Chapter 22 The first loose sand (1)

Get rid of it! ...free from others, free from yourself! . . . The web of lust that had bound him for a year was suddenly torn.How did it break?He has no idea.With the vigor of his life, all the chains were loosed.It is one of the many upheavals of puberty; the husks of yesterday, and the suffocating souls of past, are torn to pieces by the forceful nature of puberty. Christophe breathed very freely, but he didn't quite understand what had changed in him.He sent Gottfried back, and the cold whirlwind swirled in the city gate.Pedestrians lowered their heads.The girls going to work were angrily supporting the gust of wind piercing through their skirts; they stopped to pant, their noses and cheeks were flushed from the blowing, and their faces showed angry expressions, and they really wanted to cry.Christophe smiled happily.What he was thinking about was not the storm in front of him, but the spiritual storm he just broke out of.He looked at the severe winter sky, the snow-covered city, and the struggling people walking; he looked around and thought to himself: there was no restraint at all.He was alone...alone!What a joy, independent and uninhibited, completely autonomous!What joy to be free from his shackles, free from the entanglements of the past, free from the harassing faces of loved and hated faces!What a joy to live, not to be a prisoner of life, to be one's own master! ...

When I got home, I was covered in snow.He was shaking with joy, like a dog.His mother was sweeping the floor in the corridor, and he walked by, picked her up from the ground, and mumbled affectionately, like he would do with a baby.Christophe was all wet from the melting snow; the old Louisa, holding on desperately in her son's arms, smiled innocently like a child, and called him a "big beast"! He ran upstairs and climbed into the bedroom.It was so dark that he couldn't see himself clearly in the small mirror.But he was very happy.The bedroom, which was so short and dark that it was difficult to turn around, seemed to him almost like a kingdom.He locked the door, smiling contentedly.Ah, he found himself at last!How many times have we gone astray!He was anxious to lose himself in his thoughts.Now he felt that his thoughts were like a wide lake, which merged with the golden mist in the distance.After a night of fever, he stood by the bank, feeling the coolness of the lake on his legs, and the summer morning breeze blowing on his body.He jumped in and swam, and he didn't care where he went, but he was happy to be able to swim where he wanted.He didn't say a word, just smiled, listening to the countless voices in his heart: thousands of lives were stirring inside.His head was spinning, he couldn't distinguish anything, he could only feel a kind of dazzling happiness.He was very happy to feel these nameless powers, but he was lazy and didn't want to try them out right away, he just savored this complacent and intoxicated state, because his heart had already reached the season of blooming flowers, then It was suppressed for several months and then exploded like a sudden spring.

His mother greeted him for dinner.He came downstairs in a dazed state, as after a long day in the field, with such a brilliance that Louisa even asked him what was the matter.He didn't answer, just danced around the table with his arms around her waist, letting the soup bowl steam on the table.Louisa gasped and called him mad; then she clapped her hands and shouted again. "My God!" she said, worried, "I'll bet he's in love with someone again!" Christophe laughed loudly and threw the napkin in the air. "Falling in love with someone again!" he cried. "Oh! God! . . . No, no! That's enough! Don't worry. Hey! That's over, over, over for life!"

After all, he drank a large glass of cold water. Lu Yisha looked at him, relieved, but shook her head and smiled: "Humph, that sounds nice! It's not like a drunkard, otherwise it won't count for a day." "Even one day is fine," he replied cheerfully. "That's right! But what on earth has taught you to be so merry?" "I'm just happy, there's no reason." He sat across from her with his elbows on the table and told her all about what he was going to do.She listened affectionately and disbelievingly, and reminded him that the soup was getting cold.He knew she wasn't listening, but he didn't care; because he was speaking for himself.

They both smiled and looked at each other: she didn't really listen to what he was saying.Although she was very proud of having such a son, she didn't pay much attention to his artistic plans; she just thought: "If he is so happy, then it will be fine." He listened to his own remarks, and looked at his mother. His face was tightly wrapped in a black scarf, his hair was snow-white, and his young eyes looked at him lovingly, his expression so quiet and kind.He could read her mind perfectly. "You don't care what I say, do you?" he said jokingly. "Where? Where?" She reluctantly denied.

He hugged her and said, "Why not, why not! Come on! There's no need to argue. It's all right for you to do so. Just love me. I don't need anyone to understand me, neither you nor anyone else. Now I don't need anyone or anything: I have everything in my heart!  …” "Ah," Luisa went on, "he's a little crazy now! . . . whatever! Since it must be a wind demon, I'd rather he has it." Let yourself float on the lake of thought, how sweet, how happy! ... Lying in a small boat, in the sun, with the fresh breeze on the water caressing his face, he was suspended in the air, asleep.Under his lying body, under the swaying boat, he felt the deep waves; he dipped his hands lazily in the water.He lifted his body and rested his chin on the side of the boat, watching the water flow by like a child.He saw how many strange creatures were reflected in the water and flew away like lightning... One batch passed and another batch passed, and they were never the same.He smiled at the fantastic sight before him, and smiled at his own thoughts; he never tried to fix his thoughts.pick?Why choose among thousands of dreams?There is plenty of time! ... Let's talk about it in the future!When he wants to, just cast down the net to pick up the glowing monsters in the water... Let them pass now, let's talk about it later!

