Jean-Christophe, vol 1, Romain Rolland [book club recommendations .txt] 📗

his eye; and he laughed softly. After a

moment he coughed and a malicious light shone in his little gray eyes and

he came and sat at Christophe’s table. Christophe was annoyed and turned

and scowled at him; he met the cunning look of the old man, who addressed

Christophe familiarly without taking his pipe from his lips. Christophe

knew him; he knew him for a common old man; but his weakness for his

daughter made him indulgent towards the father and even gave him a queer

pleasure in being with him; the old rascal saw that. After talking about

rain and fine weather and some chaffing reference to the pretty girls in

the room, and a remark on Christophe’s not dancing he concluded that

Christophe was right not to put himself out and that it was much better to

sit at table with a mug in his hand; without ceremony he invited himself to

have a drink. While he drank the old man went on talking deliberately as

always. He spoke about his affairs, the difficulty of gaining a livelihood,

the bad weather and high prices. Christophe hardly listened and only

replied with an occasional grunt; he was not interested; he was looking at

Lorchen. Christophe wondered what had procured him the honor of the old

man’s company and confidences. At last he understood. When the old man had

exhausted his complaints he passed on to another chapter; he praised the

quality of his produce, his vegetables, his fowls, his eggs, his milk, and

suddenly he asked if Christophe could not procure him the custom of the

Palace. Christophe started:

 

“How the devil did he know?… He knew him then?”

 

“Oh, yes,” said the old man. “Everything is known …” He did not add:

 

“… when you take the trouble to make enquiries.”

 

But Christophe added it for him. He took a wicked pleasure in telling him

that although everything was known, he was no doubt unaware that he had

just quarreled with the Court and that if he had ever been able to flatter

himself on having some credit with the servants’ quarters and butchers of

the Palace—(which he doubted strongly)—that credit at present was dead

and buried. The old man’s lips twitched imperceptibly. However, he was

not put out and after a moment he asked if Christophe could not at least

recommend him to such and such a family. And he mentioned all those with

whom Christophe had had dealings; for he had informed himself of them at

the market, and there was no danger of his forgetting any detail that might

be useful to him. Christophe would have been furious at such spying upon

him had he not rather wanted to laugh at the thought that the old man would

be robbed in spite of all his cunning (for he had no doubt of the value of

the recommendation he was asking—a recommendation more likely to make him

lose his customers than to procure him fresh ones). So he let him empty

all his bag of clumsy tricks and answered neither “Yes” nor “No.” But the

peasant persisted and finally he came down to Christophe and Louisa whom he

had kept for the end, and expressed his keen desire to provide them with

milk, butter and cream. He added that as Christophe was a musician nothing

was so good for the voice as a fresh egg swallowed raw morning and evening;

and he tried hard to make him let him provide him with these, warm from the

hen. The idea of the old peasant taking him for a singer made Christophe

roar with laughter. The peasant took advantage of that to order another

bottle. And then having got all he could out of Christophe for the time

being he went away without further ceremony.

 

Night had fallen. The dancing had become more and more excited. Lorchen had

ceased to pay any attention to Christophe; she was too busy turning the

head of a young lout of the village, the son of a rich farmer, for whom all

the girls were competing. Christophe was interested by the struggle; the

young women smiled at each other and would have been only too pleased to

scratch each other. Christophe forgot himself and prayed for the triumph

of Lorchen. But when her triumph was won he felt a little downcast. He was

enraged by it. He did not love Lorchen; he did not want to be loved by her;

it was natural that she should love anybody she liked.—No doubt. But it

was not pleasant to receive so little sympathy himself when he had so much

need of giving and receiving. Here, as in the town, he was alone. All these

people were only interested in him while they could make use of him and

then laugh at him. He sighed, smiled as he looked at Lorchen, whom her joy

in the discomfiture of her rivals had made ten times prettier than ever,

and got ready to go. It was nearly nine. He had fully two miles to go to

the town.

 

He got up from the table when the door opened and a handful of soldiers

burst in. Their entry dashed the gaiety of the place. The people began to

whisper. A few couples stopped dancing to look uneasily at the new

arrivals. The peasants standing near the door deliberately turned their

backs on them and began to talk among themselves; but without seeming to do

so they presently contrived to leave room for them to pass. For some time

past the whole neighborhood had been at loggerheads with the garrisons of

the fortresses round it. The soldiers were bored to death and wreaked their

vengeance on the peasants. They made coarse fun of them, maltreated them,

and used the women as though they were in a conquered country. The week

before some of them, full of wine, had disturbed a feast at a neighboring

village and had half killed a farmer. Christophe, who knew these things,

shared the state of mind of the peasant, and he sat down again and waited

to see what would happen.

