Jean-Christophe was taken aback. He thought for a moment, and said:
"To make beautiful songs!"
Gottfried laughed again, and said:
"You want to make beautiful songs, so as to be a great man; and you want to be a great man, so as to make beautiful songs. You are like a dog chasing its own tail."
Jean-Christophe was dashed. At any other time he would not have borne his uncle laughing at him, he at whom he was used to laughing. And, at the same time, he would never have thought Gottfried clever enough to stump him with an argument. He cast about for some answer or some impertinence to throw at him, but could find none. Gottfried went on:
"When you are as great as from here to Coblentz, you will never make a single song."
Jean-Christophe revolted on that.
"And if I will!…"
"The more you want to, the less you can. To make songs, you have to be like those creatures. Listen…."
The moon had risen, round and gleaming, behind the fields. A silvery mist hovered above the ground and the shimmering waters. The frogs croaked, and in the meadows the melodious fluting of the toads arose. The shrill tremolo of the grasshoppers seemed to answer the twinkling of the stars. The wind rustled softly in the branches of the alders. From the hills above the river there came down the sweet light song of a nightingale.