The boat floated with the warm breeze and slow waves.The weather was mild, sunny, and quiet all around. At last he lazily lowered the net; leaning over the bubbling water, he watched the net sink completely.After staying for a while, he pulled up the net calmly, feeling that it was getting heavier and heavier; when he was about to lift it out of the water, he stopped to catch his breath.He knew that there was a harvest, but he didn't know what it was; he wanted to feel the joy of waiting more. At last he made up his mind: colorful fish appeared out of the water; they writhed like a nest of snakes.He watched in amazement, moved his fingers, and wanted to pick out the most beautiful ones and hold them in his hand to admire for a while; but as soon as he lifted them out of the water, the endless variety of colors faded, and they themselves were in his hands. It melted in the hand.He threw them back into the water and lowered the nets again.He wanted to look at the dreams that were stirring in his heart one by one, but he didn't want to keep any of them; he felt that they were more beautiful when they were floating freely in the clear lake...

He evokes all kinds of dreams, each more absurd than the last.How many times his thoughts have accumulated and have not been used, the treasures filled in his heart are swelling to burst.But everything was in a mess. His mind was like a general store or a Jewish antique shop. Rare treasures, rare cloths, scrap copper and old iron, and rags were all piled up in one room, and he couldn't tell them apart. It's all fun to figure out which ones are the most valuable.Among them are chords that strike each other, colors that chime like bells, harmonies that buzz like bees, notes that laugh like amorous lips.There are imaginary landscapes, faces, passions, hearts, characters, literary or metaphysical thoughts.Some are huge plans that cannot be realized: four plays, ten plays, wanting to describe everything as music, including all kinds of worlds.Others (and most of them) are ambiguous, lightning-like feelings, which are suddenly aroused for no reason. The voice of talking, a pedestrian on the road, the sound of ticking rain, and the rhythm of the heart can all become Primer. —Many projects of this kind have only one title; most have only a line or two, but that is enough.Like a child, he regards what is created in fantasy as having been created in reality.

However, his lively vitality does not allow him to be satisfied with this smoky dream for a long time.He was tired of being possessed by illusions, and he wanted to seize the dreams. — But where to start?The one seemed as important as the other.He tosses them over and over again, throws them down, picks them up again... No, but it can't be picked up again, it's not what it used to be, and you can never catch a dream twice; it's there anytime, anywhere Change, in his hands, in front of his eyes, has changed while he is watching.He had to hurry, but he couldn't, the slowness of the work bewildered him.He would have liked to have everything done in one day, but even the smallest tasks were difficult for him.The worst part was that he had just started working and already hated the job.His dream was over, and he himself was over.While he was doing one thing, he regretted not doing another.As long as he chooses one of the beautiful subjects, it will make him not interested in this subject.So all his treasures became useless.His mind was alive only so long as he did not touch it; everything he could get hold of was dead.This is really the pain of Dang Taier: if you look up to take the fruit, you will turn into a stone; if you look down to drink the river water, the water will disappear. ①

-------- ①Dang Taier was the king of Lidi in the myth, and was punished for eternal hunger and thirst for killing his son to feed the gods. In order to quench his hunger and thirst, he wanted to bask in the fountain he had obtained and comfort his previous works... But that kind of drink was simply unbearable!After taking the first sip, he spat out cursing and cursing.how!Is this lukewarm thing, this dull music, his work? ——He re-read his own song, and felt indescribably frustrated: he was at a loss, and didn't understand how he wrote it in the first place.He blushed.Once, seeing a particularly boring page, he even turned around to see if there was anyone in the room, and then went to bury his face on the pillow, like a shy child.There were times when his work looked so ridiculous that he forgot it was his own masterpiece...

