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

next post, and all his energy was expended in

finding strength to wait for so long. But when evening came, and all hope

was gone for the day, then he was crushed; it seemed to him that he could

never live until the morrow, and he would stay for hours, sitting at his

table, without speaking or thinking, without even the power to go to bed,

until some remnant of his will would take him off to it; and he would sleep

heavily, haunted by stupid dreams, which made him think that the night

would never end.

 

This continual expectation became at length a physical torture, an actual

illness. Jean-Christophe went so far as to suspect his father, his brother,

even the postman, of having taken the letter and hidden it from him. He was

racked with uneasiness. He never doubted Minna’s fidelity for an instant.

If she did not write, it must be because she was ill, dying, perhaps dead.

Then he rushed to his pen and wrote a third letter, a few heartrending

lines, in which he had no more thought of guarding his feelings than of

taking care with his spelling. The time for the post to go was drawing

near; he had crossed out and smudged the sheet as he turned it over,

dirtied the envelope as he closed it. No matter! He could not wait until

the next post. He ran and hurled his letter into the box and waited in

mortal agony. On the next night but one he had a clear vision of Minna,

ill, calling to him; he got up, and was on the point of setting out on foot

to go to her. But where? Where should he find her?

 

On the fourth morning Minna’s letter came at last—hardly a

half-sheet—cold and stiff. Minna said that she did not understand what

could have filled him with such stupid fears, that she was quite well, that

she had no time to write, and begged him not to get so excited in future,

and not to write any more.

 

Jean-Christophe was stunned. He never doubted Minna’s sincerity. He blamed

himself; he thought that Minna was justly annoyed by the impudent and

absurd letters that he had written. He thought himself an idiot, and beat

at his head with his fist. But it was all in vain; he was forced to feel

that Minna did not love him as much as he loved her.

 

The days that followed were so mournful that it is impossible to describe

them. Nothingness cannot be described. Deprived of the only boon that made

living worth while for him—his letters to Minna—Jean-Christophe now only

lived mechanically, and the only thing which interested him at all was when

in the evening, as he was going to bed, he ticked off on the calendar,

like a schoolboy, one of the interminable days which lay between himself

and Minna’s return. The day of the return was past. They ought to have

been at home a week. Feverish excitement had succeeded Jean-Christophe’s

prostration. Minna had promised when she left to advise him of the day and

hour of their arrival. He waited from moment to moment to go and meet them;

and he tied himself up in a web of guesses as to the reasons for their

delay.

 

One evening one of their neighbors, a friend of his grandfather, Fischer,

the furniture dealer, came in to smoke and chat with Melchior after dinner

as he often did. Jean-Christophe, in torment, was going up to his room

after waiting for the postman to pass when a word made him tremble. Fischer

said that next day he had to go early in the morning to the Kerichs’ to

hang up the curtains. Jean-Christophe stopped dead, and asked:

 

“Have they returned?”

 

“You wag! You know that as well as I do,” said old Fischer roguishly. “Fine

weather! They came back the day before yesterday.”

 

Jean-Christophe heard no more; he left the room, and got ready to go out.

His mother, who for some time had secretly been watching him without his

knowing it, followed him into the lobby, and asked him timidly where he was

going. He made no answer, and went out. He was hurt.

 

He ran to the Kerichs’ house. It was nine o’clock in the evening. They were

both in the drawing-room and did not appear to be surprised to see him.

They said “Good-evening” quietly. Minna was busy writing, and held out her

hand over the table and went on with her letter, vaguely asking him for

his news. She asked him to forgive her discourtesy, and pretended to be

listening to what he said, but she interrupted him to ask something of her

mother. He had prepared touching words concerning all that he had suffered

during her absence; he could hardly summon a few words; no one was

interested in them, and he had not the heart to go on—it all rang so

false.

 

When Minna had finished her letter she took up some work, and, sitting a

little away from him, began to tell him about her travels. She talked about

the pleasant weeks she had spent—riding on horseback, country-house life,

interesting society; she got excited gradually, and made allusions to

events and people whom Jean-Christophe did not know, and the memory of

them made her mother and herself laugh. Jean-Christophe felt that he was

a stranger during the story; he did not know how to take it, and laughed

awkwardly. He never took his eyes from Minna’s face, beseeching her to look

at him, imploring her to throw him a glance for alms. But when she did look

at him—which was not often, for she addressed herself more to her mother

than to him—her eyes, like her voice, were cold and indifferent. Was she

so constrained because of her mother, or was it that he did not understand?

