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

her bed, buried under the clothes,

sobbed and sobbed. She made no attempt to think over what had passed: she

did not ask herself whether Christophe loved Sabine, or whether Christophe

and Sabine could not bear her: she knew only that all was lost, that life

was useless, that there was nothing left to her but death.

 

Next morning thought came to her once more with eternal illusive hope. She

recalled the events of the evening and told herself that she was wrong to

attach so much importance to them. No doubt Christophe did not love her:

she was resigned to that, though in her heart she thought, though she did

not admit the thought, that in the end she would win his love by her love

for him. But what reason had she for thinking that there was anything

between Sabine and him? How could he, so clever as he was, love a little

creature whose insignificance and mediocrity were patent? She was

reassured,—but for that she did not watch Christophe any the less closely.

She saw nothing all day, because there was nothing to see: but Christophe

seeing her prowling about him all day long without any sort of explanation

was peculiarly irritated by it. She set the crown on her efforts in the

evening when she appeared again and sat with them in the street. The scene

of the previous evening was repeated. Rosa talked alone. But Sabine did not

wait so long before she went indoors: and Christophe followed her example.

Rosa could no longer pretend that her presence was not unwelcome: but the

unhappy girl tried to deceive herself. She did not perceive that she could

have done nothing worse than to try so to impose on herself: and with her

usual clumsiness she went on through the succeeding days.

 

Next day with Rosa sitting by his side Christophe waited is vain for Sabine

to appear.

 

The day after Rosa was alone. They had given up the struggle. But she

gained nothing by it save resentment from Christophe, who was furious at

being robbed of his beloved evenings, his only happiness. He was the less

inclined to forgive her, for being absorbed with his own feelings, he had

no suspicion of Rosa’s.

 

Sabine had known them for some time: she knew that Rosa was jealous even

before she knew that she herself was in love: but she said nothing about

it: and, with the natural cruelty of a pretty woman, who is certain of her

victory, in quizzical silence she watched the futile efforts of her awkward

rival.

 

*

 

Left mistress of the field of battle Rosa gazed piteously upon the results

of her tactics. The best thing she could have done would have been not to

persist, and to leave Christophe alone, at least for the time being: but

that was not what she did: and as the worst thing she could have done was

to talk to him; about Sabine, that was precisely what she did.

 

With a fluttering at her heart, by way of sounding him, she said timidly

that Sabine was pretty. Christophe replied curtly; that she was very

pretty. And although Rosa might have foreseen the reply she would provoke,

her heart thumped when she heard him. She knew that Sabine was pretty: but

she had never particularly remarked it: now she saw her for the first time

with the eyes of Christophe: she saw her delicate features, her short nose,

her fine mouth, her slender figure, her graceful movements…. Ah! how

sad!… What would not she have given to possess Sabine’s body, and live in

it! She did not go closely into why it should be preferred to her own!…

Her own!… What had she done to possess such a body? What a burden it was

upon her. How ugly it seemed to her! It was odious to her. And to think

that nothing but death could ever free her from it!… She was at once too

proud and too humble to complain that she was not loved: she had no right

to do so: and she tried even more to humble herself. But her instinct

revolted…. No. It was not just!… Why should she have such a body, she,

and not Sabine?… And why should Sabine be loved? What had she done to be

loved?… Rosa saw her with no kindly eye, lazy, careless, egoistic,

indifferent towards everybody, not looking after her house, or her child,

or anybody, loving only herself, living only for sleeping, dawdling, and

doing nothing…. And it was such a woman who pleased … who pleased

Christophe…. Christophe who was so severe, Christophe who was so

discerning, Christophe whom she esteemed and admired more than anybody!…

How could Christophe be blind to it?—She could not help from time to time

dropping an unkind remark about Sabine in his hearing. She did not wish to

do so: but the impulse was stronger than herself. She was always sorry for

it, for she was a kind creature and disliked speaking ill of anybody. But

she was the more sorry because she drew down on herself such cruel replies

as showed how much Christophe was in love. He did not mince matters. Hurt

in his love, he tried to hurt in return: and succeeded. Rosa would make no

reply and go out with her head bowed, and her lips tight pressed to keep

from crying. She thought that it was her own fault, that she deserved it

for having hurt Christophe by attacking the object of his love.

 

Her mother was less patient. Frau Vogel, who saw everything, and old Euler,

also, had not been slow to notice Christophe’s interviews with their young

neighbor: it was not difficult to guess their romance. Their secret

projects of one day marrying Rosa to Christophe were set at naught by it:

and that seemed to them a personal affront of Christophe, although he was

not supposed to know that they had disposed of him without consulting his

wishes. But Amalia’s despotism did not admit of ideas contrary to her own:

and it seemed scandalous to her that Christophe should have disregarded the

contemptuous opinion she had often expressed of Sabine.

