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

>with which she asked his pardon, ignored her existence, and for several

weeks he never played at all. Rosa secretly shed many tears; no one noticed

it, no one paid any attention to her. Ardently she prayed to God … for

what? She did not know. She had to confide her grief in some one. She was

sure that Christophe detested her.

 

And, in spite of all, she hoped. It was enough for her if Christophe seemed

to show any sign of interest in her, if he appeared to listen to what she

said, if he pressed her hand with a little more friendliness than usual….

 

A few imprudent words from her relations set her imagination off upon a

false road.

 

*

 

The whole family was filled with sympathy for Christophe. The big boy of

sixteen, serious and solitary, who had such lofty ideas of his duty,

inspired a sort of respect in them all. His fits of ill-temper, his

obstinate silences, his gloomy air, his brusque manner, were not surprising

in such a house as that. Frau Vogel, herself, who regarded every artist as

a loafer, dared not reproach him aggressively, as she would have liked to

do, with the hours that he spent in star-gazing in the evening, leaning,

motionless, out of the attic window overlooking the yard, until night fell;

for she knew that during the rest of the day he was hard at work with his

lessons; and she humored him—like the rest—for an ulterior motive which

no one expressed though everybody knew it.

 

Rosa had seen her parents exchanging looks and mysterious whisperings when

she was talking to Christophe. At first she took no notice of it. Then she

was puzzled and roused by it; she longed to know what they were saying, but

dared not ask.

 

One evening when she had climbed on to a garden seat to untie the

clothes-line hung between two trees, she leaned on Christophe’s shoulder to

jump down. Just at that moment her eyes met her grandfather’s and her

father’s; they were sitting smoking their pipes, and leaning against the

wall of the house. The two men winked at each other, and Justus Euler said

to Vogel:

 

“They will make a fine couple.”

 

Vogel nudged him, seeing that the girl was listening, and he covered his

remark very cleverly—(or so he thought)—with a loud “Hm! hm!” that could

have been heard twenty yards away. Christophe, whose back was turned, saw

nothing, but Rosa was so bowled over by it that she forgot that she was

jumping down, and sprained her foot. She would have fallen had not

Christophe caught her, muttering curses on her clumsiness. She had hurt

herself badly, but she did not show it; she hardly thought of it; she

thought only of what she had just heard. She walked to her room; every step

was agony to her; she stiffened herself against it so as not to let it be

seen. A delicious, vague uneasiness surged through her. She fell into a

chair at the foot of her bed and hid her face in the coverlet. Her cheeks

were burning; there were tears in her eyes, and she laughed. She was

ashamed, she wished to sink into the depths of the earth, she could not fix

her ideas; her blood beat in her temples, there were sharp pains in her

ankle; she was in a feverish stupor. Vaguely she heard sounds outside,

children crying and playing in the street, and her grandfather’s words were

ringing in her ears; she was thrilled, she laughed softly, she blushed,

with her face buried in the eiderdown: she prayed, gave thanks, desired,

feared—she loved.

 

Her mother called her. She tried to get up. At the first step she felt a

pain so unbearable that she almost fainted; her head swam. She thought she

was going to die, she wished to die, and at the same time she wished to

live with all the forces of her being, to live for the promised happiness.

Her mother came at last, and the whole household was soon excited. She was

scolded as usual, her ankle was dressed, she was put to bed, and sank into

the sweet bewilderment of her physical pain and her inward joy. The night

was sweet…. The smallest memory of that dear evening was hallowed for

her. She did not think of Christophe, she knew not what she thought. She

was happy.

 

The next day, Christophe, who thought himself in some measure responsible

for the accident, came to make inquiries, and for the first time he made

some show of affection for her. She was filled with gratitude, and blessed

her sprained ankle. She would gladly have suffered all her life, if, all

her life, she might have such joy.—She had to lie down for several days

and never move; she spent them in turning over and over her grandfather’s

words, and considering them. Had he said:

 

“They will….”

 

Or:

 

“They would …?”

 

But it was possible that he had never said anything of this kind?—Yes. He

had said it; she was certain of it…. What! Did they not see that she was

ugly, and that Christophe could not bear her?… But it was so good to

hope! She came to believe that perhaps she had been wrong, that she was not

as ugly as she thought; she would sit up on her sofa to try and see herself

in the mirror on the wall opposite, above the mantelpiece; she did not know

what to think. After all, her father and her grandfather were better judges

than herself; people cannot tell about themselves…. Oh! Heaven, if it

were possible!… If it could be … if, she never dared think it, if …

if she were pretty!… Perhaps, also, she had exaggerated Christophe’s

antipathy. No doubt he was indifferent, and after the interest he had shown

in her the day after the accident did not bother about her any more; he

forgot to inquire; but Rosa made excuses for him, he was so busy! How

should he think of her? An artist cannot be judged like other men….