He wished to speak to her alone, but Frau von Kerich never left them

for a moment. He tried to bring the conversation round to some subject

interesting to himself; he spoke of his work and his plans; he was dimly

conscious that Minna was evading him, and instinctively he tried to

interest her in himself. Indeed, she seemed to listen attentively enough;

she broke in upon his narrative with various interjections, which were

never very apt, but always seemed to be full of interest. But just as

he was beginning to hope once more, carried off his feet by one of her

charming smiles, he saw Minna put her little hand to her lips and yawn. He

broke off short. She saw that, and asked his pardon amiably, saying that

she was tired. He got up, thinking that they would persuade him to stay,

but they said nothing. He spun out his “Good-bye,” and waited for a word to

ask him to come again next day; there was no suggestion of it. He had to

go. Minna did not take him to the door. She held out her hand to him—an

indifferent hand that drooped limply in his—and he took his leave of them

in the middle of the room.

 

He went home with terror in his heart. Of the Minna of two months before,

of his beloved Minna, nothing was left. What had happened? What had become

of her? For a poor boy who has never yet experienced the continual change,

the complete disappearance, and the absolute renovation of living souls,

of which the majority are not so much souls as collections of souls in

succession changing and dying away continually, the simple truth was too

cruel for him to be able to believe it. He rejected the idea of it in

terror, and tried to persuade himself that he had not been able to see

properly, and that Minna was just the same. He decided to go again to the

house next morning, and to talk to her at all costs.

 

He did not sleep. Through the night he counted one after another the chimes

of the clock. From one o’clock on he was rambling round the Kerichs’ house;

he entered it as soon as he could. He did not see Minna, but Frau von

Kerich. Always busy and an early riser, she was watering the pots of

flowers on the veranda. She gave a mocking cry when she saw

Jean-Christophe.

 

“Ah!” she said. “It is you!… I am glad you have come. I have something to

talk to you about. Wait a moment….”

 

She went in for a moment to put down her watering can and to dry her hands,

and came back with a little smile as she saw Jean-Christophe’s

discomfiture; he was conscious of the approach of disaster.

 

“Come into the garden,” she said; “we shall be quieter.”

 

In the garden that was full still of his love he followed Frau von Kerich.

She did not hasten to speak, and enjoyed the boy’s uneasiness.

 

“Let us sit here,” she said at last. They were sitting on the seat in the

place where Minna had held up her lips to him on the eve of her departure.

 

“I think you know what is the matter,” said Frau von Kerich, looking

serious so as to complete his confusion. “I should never have thought it of

you, Jean-Christophe. I thought you a serious boy. I had every confidence

in you. I should never have thought that you would abuse it to try and

turn my daughter’s head. She was in your keeping. You ought to have shown

respect for her, respect for me, respect for yourself.”

 

There was a light irony in her accents. Frau von Kerich attached not the

least importance to this childish love affair; but Jean-Christophe was not

conscious of it, and her reproaches, which he took, as he took everything,

tragically, went to his heart.

 

“But, Madam … but, Madam …” he stammered, with tears in his eyes, “I

have never abused your confidence…. Please do not think that…. I am not

a bad man, that I swear!… I love Fräulein Minna. I love her with all my

Soul, and I wish to marry her.”

 

Frau von Kerich smiled.

 

“No, my poor boy,” she said, with that kindly smile in which was so much

disdain, as at last he was to understand, “no, it is impossible; it is just

a childish folly.”

 

“Why? Why?” he asked.

 

He took her hands, not believing that she could be speaking seriously, and

almost reassured by the new softness in her voice. She smiled still, and

said:

 

“Because….”

 

He insisted. With ironical deliberation—she did not take him altogether

seriously—she told him that he had no fortune, that Minna had different

tastes. He protested that that made no difference; that he would be rich,

famous; that he would win honors, money, all that Minna could desire. Frau

von Kerich looked skeptical; she was amused by his self-confidence, and

only shook her head by way of saying no. But he stuck to it.

 

“No, Jean-Christophe,” she said firmly, “no. It is not worth arguing. It is

impossible. It is not only a question of money. So many things! The

position….”

 

She had no need to finish. That was a needle that pierced to his very

marrow. His eyes were opened. He saw the irony of the friendly smile, he

saw the coldness of the kindly look, he understood suddenly what it was

that separated him from this woman whom he loved as a son, this woman who

seemed to treat him like a mother; he was conscious of all that was

patronizing and disdainful in her affection. He got up. He was pale. Frau

von Kerich went on talking to him in her caressing voice, but it was the

end; he heard