"Hey! Damn it!" he cried, bending over laughing. But what he couldn't bear the most was those music that he used to think expressed his enthusiasm, the joy and sorrow of love.He jumped up from his chair as if stung by a fly, beat the table with his fist, knocked on the forehead, howled with rage, cursed himself with foul language, made himself a pig, a bastard, a brute, a clown.At last he stood in front of the mirror, all flushed with blood, and clutching his chin, said, "Look, look, you stupid thing, you face like an ass! You lie! Let me teach you a lesson." Throw yourself into the river for me, sir! He buried his face in the washbasin until he was breathless, then his face was flushed, his eyes were protruding, and he gasped like a seal. He didn't care to wipe his face, and ran to the desk, picked up the damn music The score was torn off in a hurry, and he muttered: "Fuck you, look, bastard! Damn guy!...Look, look!..." Only then did he feel relieved. What irritated him most in these works were lies.Nothing out of genuine feeling.It's just a familiar cliché, a primary school student's composition: He talks about love like a blind man talks about color, it's all clichés, repeating what others say.And it's not just love, all passions are treated by him as a topic of eloquence. —Of course, he has always strived to be sincere, but it is not enough to want to be sincere: the problem is to be able to do it; and how can a person be sincere when he has no knowledge of life?It took the experience of the last six months for him to discover the hypocrisy of these works, to suddenly see a gap between the present and the past.Now he has jumped out of the illusory realm, and has a real standard, which can test the authenticity of his thoughts. Since he hated the works written without enthusiasm before, coupled with his overcorrected temper, he made up his mind that he would never write without enthusiasm.He was also unwilling to capture his own thoughts, and vowed that unless the desire to create threatened him like thunder, he would never give up music. He said this because he knew perfectly well that a storm was coming. The so-called thunderstorms happen wherever and whenever he wants them to happen.But higher places are easier to trigger, and some places—some souls—are storehouses of thunderstorms: they make thunderstorms, attract all thunderstorms in the sky; some months of the year are showers, In the same way, there are certain ages in life that are so charged with electricity that the thunderbolt bursts, if not as they will, at least as they are expected. The whole person is tense.Thunderstorms are brewing day by day.The white sky was covered with scorching clouds.There is no wind, and the condensed air is fermenting and seems to be boiling.The earth was silent and paralyzed.His head was feverish and humming; the whole world was waiting for the accumulated power to burst out, waiting for the heavy and high hammer to hit the dark clouds.Big, hot shadows moved by, a fiery wind blew by; nerves trembled like leaves... Then there was silence again.Thunder and lightning continued to brew in the sky. There is a sense of sadness and joy while waiting like this.Although you are oppressed and sad all over, you feel that there is a raging fire burning the entire universe in your blood vessels.Intoxicated souls boil in boilers like grapes buried in wine barrels.Thousands upon thousands of seeds of birth and death are at work in the heart.What will result? …Like a pregnant woman, your heart silently looks at yourself, anxiously listening to the trembling of your internal organs, thinking: "What will I give birth to?" It is inevitable to wait for a while.The shower clears without breaking out; you wake up heavy-headed, disappointed, irritable, unspeakably chagrined.But this is only a postponement; sooner or later the shower will come; if not today, then tomorrow; the later it breaks out, the more violent it will come... Look, isn't it coming? . . . In every hidden part of life, dark clouds are rising.Heaps of blue-black things, torn from time to time by furious lightning;--their speed dazzles the eye, enveloping the mind from every side; Straight down.What an intoxicating time it was! …The elements that are excited to the extreme, usually imprisoned in the cage by the law of nature—the law that maintains the balance of the spirit and enables all things to survive—can break out at this time, when your consciousness disappears Dominating everything, it appears huge and indescribable.You are in agony.You no longer yearn for life, you only wait for death to liberate you... And suddenly there was a flash of lightning! Christophe screamed with joy. Joy, ecstatic joy, like a sun shining on all present and future achievements, joy of creation, joy of gods!Only creation is joy.Only created beings are living beings.The rest are just shadows floating underground that have nothing to do with life.All life's joys are joys of creation: love, genius, action,--all are sprung from