly. He thought Gottfried would admire him. But Gottfried replied:
“What for?”
Jean-Christophe was taken aback. He thought for a moment, and said:
“To make beautiful songs!”
Gottfried laughed again, and said:
“You want to make
