Jean-Christophe In Paris — THE MARKET-PLACE, I, part 2
* * * * * Next day from eight o'clock on he sat waiting for the promised letter.
He had no doubt of Kohn's sincerity.
He did not go out, telling himself that perhaps Kohn would come round by the hotel on his way to his office.
So as not to be out, about midday he had his lunch sent up from the eating-house downstairs.
Then he sat waiting again.
He was sure Kohn would come on his way back from lunch.
He paced up and down his room, sat down, paced up and down again, opened his door whenever he heard footsteps on the stairs.
He had no desire to go walking about Paris to stay his anxiety.
He lay down on his bed.
His thoughts went back and back to his old mother, who was thinking of him too--she alone thought of him.
He had an infinite tenderness for her, and he was remorseful at having left her.
But he did not write to her.
He was waiting until he could tell her that he had found work.
In spite of the love they had for each other, it would never have occurred to either of them to write just to tell their love: letters were for things more definite than that.
He lay on the bed with his hands locked behind his head, and dreamed.
Although his room was away from the street, the roar of Paris invaded the silence: the house shook.
Night came again, and brought no letter.
Came another day like unto the last.
On the third day, exasperated by his voluntary seclusion, Christophe decided to go out.
But from the impression of his first evening he was instinctively in revolt against Paris.
He had no desire to see anything: no curiosity: he was too much taken up with the problem of his own life to take any pleasure in watching the lives of others: and the memories of lives past, the monuments of a city, had always left him cold.
And so, hardly had he set foot out of doors, than, although he had made up his mind not to go near Kohn for a week, he went straight to his office.
The boy obeyed his orders, and said that M. Hamilton had left Paris on business.
It was a blow to Christophe.
He gasped and asked when M. Hamilton would return.
The boy replied at random: "In ten days."
Christophe went back utterly downcast, and buried himself in his room during the following days.
He found it impossible to work.
His heart sank as he saw that his small supply of money--the little sum that his mother had sent him, carefully wrapped up in a handkerchief at the bottom of his bag--was rapidly decreasing.
He imposed a severe régime on himself.
He only went down in the evening to dinner in the little pot-house, where he quickly became known to the frequenters of it as the "Prussian" or "Sauerkraut."
With frightful effort, he wrote two or three letters to French musicians whose names he knew hazily.
One of them had been dead for ten years.
He asked them to be so kind as to give him a hearing.
His spelling was wild, and his style was complicated by those long inversions and ceremonious formulæ which are the custom in Germany.
He addressed his letters: "To the Palace of the Academy of France."
The only man to read his gave it to his friends as a joke.
After a week Christophe went once more to the publisher's office.
This time he was in luck.
He met Sylvain Kohn going out, on the doorstep.
Kohn made a face as he saw that he was caught: but Christophe was so happy that he did not see that.
He took his hands in his usual uncouth way, and asked gaily: "You've been away?
Did you have a good time?"
Kohn said that he had had a very good time, but he did not unbend.
Christophe went on: "I came, you know....
They told you, I suppose?...
Well, any news?
You mentioned my name?
What did they say?"
Kohn looked blank.
Christophe was amazed at his frigid manner: he was not the same man.
"I mentioned you," said Kohn: "but I haven't heard yet.
I haven't had time.
I have been very busy since I saw you--up to my ears in business.
I don't know how I can get through.
It is appalling.
I shall be ill with it all."
"Aren't you well?"
asked Christophe anxiously and solicitously.
Kohn looked at him slyly, and replied: "Not at all well.
I don't know what is the matter, the last few days.
I'm very unwell."
"I'm so sorry," said Christophe, taking his arm.
"Do be careful.
You must rest.
I'm so sorry to have been a bother to you.
You should have told me.
What is the matter with you, really?"
He took Kohn's sham excuses so seriously that the little Jew was hard put to it to hide his amusement, and disarmed by his funny simplicity.
Irony is so dear a pleasure to the Jews--(and a number of Christians in Paris are Jewish in this respect)--that they are indulgent with bores, and even with their enemies, if they give them the opportunity of tasting it at their expense.
Besides, Kohn was touched by Christophe's interest in himself.
He felt inclined to help him.
"I've got an idea," he said.
"While you are waiting for lessons, would you care to do some work for a music publisher?"
Christophe accepted eagerly.
"I've got the very thing," said Kohn.
"I know one of the partners in a big firm of music publishers--Daniel Hecht.
I'll introduce you.
You'll see what there is to do.
I don't know anything about it, you know.
But Hecht is a real musician.
You'll get on with him all right."
They parted until the following day.
Kohn was not sorry to be rid of Christophe by doing him this service.
* * * * * Next day Christophe fetched Kohn at his office.
On his advice, he had brought several of his compositions to show to Hecht.
They found him in his music-shop near the Opéra.
Hecht did not put himself out when they went in: he coldly held out two fingers to take Kohn's hand, did not reply to Christophe's ceremonious bow, and at Kohn's request he took them into the next room.
He did not ask them to sit down.
He stood with his back to the empty chimney-place, and stared at the wall.
Daniel Hecht was a man of forty, tall, cold, correctly dressed, a marked Phenician type; he looked clever and disagreeable: there was a scowl on his face: he had black hair and a beard like that of an Assyrian King, long and square-cut.
He hardly ever looked straight forward, and he had an icy brutal way of talking which sounded insulting even when he only said "Good-day."
His insolence was more apparent than real.
No doubt it emanated from a contemptuous strain in his character: but really it was more a part of the automatic and formal element in him.