the great fire of creation.Even those who have no place beside the great flame:--the ambitious, the selfish, the prodigal,--want to be warmed by a dim light. Creation, whether physical or spiritual, is always out of the cage of the body, into the whirlwind of life, and live with the gods.Creation destroys death. Poor people who can't give birth are lonely and displaced in the world, with a withered body and inner darkness, never a single flame of life emerges!Poor souls who know they can't give birth are not full of life and love like a tree full of spring flowers!Even though the society gave him glory and happiness, it was just embellishing a walking dead. When Christophe was illuminated by the light, an electric current passed through him and made him tremble.It was as if land suddenly appeared in the dark sea.It was as if he suddenly met a pair of deep eyes in the crowd and glared at him.This often happens after hours of daydreaming and depression, especially when thinking about other things, or talking or walking.If in the street, he dared not express his happiness loudly because of his worries.Nothing can stop him at home.He danced and hummed a triumphant tune at the top of his voice.My mother got used to the music and finally understood its meaning.She told Christophe that he looked like a hen that had just laid eggs. Le Si penetrated him: sometimes it is a single and complete sentence; more often it is a nebula that wraps the whole work: the structure of the song, the general lines, are reflected behind a scene; there are some brilliance on the screen Radiant sentences stand out in the gloom, as distinct as statues.It is just like a single bolt of lightning; sometimes it is several lightning bolts in succession; and each ray of light illuminates some new world in the darkness, but this elusive force often slips out of the face unexpectedly for a while, and will Hide in a mysterious corner for a few days, leaving only a trace of light. Christophe only experienced the pleasure of this inspiration, and hated everything else.An experienced artist certainly knows that inspiration is hard to come by, and that any work inspired by intuition must be completed by intellect; so he squeezes his thoughts as hard as he can, absorbing all the holy juices in them,--(even often adding some clean water). —But Christophe was too young and too confident to despise these methods.He holds impossible dreams, only willing to produce some works that flow naturally from beginning to end.If he hadn't deliberately disregarded the facts, it would not be difficult for him to find the absurdity of this plan.No problem, that was the time when he was most spiritually rich, and there was absolutely no void for the intrusion of nothingness.For this endless inspiration, no matter what can be an introduction; what you see with your eyes, what you hear with your ears, and what you come into contact with in your daily life; every frown, every word, can trigger some dreams in your heart .In his vast world of thought, there are thousands of stars. ——However, at times like this, everything goes out all of a sudden.Although the night will not last long, and although the silence of thought will not prolong to the point of causing him pain, he is still afraid that this nameless power will come to find him, leave him, come back, and disappear again... I don't know how long it will take to be wiped out this time, and I don't know if it will recover. ——The haughty character made him unwilling to think of these things, and he said to himself: "This power is me. Once it disappears, I will not exist: I will kill myself."—He couldn't help being frightened, But this actually added a kind of pleasure to him. However, even if inspiration is not in danger of being exhausted at present, Christophe has realized that inspiration alone will never be able to cultivate a whole work.Thoughts are almost always crude when they arise, and great effort must be made to whittle them away.And they are always intermittent and flickering; if they are to be coherent, they must be infused with deliberate wisdom and calm will, so that they can be tempered into a new life.Since Christophe is a born artist, of course he would not fail to do this step, but he refused to admit it, and insisted on believing that he was only conveying the model in his mind. The mood has changed somewhat. —Not only that, but he sometimes completely misunderstands the meaning of thoughts.Because Le Si's coming is so strong, he often can't tell what its meaning is.When it breaks into the recesses of the mind, it is still far outside the field of consciousness, and this pure force is beyond the general laws, and the consciousness cannot recognize what it is that makes it turbulent and concentrates its