 

The soldiers were not worried by the ill-will with which their entry was

received, and went noisily and sat down at the full tables, jostling the

people away from them to make room; it was the affair of a moment. Most of

the people, went away grumbling. An old man sitting at the end of a bench

did not move quickly enough; they lifted the bench and the old man toppled

over amid roars of laughter. Christophe felt the blood rushing to his head;

he got up indignantly; but, as he was on the point of interfering, he saw

the old man painfully pick himself up and instead of complaining humbly

crave pardon. Two of the soldiers came to Christophe’s table; he watched

them come and clenched his fists. But he did not have to defend himself.

They were two tall, strong, good-humored louts, who had followed sheepishly

one or two daredevils and were trying to imitate them. They were

intimidated by Christophe’s defiant manner, and when he said curtly: “This

place is taken,” they hastily begged his pardon and withdrew to their end

of the bench so as not to disturb him. There had been a masterful

inflection in his voice; their natural servility came to the fore. They saw

that Christophe was not a peasant.

 

Christophe was a little mollified by their submission, and was able to

watch things more coolly. It was not difficult to see that the gang were

led by a non-commissioned officer—a little bull-dog of a man with hard

eyes—with a rascally, hypocritical and wicked face; he was one of the

heroes of the affray of the Sunday before. He was sitting at the table next

to Christophe. He was drunk already and stared at the people and threw

insulting sarcasms at them which they pretended not to hear. He attacked

especially the couples dancing, describing their physical advantages or

defects with a coarseness of expression which made his companions laugh.

The girls blushed and tears came to their eyes; the young men ground their

teeth and raged in silence. Their tormentor’s eyes wandered slowly round

the room, sparing nobody; Christophe saw them moving towards himself. He

seized his mug, and clenched his fist on the table and waited, determined

to throw the liquor at his head on the first insult. He said to himself:

 

“I am mad. It would be better to go away. They will slit me up; and then if

I escape they will put me in prison; the game is not worth the candle. I’d

better go before he provokes me.”

 

But his pride would not let him, he would not seem to be running away from

such brutes as these. The officer’s cunning brutal stare was fixed on him.

Christophe stiffened and glared at him angrily. The officer looked at him

for a moment; Christophe’s face irritated him; he nudged his neighbor and

pointed out the young man with a snigger; and he opened his lips to insult

him. Christophe gathered himself together and was just about to fling his

mug at him…. Once more chance saved him. Just as the drunken man was

about to speak an awkward couple of dancers bumped into him and made him

drop his glass. He turned furiously and let loose a flood of insults. His

attention was distracted; he forgot Christophe. Christophe waited for a few

minutes longer; then seeing that his enemy had no thought of going on with

his remarks he got up, slowly took his hat and walked leisurely towards the

door. He did not take his eyes off the bench where the other was sitting,

just to let him feel that he was not giving in to him. But the officer had

forgotten him altogether; no one took any notice of him.

 

He was just turning the handle of the door; in a few seconds he would have

been outside. But it was ordered that he should not leave so soon. An angry

murmur rose at the end of the room. When the soldiers had drunk they had

decided to dance. And as all the girls had their cavaliers they drove away

their partners, who submitted to it. But Lorchen was not going to put up

with that. It was not for nothing that she had her bold eyes and her firm

chin which so charmed Christophe. She was waltzing like a mad thing when

the officer who had fixed his choice upon her came and pulled her partner

away from her. She stamped with her foot, screamed, and pushed the soldier

away, declaring that she would never dance with such a boor. He pursued

her. He dispersed with his fists the people behind whom she was trying to

hide. At last she took refuge behind a table; and then protected from him

for a moment she took breath to scream abuse at him; she saw that all her

resistance would be useless and she stamped with rage and groped for the

most violent words to fling at him and compared his face to that of various

animals of the farmyard. He leaned towards her over the table, smiled

wickedly, and his eyes glittered with rage. Suddenly he pounced and jumped

over the table. He caught hold of her. She struggled with feet and fists

like the cow-woman she was. He was not too steady on his legs and almost

lost his balance. In his fury he flung her against the wall and slapped her

face. He had no time to do it again; some one had jumped on his back, and

was cuffing him and kicking him back into the crowd. It was Christophe who

had flung himself on him, overturning tables and people without stopping to

think