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

beds. He had tried

to bring the matter to the attention of his tenant: but that was probably

why she did not appear: and the garden was not improved by it.

 

Frau Froehlich kept a little draper’s shop which might have had customers

enough, thanks to its position in a street of shops in the center of the

town: but she did not bother about it any more than about her garden.

Instead of doing her housework herself, as, according to Frau Vogel, every

self-respecting woman ought to do—especially when she is in circumstances

which do not permit much less excuse idleness—she had hired a little

servant, a girl of fifteen, who came in for a few hours in the morning to

clean the rooms and look after the shop, while the young woman lay in bed

or dawdled over her toilet.

 

Christophe used to see her sometimes, through his windows, walking about

her room, with bare feet, in her long nightgown, or sitting for hours

together before her mirror: for she was so careless that she used to forget

to draw her curtains: and when she saw him, she was so lazy that she could

not take the trouble, to go and lower them. Christophe, more modest than

she, would leave the window so as not to incommode her: but the temptation

was great. He would blush a little and steal a glance at her bare arms,

which were rather thin, as she drew them languidly around her flowing hair,

and with her hands, clasped behind her head, lost herself in a dream, until

they were numbed, and then she would let them fall. Christophe would

pretend that he only saw these pleasant sights inadvertently as he happened

to pass the window, and that they did not disturb him in his musical

thoughts; but he liked it, and in the end he wasted as much time in

watching Frau Sabine, as she did over her toilet. Not that she was a

coquette: she was rather careless, generally, and did not take anything

like the meticulous care with her appearance that Amalia or Rosa did. If

she dawdled in front of her dressing table it was from pure laziness; every

time she put in a pin she had to rest from the effort of it, while she made

little piteous faces at herself in the mirrors. She was never quite

properly dressed at the end of the day.

 

Often her servant used to go before Sabine was ready: and a customer would

ring the shop-bell. She would let him ring and call once or twice before

she could make up her mind to get up from her chair. She would go down,

smiling, and never hurrying,—never hurrying would look for the article

required,—and if she could not find it after looking for some time, or

even (as happened sometimes) if she had to take too much trouble to reach

it, as for instance, taking the ladder from one end of the shop to the

other,—she would say calmly that she did not have it in stock: and as she

never bothered to put her stock in order, or to order more of the articles

of which she had run out, her customers used to lose patience and go

elsewhere. But she never minded. How could you be angry with such a

pleasant creature who spoke so sweetly, and was never excited about

anything! She did not mind what anybody said to her: and she made this so

plain that those who began to complain never had the courage to go on: they

used to go, answering her charming smile with a smile: but they never came

back. She never bothered about it. She went on smiling.

 

She was like a little Florentine figure. Her well marked eyebrows were

arched: her gray eyes were half open behind the curtain of her lashes. The

lower eyelid was a little swollen, with a little crease below it. Her

little, finely drawn nose turned up slightly at the end. Another little

curve lay between it and her upper lip, which curled up above her half-open

mouth, pouting in a weary smile. Her lower lip was a little thick: the

lower part of her face was rounded, and had the serious expression of the

little virgins of Filippo Lippi. Her complexion was a little muddy, her

hair was light brown, always untidy, and done up in a slovenly chignon. She

was slight of figure, small-boned. And her movements were lazy. Dressed

carelessly—a gaping bodice, buttons missing, ugly, worn shoes, always

looking a little slovenly—she charmed by her grace and youth, her

gentleness, her instinctively coaxing ways. When she appeared to take the

air at the door of her shop, the young men who passed used to look at her

with pleasure: and although she did not bother about them, she noticed it

none the less. Always then she wore that grateful and glad expression which

is in the eyes of all women when they know that they have been seen with

sympathetic eyes. It seemed to say:

 

“Thank you!… Again! Look at me again!” But though it gave her pleasure to

please, her indifference would never let her make the smallest effort to

please.

 

She was an object of scandal to the Euler-Vogels. Everything about her

offended them: her indolence, the untidiness of her house, the carelessness

of her dress, her polite indifference to their remarks, her perpetual

smile, the impertinent serenity with which she had accepted her husband’s

death, her child’s illnesses, her straitened circumstances, the great and

annoyances of her daily life, while nothing could change one jot of her

favorite habits, or her eternal longing,—everything about her offended

them: and the worst of all was that, as she was, she did give pleasure.