attention, what it is What kind of affirmative emotion is it: joy, pain, all mixed together in that unique enthusiasm that seems inexplicable because it is beyond the intellect.But whether you understand it or not, wisdom needs to give this force a name, so that it can be related to the logical structure that human beings have worked hard to build in their minds. Christophe therefore believed--believed himself--that the vague power which troubled him had indeed a definite meaning, and this meaning was consistent with his will.The free instincts springing up from the depths of the subconscious are oppressed by reason to co-operate with clear and distinct thoughts which have practically nothing to do with it.In this case, the work is just a forced combination of two things: on the one hand, it is a great theme that Christophe has drawn up in his mind, and on the other hand, it has a different meaning that Christophe is also ignorant of. Those rough forces. He lowered his head and groped forward, encouraged by many contradictory forces that collided in his chest, and put a dark and strong life into the fragmented works, which he could not express, but made him Satisfied, very happy. Since he realized that he had a new energy, he dared to face everything around him, everything he was taught to worship in the past, everything he respected without thinking;—and immediately criticized without restraint.The curtain was torn: he saw the hypocrisy of the Germans. All nations and all arts have their hypocrisy.Most of the food of mankind is lies, and only a little bit of truth.Man's spirit is too weak to bear pure truth; his religion, his morals, his politics, his poets, his artists, must wrap the truth with a layer of lies.These lies are adapted to each nation and are different: it is these lies that make it so difficult for nations to understand each other and so easy for them to despise each other.The truth is the same for all, but every nation has its lies, and they all call them ideals; a man breathes these lies from birth to death, and lies become one of the conditions of existence; only a few are born with Only after a heroic struggle does the genius not fear isolation in his own free thought sphere. By a very ordinary chance, Christophe suddenly discovered the lies of German art.He was not aware of it earlier, not because he didn't have the opportunity to see it often, but because the distance was too close and he didn't regress.Now, the face of the mountain is shown because he is far away. He was at a concert at the Municipal Music Hall.There are a dozen or so rows of coffee tables in the hall—perhaps two or three hundred.The band is on stage at the far end of the hall.Around Christophe sat officers in long, narrow dark overcoats—clean-shaven, with broad red faces, serious and vulgar; The innocent girls are smiling with all their teeth; the fat men with beards and glasses look like spiders with round eyes.Every time they drink a glass of wine, they have to stand up and toast someone to congratulate their health. Their attitude is very respectful and pious, and their faces and voices have changed: it seems to be reciting the scriptures in the mass. They pretend to be solemn and ridiculous. Toast each other with air.The music was lost in the sound of conversation and cups and plates.But everyone kept the voices of talking and eating down.The conductor of the orchestra was a tall, hunchbacked old man, with a beard hanging from his chin like a tail, and a long nose that was bent down and wearing glasses. He had the air of a linguist. —Christophe has been familiar with these typical characters for a long time.But on this day, he suddenly looked at them with the eyes of manga.Indeed, some days, the ridiculousness of others that is not usually noticed will jump into our eyes for no reason. The program of the concert includes "Egmont Overture", Waldtfel's "Waltz", "Tonnhauser's Tour of Rome", Nicolai's "The Merry Woman", "Atalia March", "The Big Dipper" "Fantasia.Beethoven's "Prelude" was played ① very well, and the "Waltz" was played very passionately.When it was the turn of "Tonnhauser's Tour to Rome", there was the sound of corks being uncorked from the audience.A fat man at the table next to Christophe beat the time to the music of "The Merry Wives", winking and making Falstaff gestures.An old and fat woman, wearing a sky-blue dress, wearing a pair of white belts, a pair of gold-rimmed glasses on the bridge of her flat nose, bright red skin arms, a thick waist, singing the song "Song of Songs" in a loud voice. Song of Mann and Brahms.She raised her eyebrows, winked, squinted her eyelids, shook her head from left to right, with a big smile on her moon-like face, and she was doing pantomime in a very poor way: no more her solemnity