Thereafter they often went for walks together in the evening, and they walked without a word along by the river, or through the fields. Gottfried slowly smoked his pipe, and Jean-Christophe, a little frightened by the darkness, would give him his hand. They would sit down on the grass, and after a few moments of silence Gottfried would talk to him about the stars and the clouds; he taught him to distinguish the breathing of the earth, air, and water, the songs, cries, and sounds of the little worlds of flying, creeping, hopping, and swimming things swarming in the darkness, and the signs of rain and fine weather, and the countless instruments of the symphony of the night. Sometimes Gottfried would sing tunes, sad or gay, but always of the same kind, and always in the end Jean-Christophe would be brought to the same sorrow. But he would never sing more than one song in an evening, and Jean-Christophe noticed that he did not sing gladly when he was asked to do so; it had to come of itself, just when he wanted to. Sometimes they had to wait for a long time without speaking, and just when Jean-Christophe was beginning to think, "He is not going to sing this evening," Gottfried would make up his mind. One evening, when nothing would induce Gottfried to sing, Jean-Christophe thought of submitting to him one of his own small compositions, in the making of which he found so much trouble and pride. He wanted to show what an artist he was. Gottfried listened very quietly, and then said: "That is very ugly, my poor dear Jean-Christophe!" Jean-Christophe was so hurt that he could find nothing to say. Gottfried went on pityingly: "Why did you do it? It is so ugly! No one forced you to do it." Hot with anger, Jean-Christophe protested: "My grandfather thinks my music fine." "Ah!" said Gottfried, not turning a hair. "No doubt he is right. He is a learned man. He knows all about music. I know nothing about it...." And after a moment: "But I think that is very ugly." He looked quietly at Jean-Christophe, and saw his angry face, and smiled, and said: "Have you composed any others? Perhaps I shall like the others better than that." Jean-Christophe thought that his other compositions might wipe out the impression of the first, and he sang them all. Gottfried said nothing; he waited until they were finished. Then he shook his head, and with profound conviction said: "They are even more ugly." Jean-Christophe shut his lips, and his chin trembled; he wanted to cry. Gottfried went on as though he himself were upset. "How ugly they are!" Jean-Christophe, with tears in his voice, cried out: "But why do you say they are ugly?" Gottfried looked at him with his frank eyes. "Why?... I don't know.... Wait.... They are ugly ... first, because they are stupid.... Yes, that's it.... They are stupid, they don't mean anything.... You see? When you wrote, you had nothing to say. Why did you write them?"