罗曼.罗兰传

His first years of childhood were passed in theshadow of the defeat of 1870. In Antoinette， Rollandsketches the tranquil life ofjust such a provincial townas Clamecy. His home was an old house on the bankof a canal. Not from this narrow world were to springthe first delights of the boy who， despite his physicalfrailty， was so passionately sensitive to enjoyment. Amighty impulse from afar， from the unfathomable past，came to stir his pulses. Early did he discover music，the language of languages， the first great message ofthe soul. His mother taught him the piano. From itstones he leamed to build for himself the infinite worldof feeling， thus transcending the limits imposed bynationality. For while the pupil eagerly assimilatedthe easily understood music of French classicalcomposers， German music at the same time enthralledhis youthful soul. He has given an admirabledescription of the way in which this revelation cameto him： “We had a number of old German musicbooks. German? Did I know the meaning of theword? In our part of the world I believe no one hadever seen a German ... I tumed the leaves of the oldbooks， spelling out the notes on the piano， ... and theserunnels， these streamlets of melody， which wateredmy heart， sank into the thirsty ground as the rain soaksinto the earth. The bliss and the pain， the desires andthe dreams， of Mozart and Beethoven， have becomeflesh of my flesh and bone of my bone. I am them，and they are me.... How much do I owe them. When I was ill as a child， and death seemed near， a melody of Mozart would watch over my pillow like a lover.... Later， in crises of doubt and depression， the music of Beethoven would revive in me the sparks of eternal life.... Whenever my spirit is weary， whenever I amsick at heart， I turn to my piano and bathe in music.” Thus early did the child enter into communion with the wordless speech of humanity； thus early had the all-embracmg sympathy of the life of feeling enabled him to pass beyond the narrows of town and of province， of nation and of era. Music was his first prayer to the elemental forces of life； a prayer daily repeated in countless forms； so that now， half a century later， a week and even a day rarely elapses without his holding converse with Beethoven. The other saint of his childhood‘s days， Shakespeare，likewise belonged to a foreign land. With his first loves， all unaware， the lad had already overstridden the confines of nationality. Amid the dusty lumber in a loft he discovered an edition of Shakespeare，which his grandfather （a student in Paris when Victor Hugo was a young man and Shakespeare mania was rife） had bought and forgotten. His childish interest was first awakened by a volume of faded engravings entitled Galerie des femmes de Shakespeare. His fancy was thrilled by the charming faces， by the magical names Perdita， Imogen， and Miranda. But soon，reading the plays， he became immersed in the maze of happenings and personalities. He would remain in the loft hour after hour， disturbed by nothing beyond the occasional trampling of the horses in the stable below or by the rattling of a chain on a passing barge.Forgetting everything and forgotten by all he sat in a great armchair with the beloved book， which like that of Prospero made all the spirits of the universe his servants. He was encircled by a throng of unseen auditors， by imaginary figures which formed a rampart between himself and the world of realities.
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