She has an old-fashioned air, just like a singer in a coffee shop.This mother full of children actually pretended to be a hysterical girl, trying to express her youth and enthusiasm; and Schumann's songs followed like a play on a baby.Everyone was fascinated.But as soon as the South German choir came out, the audience's attention was almost solemn.The chorus group babbled and roared for a while, and sang a few very emotional songs: forty voices were equal to four people, it seemed that they deliberately canceled the real chorus style, and only showed some melodic effects , desolately, thought to be extremely delicate, when it is light, it seems to be dying, and when it is loud, it is suddenly deafening, like beating a big bronze drum; in short, it is neither thick nor balanced, it is purely sluggish. People think of Bolton's witty words: ③ -------- ① "Ermengrmont Overture" is Beethoven's work; "Tonnhauser Tour to Rome" is a section from Wagner's opera "Tonnhauser"; "Atalia March" is composed by Mendelssohn; "The Big Dipper" is Comic opera by Meiabel. ②Falstaff is the hero in "The Merry Woman", a silly and ridiculous character. ③ Burton is the weaver in Shakespeare's famous play "A Midsummer Night's Dream". "Let me pretend to be a lion. My roar may be as soft as that of a dove with food in its beak, or it may be believed to be the song of a nightingale." Christophe listened, more and more surprised at first.These situations were by no means new to him.He is familiar with these concerts, this band, and such audiences.But suddenly he felt that everything was phony.Everything, even his favorite Egmont Overture, with its bravado, its stern impassioned impassionedness, seemed insincere now.No problem, what he hears is not Beethoven and Schumann, but the ridiculous spokesmen of Beethoven and Schumann, but the munching masses that surround the work with their stupidity like a thick fog . ——Not only that, but even among the most beautiful works, there is something disturbing, which Christophe has never felt... What is it?He dared not analyze, thinking that it would be sacrilege to doubt his beloved master.He didn't want to look at it, but he had already seen it, and he couldn't help looking at it; like Pisa's mimosa, he peeked between his fingers. He saw German art naked.Whether great or boring, all artists are mother-in-law, complacent, and expose their hearts as much as possible.There is plenty of feeling, nobility of heart, and so much truth that it melts the heart; and the amorous tide of the Germanic nation breaks its banks, Thinning the strongest souls and drowning the cowardly under its gray waves : This is a flood; the German mind is asleep at the bottom.What kind of thoughts do the little writers of pompous and sentimental songs like Mendelssohn, Brahms, Schumann, and so on!Completely sandy soil, not a single rock.It's just a piece of soggy, formless clay... It's all so absurd and childish, Christophe can't believe that the audience won't feel it.But he glanced around and saw only some peaceful faces, and he was sure that what they heard must be beautiful and interesting.How dare they voluntarily criticize it?For these names that everyone adores, they have great respect.And is there anything they dare not respect?They have the same respect for their music programs, for their wine glasses, and for themselves.Anything that has something to do with them, they all think "wonderful". Christophe looked at the audience and the work in turn, and felt that the work reflected the audience, and the audience also reflected the work.Christophe couldn't help but grimace.When the choir solemnly sang the shy "Confession" of a passionate young girl, he couldn't hold back anymore, and even laughed out loud.Immediately there was an angry hiss from all around.The people sitting next to him looked at him in amazement, and he laughed so hard at the sight of the startled faces that he even burst into tears.Everyone was annoyed by this, and shouted, "Get out!" He got up and walked away, shrugging his shoulders and writhing with laughter.Everyone in the audience was extremely angry when they saw it.Since then, Christophe has gradually been in a hostile position with the people in his city. After having this experience, Christophe returned home and decided to revisit the works of several "respected" musicians.It turned out to be a great dismay for him to discover that some of his most beloved masters were also liars.He tried his best to doubt, thinking that he was wrong. —But no, there was no room for doubt... He was amazed that there should be so many mediocre works and lies in the artistic wealth of a great people.There are too few pieces of music that can stand the test! From now on, when he wants to read other favorite works, he will