Frau Vogel could not forgive her that. It was almost as though Sabine did

it on purpose, on purpose, ironically, to set at naught by her conduct the

great traditions, the true principles, the savorless duty, the pleasureless

labor, the restlessness, the noise, the quarrels, the mooning ways, the

healthy pessimism which was the motive power of the Euler family, as it is

that of all respectable persons, and made their life a foretaste of

purgatory. That a woman who did nothing but dawdle about all the blessed

day should take upon herself to defy them with her calm insolence, while

they bore their suffering in silence like galley-slaves,—and that people

should approve of her into the bargain—that was beyond the limit, that was

enough to turn you against respectability!… Fortunately, thank God, there

were still a few sensible people left in the world. Frau Vogel consoled

herself with them. They exchanged remarks about the little widow, and spied

on her through her shutters. Such gossip was the joy of the family when

they met at supper. Christophe would listen absently. He was so used to

hearing the Vogels set themselves up as censors of their neighbors that he

never took any notice of it. Besides he knew nothing of Frau Sabine except

her bare neck and arms, and though they were pleasing enough, they did not

justify his coming to a definite opinion about her. However, he was

conscious; of a kindly feeling towards her: and in a contradictory spirit

he was especially grateful to her for displeasing Frau Vogel.

 

*

 

After dinner in the evening when it was very hot it was impossible to stay

in the stifling yard, where the sun shone the whole afternoon. The only

place in the house where it was possible to breathe was the rooms looking

into the street, Euler and his son-in-law used sometimes to go and sit on

the doorstep with Louisa. Frau Vogel and Rosa would only appear for a

moment: they were kept by their housework: Frau Vogel took a pride in

showing that she had no time for dawdling: and she used to say, loudly

enough to be overheard, that all the people sitting there and yawning on

their doorsteps, without doing a stitch of work, got on her nerves. As she

could not—(to her sorrow)—compel them to work, she would pretend not to

see them, and would go in and work furiously. Rosa thought she must do

likewise. Euler and Vogel would discover draughts everywhere, and fearful

of catching cold, would go up to their rooms: they used to go to bed early,

and would have thought themselves ruined had they changed the least of

their habits. After nine o’clock only Louisa and Christophe would be left.

Louisa spent the day in her room: and, In the evening, Christophe used to

take pains to be with her, whenever he could, to make her take the air. If

she were left alone she would never go out: the noise of the street

frightened her. Children were always chasing each other with shrill cries.

All the dogs of the neighborhood took it up and barked. The sound of a

piano came up, a little farther off a clarinet, and in the next street a

cornet à piston. Voices chattered. People came and went and stood in groups

in front of their houses. Louisa would have lost her head if she had been

left alone in all the uproar. But when her son was with her it gave her

pleasure. The noise would gradually die down. The children and the dogs

would go to bed first. The groups of people would break up. The air would

become more pure. Silence would descend upon the street. Louisa would tell

in her thin voice the little scraps of news that she had heard from Amalia

or Rosa. She was not greatly interested in them. But she never knew what to

talk about to her son, and she felt the need of keeping in touch with him,

of saying something to him. And Christophe, who felt her need, would

pretend to be interested in everything she said: but he did not listen. He

was off in vague dreams, turning over in his mind the doings of the day.

One evening when they were sitting there—while his mother Was talking he

saw the door of the draper’s shop open. A woman came out silently and sat

in the street. Her chair was only a few yards from Louisa. She was sitting

in the darkest shadow. Christophe could not see her face: but he recognized

her. His dreams vanished. The air seemed sweeter to him. Louisa had not

noticed Sabine’s presence, and went on with her chatter in a low voice.

Christophe paid more attention to her, and, he felt impelled to throw out a

remark here and there, to talk, perhaps to be heard. The slight figure sat

there without stirring, a little limp, with her legs lightly crossed and

her hands lying crossed in her lap. She was looking straight in front of

her, and seemed to hear nothing. Louisa was overcome with drowsiness. She

went in. Christophe said he would stay a little longer.

 

It was nearly ten. The street was empty. The people were going indoors. The

sound of the shops being shut was heard. The lighted windows winked and

then were dark again. One or two were still lit: then they were blotted

out. Silence…. They were alone, they did not look at each other, they

held their breath, they seemed not to be aware of each other. From the

distant fields came the smell of the new-mown hay, and from a balcony in a

house near by the scent of a pot of cloves. No wind stirred. Above their

heads was the Milky Way. To their right red Jupiter. Above a chimney

Charles’ Wain bent its axles: in the pale green sky its stars flowered like

daisies. From the bells of the parish church eleven o’clock rang out and

was caught up