 

She did not hesitate to repeat it for his benefit. Whenever he was present

she found some excuse for talking about her neighbor: she cast about for

the most injurious things to say of her, things which might sting

Christophe most cruelly: and with the crudity of her point of view and

language she had no difficulty in finding them. The ferocious instinct of a

woman, so superior to that of a man in the art of doing evil, as well as of

doing good, made her insist less on Sabine’s laziness and moral failings

than on her uncleanliness. Her indiscreet and prying eye had watched

through the window for proofs of it in the secret processes of Sabine’s

toilet: and she exposed them with coarse complacency. When from decency she

could not say everything she left the more to be understood.

 

Christophe would go pale with shame and anger: he would go white as a sheet

and his lips would quiver. Rosa, foreseeing what must happen, would implore

her mother to have done: she would even try to defend Sabine. But she only

succeeded in making Amalia more aggressive.

 

And suddenly Christophe would leap from his chair. He would thump on the

table and begin to shout that it was monstrous to speak of a woman, to spy

upon her, to expose her misfortunes; only an evil mind could so persecute a

creature who was good, charming, quiet, keeping herself to herself, and

doing no harm to anybody, and speaking no ill of anybody. But they were

making a great mistake if they thought they could do her harm; they only

made him more sympathetic and made her kindness shine forth only the more

clearly.

 

Amalia would feel then that she had gone too far: but she was hurt by

feeling it; and, shifting her ground, she would say that it was only too

easy to talk of kindness: that the word was called in as an excuse for

everything. Heavens! It was easy enough to be thought kind when you never

bothered about anything or anybody, and never did your duty!

 

To which Christophe would reply that the first duty of all was to make life

pleasant for others, but that there were people for whom duty meant only

ugliness, unpleasantness, tiresomeness, and everything that interferes with

the liberty of others and annoys and injures their neighbors, their

servants, their families, and themselves. God save us from such people, and

such a notion of duty, as from the plague!…

 

They would grow venomous. Amalia would be very bitter. Christophe would not

budge an inch.—And the result of it all was that henceforth Christophe

made a point of being seen continually with Sabine. He would go and knock

at her door. He would talk gaily and laugh with her. He would choose

moments when Amalia and Rosa could see him. Amalia would avenge herself

with angry words. But the innocent Rosa’s heart was rent and torn by this

refinement of cruelty: she felt that he detested them and wished to avenge

himself: and she wept bitterly.

 

*

 

So, Christophe, who had suffered so much from injustice, learned unjustly

to inflict suffering.

 

Some time after that Sabine’s brother, a miller at Landegg, a little town a

few miles away, was to celebrate the christening of a child. Sabine was to

be godmother. She invited Christophe. He had no liking for these functions:

but for the pleasure of annoying the Vogels and of being with Sabine he

accepted eagerly.

 

Sabine gave herself the malicious satisfaction of inviting Amalia and Rosa

also, being quite sure that they would refuse. They did. Rosa was longing

to accept. She did not dislike Sabine: sometimes even her heart was filled

with tenderness for her because Christophe loved her: sometimes she longed

to tell her so and to throw her arms about her neck. But there was her

mother and her mother’s example. She stiffened herself in her pride and

refused. Then, when they had gone, and she thought of them together, happy

together, driving in the country on the lovely July day, while she was

left shut up in her room, with a pile of linen to mend, with her mother

grumbling by her side, she thought she must choke: and she cursed her

pride. Oh! if there were still time!… Alas! if it were all to do again,

she would have done the same….

 

The miller had sent his wagonette to fetch Christophe and Sabine. They took

up several guests from the town and the farms on the road.. It was fresh

dry weather. The bright sun made the red berries of the brown trees by the

road and the wild cherry trees in the fields shine. Sabine was smiling. Her

pale face was rosy under the keen wind. Christophe had her little girl on

his knees. They did not try to talk to each other: they talked to their

neighbors without caring to whom or of what: they were glad to hear each

other’s voices: they were glad to be driving in the same carriage. They

looked at each other in childish glee as they pointed out to each other a

house, a tree, a passerby. Sabine loved the country: but she hardly ever

went into it: her incurable laziness made excursions impossible: it was

almost a year since she had been outside the town: and so she delighted in

the smallest things she saw. They were not new to Christophe: but he loved

Sabine, and like all lovers he saw everything