inevitably be frightened... Poor him, he seems to be enchanted, and he encounters the same frustration everywhere!His heart was broken for some masters, as if he had lost a friend he loved the most, and he also seemed to suddenly realize that his trusted friend had deceived him for many years.He cried bitterly over it, couldn't sleep at night, and was very distressed.He blamed himself: Is it because he can't judge?Has he become a complete fool? ... No, no, more than ever he sees the sun's rays and feels the fullness of life: his heart has not fooled him... He waited for a long time again, not daring to disturb the writers he thought were the best and purest, the saints of the saints.He feared that his confidence in them should be shaken.But a soul that seeks the truth in everything, instinctively seeks out everything and sees through the truth, even if it causes pain, it doesn't care: how can I resist this unselfish instinct? —then he opened the sacred writings and looked at the last essences like the Praetorian Guard in the army... And after a few glances, he found that they were no purer than the others.He didn't have the courage to continue.Sometimes he would stop and close the instrument, as if Noah's son had covered his father's naked body with his coat. ① -------- ① Noah is the Hebrew patriarch who rescued mankind from the flood in the Old Testament. He lay naked after being drunk, and his two sons Sam and Jephet covered him with clothes. After that, he looked at these ruins as if lost.He would have sacrificed everything to keep his vision of the divine from being shattered.He was very sad.Fortunately, he was so energetic that his belief in art was not shaken by it.With the naive and arrogant psychology of young people, he seems to think that no one has experienced life before, and he has to start all over again.Intoxicated with his newborn powers, he felt—(perhaps not without reason)—that, with rare exceptions, there was no relationship at all between living passions and those expressed in art.He thought he was more successful and real when he acted, but he was wrong.Because he is full of enthusiasm, it is not difficult to find enthusiasm in his own works; but no one but him can discern it in the imperfect rhetoric.This is the case with most of the artists he criticizes.What they had in their hearts, and what they expressed, were indeed deep feelings; but the keys of their language died with their bodies. Christophe, ignorant of human psychology, did not think of these reasons: he felt that what is dead now has always been dead.He brought out the domineering and cruel temper of youth to revise his opinion of the artists of the past.The most noble soul was also exposed to him nakedly, and all the ridiculous places were not let go.And the so-called ridiculous, for Mendelssohn, is the kind of excessive melancholy, elegant fantasy, nothing in general; for Weber, it is illusory brilliance, a dry heart, and emotions created by the brain; Liszt is a Aristocratic priests, circus jockeys, neo-classical, quack-like, noble elements mixed in true and false, on the one hand, detached ideal color, on the other hand, disgusting showmanship ; as for Schubert, he was overwhelmed by sentimentality, as if sinking in the clear and tasteless bottom of miles long.Even veteran generals, demigods, prophets, and elders of the church in the age of heroes are not immune to hypocrisy.Even the great Bach, the man who lasted for three hundred years, the patriarch of the past and the future,—was inseparable from lies, popular nonsense and pedantic chatter.In Christophe's mind, this man who had seen God, his religion was sometimes just a religion without spirit, sugared ②, and his style was a Qibaolou table, a cumbersome and delicate style.In his chorus, there are old pious tunes that arouse tenderness, as if the soul is talking to Jesus endlessly, and Christophe is really doing evil for it, as if he saw the fat-headed and ear-eared God of Love flying around his thighs.并且，他觉得这位天才的歌唱教师③是关在屋子里写作的，作品有股闭塞的气息，不象贝多芬或亨德尔有那种外界的强劲的风，——他们以音乐家而论也许不及他伟大，可是更富于人性。克利斯朵夫对一般古典派的大师不满意的，还因为他们的作品缺少自由灵动的气息，而差不多全部是"建筑"起来的：有时是一种情绪用音乐修辞学的滥调加以扩大的；有时只是一种简单的节奏，一种装饰的素描，循环颠倒，翻来覆去，用机械的方式向各方面铺张，发展。这种对称的，叠床架屋的结构，——奏鸣曲与交响乐——使克利斯朵夫大为气恼，因为他当时对于条理之美，对于规模宏大，深思熟虑的结构之美，还不能领会。他以为这是泥水匠的而非音乐家的工作。 -------- ①李斯特于一八三九年曾受奥皇册封为贵族，于晚年（1865）在罗马入圣·芳济会为修士。马戏班骑师与江湖气，均指其卖弄技巧。 ②巴赫每作一曲，必先称：“耶稣佑我！"一曲完成，必于纸尾附加一笔：“荣耀归主！"其虔诚为音乐家中罕见，"见过上帝"一语尤指巴赫所作圣乐而言。 ③巴赫曾任来比锡圣·托马斯学院歌唱教师二十七年。 他的批评浪漫派，严厉也不下于此。可怪的是，他最受不了的倒是那般自命为最自由，最自然，最少用"建筑"功夫的作家，象舒曼那样在无数的小作品中把他们的生命一点一滴全部灌注进去的人，他尤其恨他们，因为在他们身上认出他自己少年时代的灵魂，和所有他此刻发誓要摆脱干净的无聊东西。当然，虚伪的罪名决不能加之于淳朴的舒曼：他几乎从来不说一句不是真正感觉到的话。然而他的榜样正好使克利斯朵夫懂得，德国艺术最要不得的虚伪还不在于艺术家想表现他们并不感到的情操，倒是在于他们想表现真正感到的情操，——因为这些情操本身就是虚伪的。音乐是心灵的镜子，而且是铁面无情的镜子。一个德国音乐家越天真越有诚意，他越暴露出德国民族的弱点，动摇不定的心境，婆婆妈妈的感情，缺少坦白，伪装的理想主义，看不见自己，不敢正视自己。