Jean-Christophe

to which he was no party. They did not need to rely on such reasons for not liking his music: most of them felt with regard to it the natural irritation of the man who has no ideas and no difficulty in expressing them according to parrot-like formulae, with the man who is full of ideas and employs them clumsily in accordance with the apparent disorder of his creative faculty. How often he had had to face the reproach of not being able to write hurled at him by scribes, for whom style consisted in recipes concocted by groups or schools, kitchen molds into which thought was cast! Christophe’s best friends, those who did not try to understand him, and were alone in understanding him, because they loved him, simply, for the pleasure he gave them, were obscure auditors who had no voice in the matter. The only man who could have replied vigorously in Christophe’s name⁠—Olivier⁠—was at that time out of friends with him, and had apparently forgotten him. Thus Christophe was delivered into the hands of his adversaries and admirers, who vied with each other in doing him harm. He was too disgusted to reply. When he read the pronunciamentos directed against him in the pages of an important newspaper by one of those presumptuous critics who usurp the sovereignty of art with all the insolence of ignorance and impunity, he would shrug his shoulders and say:

“Judge me. I judge you. Let us meet in a hundred years!”

But meanwhile the outcry against him took its course: and the public, as usual, gulped down the most fatuous and shameful accusations.

As though his position was not already difficult enough, Christophe chose that moment to quarrel with his publisher. He had no reason at all to complain of Hecht, who published each new work as it was written, and was honest in business. It is true that his honesty did not prevent his making contracts disadvantageous to Christophe: but he kept his contracts. He kept them only too well. One day Christophe was amazed to see a septette of his arranged as a quartette, and a suite of piano pieces clumsily transcribed as a duet, without his having been consulted. He rushed to Hecht’s office and thrust the offending music under his nose, and said:

“Do you know these?”

“Of course,” said Hecht.

“And you dared⁠ ⁠… you dared tamper with my work without asking my permission!⁠ ⁠…”

“What permission?” said Hecht calmly. “Your compositions are mine.”

“Mine, too, I suppose?”

“No,” said Hecht quietly.

Christophe started.

“My own work does not belong to me?”

“They are not yours any longer. You sold them to me.”

“You’re making fun of me! I sold you the paper. Make money out of that if you like. But what is written on it is my lifeblood; it is mine.”

“You sold me everything. In exchange for these particular pieces, I gave you a sum of three hundred francs in advance of a royalty of thirty centimes on every copy sold of the original edition. Upon that consideration, without any restriction or reserve, you have assigned to me all your rights in your work.”

“Even the right to destroy it?”

Hecht shrugged his shoulders, rang the bell, and said to a clerk.

“Bring me M. Krafft’s account.”

He gravely read Christophe the terms of the contract, which he had signed without reading⁠—from which it appeared, in accordance with the ordinary run of contracts signed by music publishers in those very distant times⁠—“that M. Hecht was the assignee of all the rights, powers, and property of the author, and had the exclusive right to edit, publish, engrave, print, translate, hire, sell to his own profit, in any form he pleased, to have the said work performed at concerts, cafés-concerts, balls, theaters, etc., and to publish any arrangement of the said work for any instrument and even with words, and also to change the title⁠ ⁠… etc., etc.”

“You see,” he said, “I am really very moderate.”

“Evidently,” said Christophe. “I ought to thank you. You might have turned my septette into a café-concert song.”

He stopped in horror and held his head in his hands.

“I have sold my soul,” he said over and over again.

“You may be sure,” said Hecht sarcastically, “that I shall not abuse it.”

“And to think,” said Christophe, “that your Republic authorizes such practices! You say that man is free. And you put ideas up to public auction.”

“You have had your money,” said Hecht.

“Thirty pieces of silver. Yes,” said Christophe. “Take them back.”

He fumbled in his pockets, meaning to give the three hundred francs back to Hecht. But he had nothing like that sum. Hecht smiled a little disdainfully. His smile infuriated Christophe.

“I want my work back,” he said. “I will buy them back from you.”

“You have no right to do so,” said Hecht. “But as I have no desire to keep a man against his will, I am quite ready to give them back to you⁠—if you are in a position to pay the indemnity stated in the contract.”

“I will do it,” said Christophe, “even if I have to sell myself.”

He accepted without discussion the conditions which Hecht submitted to him a fortnight later. It was an amazing act of folly, and he bought back his published compositions at a price five times greater than the sum they had brought him in, though it was by no means exorbitant: for it was scrupulously calculated on the basis of the actual profits which had accrued to Hecht. Christophe could not pay, and Hecht had counted on it. He had no intention of squeezing Christophe, of whom he thought more highly, both as a musician and as a man, than of any other young musician: but he wanted to teach him a lesson: for he could not permit his clients to revolt against what was after all within his rights. He had not made the laws: they were those of the time, and they seemed to him equitable. Besides, he was quite sincerely convinced that they were to the benefit