The readers of “Jean-Christophe” certainly never expected this new volume, but they cannot be more surprised than I am myself. I had sketched out other works,--a play and a novel on subjects of the day, in somewhat the same tragic key as “Jean-Christophe,” but I had to break off abruptly, throwing aside all my notes and well-planned scenes, for this trifling work which only came into my head the day before. This book is a reaction from the constraint of “Jean-Christophe,” which, like an outgrown cuirass, fitted well enough at first, but had become too tight for me; I felt an absolute need of something gay, in the true Gallic spirit--even perhaps verging on impropriety. On returning to my na…
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