而这虚伪的理想主义便是一般最大的宗师——连瓦格纳在内——的疮疤。克利斯朵夫重读他的作品时，不禁咬牙切齿。《洛恩格林》于他显得是大声叫嚣的谎言。他恨这种粗制滥造的豪侠的传奇，虚假的虔诚，恨这个不知害怕的，没有心肝的主角，简直是自私与冷酷无情的化身，只知道自画自赞，爱自己甚于一切。这等人物，他在现实中只嫌①见得太多：有的是这种德国道学家的典型，漂亮而没有表情，无懈可击而刻薄寡恩，把自己看作高于一切，不惜牺牲别人来供养自己。《漂泊的荷兰人》的浓厚的感伤情调与忧郁的烦闷，使克利斯朵夫同样不能忍受。《四部曲》中那些颓废的野蛮人，在爱情方面完全枯索无味，令人作恶。西格蒙特劫走弱妹的时候，居然用男高音唱起客厅里的情歌。在《神界的黄昏》里，西格弗里德和布仑希尔德以德国式的好夫妻的姿态，在彼此面前，尤其在大众面前，夸耀他们虚浮的，唠叨的闺房的热情。各式各种的谎言都汇集在这些作品里：虚伪②的理想主义，虚伪的基督教义，虚伪的中古色彩，虚伪的传①瓦格纳所作《洛恩格林》歌剧中的主角洛恩格林（天神），营救人间被冤的女子哀尔撒，并与之结为夫妇，条件为新娘绝对不能问其为何许人，从何处来。婚后哀尔撒向其追问，洛恩格林即飘然远引，一去不返。当时瓦格纳自比为洛恩格林，要社会爱他而不问其为何许人，从何处来。②《漂泊的荷兰人》，《四部曲》，均瓦格纳所作歌剧。《四部曲》原名《尼伯龙根四部曲》，包括《莱茵的黄金》、《女武神》、《西格弗里德》、《神界的黄昏》四歌剧。西格蒙特为《女武神》中人物，布仑希尔德在《女武神》以下三歌剧中均有出现，瓦格纳歌剧本事均取材于古代日耳曼民族传说，人物有神道，侏儒，野蛮人等。说，天上的神，地下的人，无一不虚伪。在此自命为破除一切成规的戏剧中间，标榜得最显著的就是成规。眼睛，头脑，心，决不会不发觉这种情形，除非它们自愿。——而它们竟甘心情愿要受蒙蔽。对于这种幼稚而又老朽的艺术，野性毕露的粗人与装腔作势的小姑娘的艺术，德国人居然非常得意。 可是克利斯朵夫的厌恶是没用的：一听到这音乐，他照旧被作者恶魔般的意志抓住了，和别人一样的激动，也许更厉害。他笑着，哆嗦着，脸上火刺刺的，心中好似有千军万马在奔腾，于是他认为，在那些有这种飓风般的威力的人是百无禁忌的。他在唯恐幻梦破灭而战战兢兢的打开的神圣的作品中，发见自己的情绪和当年一样热烈，什么也没有减损作品的纯洁：那时他快活的叫起来了。这是他在大风浪中抢救出来的光荣的遗物。多运气啊！他似乎把自己救出了一部分。而这怎么不是他自己呢？他所痛恨的那些伟大的德国人，可不就是他的血和肉，就是他最宝贵的生命吗？他所以对他们这样严，因为他对自己就是这样严。还有谁比他更爱他们呢？舒伯特的慈祥，海顿的无邪，莫扎特的温柔，贝多芬的英勇悲壮的心，谁比他感觉得更真切？韦伯使他神游于喁喁的林间，巴赫使他置身于大寺的阴影里面，顶上是北欧灰色的天空，四周是辽阔无垠的原野，大寺的塔尖高耸云际……在这些境界中谁比他更虔诚呢？——然而他们的诳语使他痛苦，永远忘不了。他把谎言归咎于民族性，认为只有伟大是他们自身的。那可错了。伟大与缺点同样是属于这个民族的，——它的雄伟而骚动的思潮，汇成一条音乐与诗歌的最大的河，灌溉着整个欧罗巴……至于天真的纯洁，他能在哪一个民族中找到而敢于对自己的民族这样苛求呢？ 可是他完全没想到这些。仿佛一个宠惯的孩子，他无情无义的把从母亲那边得来的武器去还击母亲。将来，将来他才会发觉受到她多少好处，发觉她多么可贵呢…… 但这小时期正是他闭着眼睛对幼年时代的一切偶像反抗的时期。He hated himself, hated them, because he believed them with all his heart. —and this resistance is justified.人生有一个时期应当敢不公平，敢把跟着别人佩服的敬重的东西——不管是真理是谎言——一概摒弃，敢把没有经过自己认为是真理的东西统统否认。All the education, all the knowledge, fills up a child with a mass of lies and follies mixed with the main truths of life, so that the first duty of youth, if he is to become a sane man, is to put his old Eat and vomit clean. 克利斯朵夫到了一个身心健康的人厌恶一切的关头。本能逼着他把满肚子不消化的东西一起淘汰。 第一先得摆脱那种令人恶心的多愁多病的情绪，那在德国人心中点点滴滴流出来的时候，象是从潮湿的地道里来的，有股霉烂的气息。来点儿光明吧！来点儿光明吧！象雨点一样多的歌，涓涓不绝的流出德国人的心情，散布着瘴气，臭①味，必须来一阵干燥峭厉的风把它们一扫而空才好。歌的题材永远脱不了什么欲望，思乡，飞翔，请问，为何？敬月，敬星，献给夜莺，献给春天，献给太阳；或是什么春之歌，春之快乐，春天的旅行，春夜，春讯；或是爱情的声音，爱情的圆满，情话，情愁，情意；或是花之歌，花之敬礼，花讯；或是我心殷殷，我心如捣，我心已乱，我眼已花；还有是跟蔷薇，小溪，斑鸠，燕子等等来一套天真而痴癔的对白；再不然是提出些可笑的问句，——"要是野蔷薇没有刺的话"，——"燕子筑巢的时候，她的配偶是老的一个呢还是新结合的？"——总而言之，全是春花秋月，触景生情，无病呻吟的靡靡之音。多少美妙的东西给亵渎了，多少高尚的感情被滥用了！而最糟的是，一切都是浪费掉的，老在公众前面把自己的心赤裸裸的拿出来，只想亲热的，楞头楞脑的，向人大声诉说衷曲。明明无话可说而偏偏絮絮不休！这些唠叨难道没有完的吗？ --Hey!池塘里的青蛙，你们静静行不行！ -------- ①此处所谓的歌（Lied）为德国特有的一种歌唱乐曲，有纯粹的民间歌谣，亦有音乐家以著名的诗歌起成的。自无名作家以至贝多芬，舒伯特，舒曼等均制作甚夥，而庸俗作家的产量尤为丰富，在德国为家家户户歌咏的最通俗的音乐。本书中凡用仿宋体排的歌字，均指此种体裁的歌。 克利斯朵夫觉得最难堪的，莫过于表白爱情时的谎言，因为他更有资格拿它和事实相比。那套如譬如诉而循规蹈矩的情歌的公式，跟男子的情欲与女人的心都不相干。可是爱情这回事，写作的人也经历过来，一生中至少有过一次的！难道他们就是这样恋爱的吗？不，不，他们是扯谎，照例的扯谎，对自己扯谎；他们想要把自己理想化……而所谓理想化就是不敢正视人生，不敢看事情的真相——到处是那种胆怯，没有光明磊落的气概。到处是装出来的热情，浮夸的戏剧式的庄严，不论是为了爱国，为了饮酒，为了宗教，都是一样。所谓酒歌，只是把拟人法应用到酒和杯子方面去的玩艺儿，例如"你，高贵的酒杯啊……"等等。至于信仰，应该象泉水一般从灵魂中出岂不意的飞涌出来的，这里却是象货物一样故意制造出来的。爱国的歌曲仿佛是写来给一群绵羊按着节拍咩咩的叫的……——哎！你们大声的吼罢！ ……怎么！难道你们竟永远的扯谎，——永远的理想化，——连喝醉的时候，厮杀的时候，疯狂的时候也要扯谎吗？ ... 克利斯朵夫甚至恨理想主义。他以为这种谎言还不如痛痛快快的赤裸裸的暴露。——骨子里他的理想主义比谁都浓厚，他以为宁可忍受粗暴的现实主义者，其实这些人是他最大的敌人。 但他给热情蒙蔽了。缥缈的雾，贫血的谎言，"没有阳光的幽灵式的思想"，使他浑身冰冷。他进着全部的生命力向往于太阳。他一味逞着青年人的血气，瞧不起周围的虚伪或是他假想的虚伪；他没看到民族的实际的智慧在那里逐渐造成一些伟大的理想，把粗野的本能加以驯服或加以利用。要使一个民族的心灵改头换面，既不是靠些片面的理由，靠些道德的与宗教的规律所能办到，也不是立法者与政治家，教士与哲学家所能胜任：必须几百年的苦难和考验，才能磨炼那些要生存的人去适应人生。 然而克利斯朵夫照旧作曲；而他指责别人的缺点，在自己的作品中就不能避免。因为创作在他是一种抑捺不住的需要，不肯服从智慧所定的规律的。一个人创作的动机并不是理智，而是需要。——并且，尽管把大多数的情操所有的谎言与浮夸的表现都认出来了，仍不足以使自己不蹈覆辙，那主要是得靠长时期艰苦的努力的。在现代的社会里，大家秉受了多少代懒惰的习惯之后，更不容易绝对的守真返朴。而有一般人，有一些民族，尤其办不到；因为他们有种不知趣的痼癖，在极应当缄口的时候，偏偏让自己的心唠叨不已。 克利斯朵夫还没认识静默的好处：在这一点上他的精神是纯粹德国式的；同时他也没有到懂得缄默的年纪。由于父亲的遗传，他爱说话，爱粗声大片的说话。他自己也觉察到，拚命想改掉；但这种挣扎反而使他一部分的精力变得麻痹了。此外他还得跟祖父给他的另外一种遗传斗争，就是要准准确确的把自己表现出来极不容易。他是演奏家的儿子，卖弄技巧对他有很大的诱惑，当然是危险的诱惑：——那是纯粹属于肉体方面的快感，能够把肌肉灵活运用的快感，克服困难，炫耀本领，迷惑群众，一个人控制成千成百的人的快感。虽然追求这种快感在一个青年人是可以原谅的，差不多是无邪的，但对于艺术对于心灵究竟是个致命伤。那是克利斯朵夫知道的，是他血统里固有的；他竭力唾弃而结果仍免不了让步。 因此，种族的本能与自己天赋的本能都在鼓动他，过去的重负象寄生虫般黏着他，使他无法摆脱，他只能摇摇晃晃的前进，而结果已经和他深恶痛绝的境界相去不远。他当时所有的作品，全是真实与夸张，明朗的朝气与口齿不清的傻话的混合起。前人的性格束缚着他的行动，他的个性难得能突破包围透露出来。 并且他是孤独的。没有一个人帮助他跳出泥洼。他自以为跳出的时候，实际却是陷得更深。他暗中摸索，屡次尝试，屡次失败，糟蹋了许多精神与时间。甜酸苦辣的味道他都尝过了，创作的骚动使他心绪不宁，也辨别不出自己的作品中哪些是有价值的。他想着些荒唐的计划，轮廓庞大而宣传哲理的交响诗，把自己难住了。可是他又太真诚，不能长此拿这些妄想来骗自己；他还没有动手起草，已经不胜厌恶的把那些计划丢开了。或者他想把最没法下手的诗歌谱成序曲。于是他在那个不属于自己的园地中迷了路。等到他亲自动手写脚本的时候（因为他自以为无所不能），那就完全是荒谬绝伦的东西，他又想采用歌德，克莱斯特，赫贝尔，或莎士比亚的名著，可是把原作的意义都误解了。并非因为他缺少聪①明，而是缺少批评精神；他不了解别人，因为太想着自己，他到处只看见自己那个天真而浮夸的心灵。 -------- ①克莱斯特（1777—1811）为德国戏剧家。赫贝尔（1813—1863）为德国诗人。近代最大戏剧家之一，首创心理描写。 除了这些根本没法长成的怪物以外，他又写了许多小曲，直接表现那些一刹那的——实际是最永久的——情感，写了许多歌。在这儿，跟别的地方一样，他竭力一反流行的习惯。他重新采用别人已经谱成音乐的著名的诗篇，狂妄的要跟舒曼与舒伯特作法不同而更真切。有时他把歌德笔下的富有诗意的人物，把迷娘或《威廉·迈斯特》中的竖琴师等等，刻②划出他们明确而骚动的个性。有时他也制作一些爱情的歌，灌输入犷野而肉感的气息，把贫弱的艺术家与浅薄的群众素来心照不宣的蒙在情歌上的感伤色彩，一扫而空。总而言之，他要使人物与热情为了他们本身而存在，不让那般星期日坐坐啤酒店，危机会随便发泄一下感情的德国家庭当做玩物。 -------- ②歌德所作小说《威廉·迈斯特》，述一意大利伯爵洛泰利奥因女儿迷娘自幼被吉普赛人拐走，乃扮作行吟诗人，手弹竖琴，周游各地寻访，卒获团聚。迷娘卒与大学生威廉·迈斯特结为夫妇。十九世纪法国音乐家托玛采用此故事谱成歌剧，题作《迷娘》。