Jews of that sort are quite common: opinion is not kind towards them: that hard stiffness of theirs is looked upon as arrogance, while it is often in reality the outcome of an incurable boorishness in body and soul.
Sylvain Kohn introduced his protégé, in a bantering, pretentious voice, with exaggerated praises.
Christophe was abashed by his reception, and stood shifting from one foot to the other, holding his manuscripts and his hat in his hand.
When Kohn had finished, Hecht, who up to then had seemed to be unaware of Christophe's existence, turned towards him disdainfully, and, without looking at him, said: "Krafft ...
Christophe Krafft....
Never heard the name."
To Christophe it was as though he had been struck, full in the chest.
The blood rushed to his cheeks.
He replied angrily: "You'll hear it later on."
Hecht took no notice, and went on imperturbably, as though Christophe did not exist: "Krafft ...
no, never heard it."
He was one of those people for whom not to be known to them is a mark against a man.
He went on in German: "And you come from the _Rhine-land_?...
It's wonderful how many people there are there who dabble in music!
But I don't think there is a man among them who has any claim to be a musician."
He meant it as a joke, not as an insult: but Christophe did not take it so.
He would have replied in kind if Kohn had not anticipated him.
"Oh, come, come!"
he said to Hecht.
"You must do me the justice to admit that I know nothing at all about it."
"That's to your credit," replied Hecht.
"If I am to be no musician in order to please you," said Christophe dryly, "I am sorry, but I'm not that."
Hecht, still looking aside, went on, as indifferently as ever.
"You have written music?
What have you written?
_Lieder_, I suppose?"
"_Lieder_, two symphonies, symphonic poems, quartets, piano suites, theater music," said Christophe, boiling.
"People write a great deal in Germany," said Hecht, with scornful politeness.
It made him all the more suspicious of the newcomer to think that he had written so many works, and that he, Daniel Hecht, had not heard of them.
"Well," he said, "I might perhaps find work for you as you are recommended by my friend Hamilton.
At present we are making a collection, a 'Library for Young People,' in which we are publishing some easy pianoforte pieces.
Could you 'simplify' the _Carnival_ of Schumann, and arrange it for six and eight hands?"
Christophe was staggered.
"And you offer that to me, to me--me...?"
His naïve "Me" delighted Kohn: but Hecht was offended.
"I don't see that there is anything surprising in that," he said.
"It is not such easy work as all that!
If you think it too easy, so much the better.
We'll see about that later on.
You tell me you are a good musician.
I must believe you.
But I've never heard of you."
He thought to himself: "If one were to believe all these young sparks, they would knock the stuffing out of Johannes Brahms himself."
Christophe made no reply--(for he had vowed to hold himself in check)--clapped his hat on his head, and turned towards the door.
Kohn stopped him, laughing: "Wait, wait!"
he said.
And he turned to Hecht: "He has brought some of his work to give you an idea."
"Ah!"
said Hecht warily.
"Very well, then: let us see them."
Without a word Christophe held out his manuscripts.
Hecht cast his eyes over them carelessly.
"What's this?
A _suite for piano_ ...
(reading): _A Day_....
Ah!
Always program music!..."
In spite of his apparent indifference he was reading carefully.
He was an excellent musician, and knew his job: he knew nothing outside it: with the first bar or two he gauged his man.
He was silent as he turned over the pages with a scornful air: he was struck by the talent revealed in them: but his natural reserve and his vanity, piqued by Christophe's manner, kept him from showing anything.
He went on to the end in silence, not missing a note.
"Yes," he said, in a patronizing tone of voice, "they're well enough."
Violent criticism would have hurt Christophe less.
"I don't need to be told that," he said irritably.
"I fancy," said Hecht, "that you showed me them for me to say what I thought."
"Not at all."
"Then," said Hecht coldly, "I fail to see what you have come for."
"I came to ask for work, and nothing else."
"I have nothing to offer you for the time being, except what I told you.
And I'm not sure of that.
I said it was possible, that's all."
"And you have no other work to offer a musician like myself?"
"A musician like you?"
said Hecht ironically and cuttingly.
"Other musicians at least as good as yourself have not thought the work beneath their dignity.
There are men whose names I could give you, men who are now very well known in Paris, have been very grateful to me for it."
"Then they must have been--swine!"
bellowed Christophe.
--(He had already learned certain of the most useful words in the French language)--"You are wrong if you think you have to do with a man of that kidney.
Do you think you can take me in with looking anywhere but at me, and clipping your words?
You didn't even deign to acknowledge my bow when I came in....
But what the hell are you to treat me like that?
Are you even a musician?
Have you ever written anything?...
And you pretend to teach me how to write--me, to whom writing is life!...
And you can find nothing better to offer me, when you have read my music, than a hashing up of great musicians, a filthy scrabbling over their works to turn them into parlor tricks for little girls!...
You go to your Parisians who are rotten enough to be taught their work by you!
I'd rather die first!"
It was impossible to stem the torrent of his words.
Hecht said icily: "Take it or leave it."
Christophe went out and slammed the doors.
Hecht shrugged, and said to Sylvain Kohn, who was laughing: "He will come to it like the rest."
At heart he valued Christophe.
He was clever enough to feel not only the worth of a piece of work, but also the worth of a man.
Behind Christophe's outburst he had marked a force.
And he knew its rarity--in the world of art more than anywhere else.
But his vanity was ruffled by it: nothing would ever induce him to admit himself in the wrong.
He desired loyally to be just to Christophe, but he could not do it unless Christophe came and groveled to him.
He expected Christophe to return: his melancholy skepticism and his experience of men had told him how inevitably the will is weakened and worn down by poverty.