 

And yet, resigned though she was, she could not help expecting with beating

heart a word of sympathy from him when he came near her. A word only, a

look … her imagination did the rest. In the beginning love needs so

little food! It is enough to see, to touch as you pass; such a power of

dreams flows from the soul in such moments, that almost of itself it can

create its love: a trifle can plunge it into ecstasy that later, when it is

more satisfied, and in proportion more exacting, it will hardly find again

when at last it does possess the object of its desire.—Rosa lived

absolutely, though no one knew it, in a romance of her own fashioning,

pieced together by herself: Christophe loved her secretly, and was too shy

to confess his love, or there was some stupid reason, fantastic or

romantic, delightful to the imagination of the sentimental little ninny.

She fashioned endless stories, and all perfectly absurd; she knew it

herself, but tried not to know it; she lied to herself voluptuously for

days and days as she bent over her sewing. It made her forget to talk: her

flood of words was turned inward, like a river which suddenly disappears

underground. But then the river took its revenge. What a debauch of

speeches, of unuttered conversations which no one heard but herself!

Sometimes her lips would move as they do with people who have to spell out

the syllables to themselves as they read so as to understand them.

 

When her dreams left her she was happy and sad. She knew that things were

not as she had just told herself: but she was left with a reflected

happiness, and had greater confidence for her life. She did not despair of

winning Christophe.

 

She did not admit it to herself, but she set about doing it. With the

sureness of instinct that great affection brings, the awkward, ignorant

girl contrived immediately to find the road by which she might reach her

beloved’s heart. She did not turn directly to him. But as soon as she was

better and could once more walk about the house she approached Louisa. The

smallest excuse served. She found a thousand little services to render her.

When she went out she never failed to undertake various errands: she spared

her going to the market, arguments with tradespeople, she would fetch water

for her from the pump in the yard; she cleaned the windows and polished the

floors in spite of Louisa’s protestations, who was confused when she did

not do her work alone; but she was so weary that she had not the strength

to oppose anybody who came to help her. Christophe was out all day. Louisa

felt that she was deserted, and the companionship of the affectionate,

chattering girl was pleasant to her. Rosa took up her quarters in her room.

She brought her sewing, and talked all the time. By clumsy devices she

tried to bring conversation round to Christophe. Just to hear of him, even

to hear his name, made her happy; her hands would tremble; she would sit

with downcast eyes. Louisa was delighted to talk of her beloved Christophe,

and would tell little tales of his childhood, trivial and just a little

ridiculous; but there was no fear of Rosa thinking them so: she took a

great joy, and there was a dear emotion for her in imagining Christophe as

a child, and doing all the tricks and having all the darling ways of

children: in her the motherly tenderness which lies in the hearts of all

women was mingled deliciously with that other tenderness: she would laugh

heartily and tears would come to her eyes. Louisa was touched by the

interest that Rosa took in her. She guessed dimly what was in the girl’s

heart, but she never let it appear that she did so; but she was glad of it;

for of all in the house she only knew the worth of the girl’s heart.

Sometimes she would stop talking to look at her. Rosa, surprised by her

silence, would raise her eyes from her work. Louisa would smile at her.

Rosa would throw herself into her arms, suddenly, passionately, and would

hide her face in Louisa’s bosom. Then they would go on working and talking,

as if nothing had happened.

 

In the evening when Christophe came home, Louisa, grateful for Rosa’s

attentions, and in pursuance of the little plan she had made, always

praised the girl to the skies. Christophe was touched by Rosa’s kindness.

He saw how much good she was doing his mother, in whose face there was more

serenity: and he would thank her effusively. Rosa would murmur, and escape

to conceal her embarrassment: so she appeared a thousand times more

intelligent and sympathetic to Christophe than if she had spoken. He looked

at her less with a prejudiced eye, and did not conceal his surprise at

finding unsuspected qualities in her. Rosa saw that; she marked the

progress that she made in his sympathy and thought that his sympathy would

lead to love. She gave herself up more than ever to her dreams. She came

near to believing with the beautiful presumption of youth that what you

desire with all your being is always accomplished in the end. Besides, how

was her desire unreasonable? Should not Christophe have been more sensible

than any other of her goodness and her affectionate need of self-devotion?

 

But Christophe gave no thought to her. He esteemed her; but she filled no

room in his thoughts. He was busied with far other things at