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

through her eyes, and felt

all her thrills of pleasure, and all and more than the emotion that was in

her: for, merging himself with his beloved, he endowed her with all that he

was himself.

 

When they came to the mill they found in the yard all the people of the

farm and the other guests, who received them with a deafening noise. The

fowls, the ducks, and the dogs joined in. The miller, Bertold, a great

fair-haired fellow, square of head and shoulders, as big and tall as Sabine

was slight, took his little sister in his arms and put her down gently as

though he were afraid of breaking her. It was not long before Christophe

saw that the little sister, as usual, did just as she liked with the giant,

and that while he made heavy fun of her whims, and her laziness, and her

thousand and one failings, he was at her feet, her slave. She was used to

it, and thought it natural. She did nothing to win love: it seemed to her

right that she should be loved: and if she were not, did not care: that is

why everybody loved her.

 

Christophe made another discovery not so pleasing. For a christening a

godfather is necessary as well as a godmother, and the godfather has

certain rights over the godmother, rights which he does not often renounce,

especially when she is young and pretty. He learned this suddenly when he

saw a farmer, with fair curly hair, and rings in his ears, go up to Sabine

laughing and kiss her on both cheeks. Instead of telling himself that he

was an ass to have forgotten this privilege, and more than an ass to be

huffy about it, he was cross with Sabine, as though she had deliberately

drawn him into the snare. His crossness grew worse when he found himself

separated from her during the ceremony. Sabine turned round every now and

then as the procession wound across the fields and threw him a friendly

glance. He pretended not to see it. She felt that he was annoyed, and

guessed why: but it did not trouble her: it amused her. If she had had a

real squabble with some one she loved, in spite of all the pain it might

have caused her, she would never have made the least effort to break down

any misunderstanding: it would have been too much trouble. Everything would

come right if it were only left alone.

 

At dinner, sitting between the miller’s wife and a fat girl with red cheeks

whom he had escorted to the service without ever paying any attention to

her, it occurred to Christophe to turn and look at his neighbor: and,

finding her comely, out of revenge, he flirted desperately with her with

the idea of catching Sabine’s attention. He succeeded: but Sabine was not

the sort of woman to be jealous of anybody or anything: so long as she

was loved, she did not care whether her lover did or did not pay court to

others: and instead of being angry, she was delighted to see Christophe

amusing himself. From the other end of the table she gave him her most

charming smile. Christophe was disgruntled: there was no doubt then that

Sabine was indifferent to him: and he relapsed into his sulky mood from

which nothing could draw him, neither the soft eyes of his neighbor, nor

the wine that he drank. Finally, when he was half asleep, he asked himself

angrily what on earth he was doing at such an interminable orgy, and did

not hear the miller propose a trip on the water to take certain of the

guests home. Nor did he see Sabine beckoning him to come with her so that

they should be in the same boat. When it occurred to him, there was no room

for him: and he had to go in another boat. This fresh mishap was not likely

to make him more amiable until he discovered that he was to be rid of

almost all his companions on the way. Then he relaxed and was pleasant.

Besides the pleasant afternoon on the water, the pleasure of rowing, the

merriment of these good people, rid him of his ill-humor. As Sabine was no

longer there he lost his self-consciousness, and had no scruple about being

frankly amused like the others.

 

They were in their boats. They followed each other closely, and tried to

pass each other. They threw laughing insults at each other. When the boats

bumped Christophe saw Sabine’s smiling face: and he could not help smiling

too: they felt that peace was made. He knew that very soon they would

return together.

 

They began to sing part songs. Each voice took up a line in time and the

refrain was taken up in chorus. The people in the different boats, some

way from each other, now echoed each other. The notes skimmed over the

water like birds. From time to time a boat would go in to the bank: a few

peasants would climb out: they would stand there and wave to the boats as

they went further and further away. Little by little they were disbanded.

One by one voices left the chorus. At last they were alone, Christophe,

Sabine, and the miller.

 

They came back in the same boat, floating down the river. Christophe and

Bertold held the oars, but they did not row. Sabine sat in the stern facing

Christophe, and talked to her brother and looked at Christophe. Talking so,

they were able to look at each other undisturbedly. They could never have

done so had the words ceased to flow. The deceitful words seemed to say:

“It is not you that I see.” But their eyes said to each other: “Who are

you? Who are you? You that I love!… You that I love, whoever you be!…”

 

The sky was clouded, mists rose from the fields, the river steamed, the sun

went down behind the clouds. Sabine shivered and wrapped her little black

shawl round her head and shoulders. She seemed to be tired. As the boat,

hugging the bank, passed under the spreading branches of the willows,

she closed her eyes: her thin face was pale: her lips were sorrowful:

she did not stir, she seemed to suffer,—to have suffered,—to be dead.

Christophe’s heart ached. He leaned over to her. She opened her eyes again

and saw Christophe’s uneasy eyes upon her and she smiled into them. It was

like a ray of sunlight to him. He asked in a whisper:

 

“Are you ill?”

 

She shook her head and said:

 

“I am cold.”

 

The two men put their overcoats about her, wrapped up her feet, her legs,

her knees, like a child being tucked up in bed. She suffered it arid

thanked them with her eyes. A fine, cold rain was beginning to fall. They

took the oars and went quietly home. Heavy clouds hung in the sky. The

river was inky black. Lights showed in the windows of the houses here and

there in the fields. When they reached the mill the rain was pouring down

and Sabine was numbed.

 

They lit a large fire in the kitchen and waited until the deluge should he

over. But it only grew worse, and the wind rose. They had to drive three

miles to get back to the town. The miller declared that he would not let

Sabine go in such weather: and he proposed that they should both spend the

night in the farmhouse. Christophe was reluctant to accept: he looked at

Sabine for counsel: but her eyes were fixed on the fire on the hearth: it

was as though they were afraid of influencing Christophe’s decision. But

when Christophe had said “Yes,” she turned to him and she was blushing—(or

was it the reflection of the fire?)—and he saw that she was pleased.

 

A jolly evening…. The rain stormed outside. In the black chimney the fire

darted jets of golden sparks. They spun round and round. Their fantastic

shapes were marked against the wall. The miller showed Sabine’s little

girl how to make shadows with her hands. The child laughed and was

not altogether at her ease. Sabine leaned over the fire and poked it

mechanically with a heavy pair of tongs: she was a little weary, and smiled

dreamily, while, without listening, she nodded to her sister-in-law’s

chatter of her domestic affairs. Christophe sat in the shadow by the

miller’s side and watched Sabine smiling. He knew that she was smiling

at him. They never had an opportunity of being alone all evening, or of

looking at each other: they sought none.

 

*

 

They parted early. Their rooms were adjoining, and communicated by a door.

Christophe examined the door and found that the lock was on Sabine’s side.

He went to bed and tried to sleep. The rain was pattering against the

windows. The wind howled in the chimney. On the floor above him a door was

banging. Outside the window a poplar bent and groaned under the tempest.

Christophe could not close his eyes. He was thinking that he was under

the same roof, near her. A wall only divided them. He heard no sound in

Sabine’s room. But he thought he could see her. He sat up in his bed and

called to her in a low voice through the wall: tender, passionate words

he said: he held out his arms to her. And it seemed to him that she was

holding out her arms to him. In his heart he heard the beloved voice

answering him, repeating his words, calling low to him: and he did not know

whether it was he who asked and answered all the questions, or whether it

was really she who spoke. The voice came louder, the call to him: he could

not resist: he leaped from his bed: he groped his way to the door: he did

not wish to open it: he was reassured by the closed door. And when he laid

his hand once more on the handle he found that the door was opening….

 

He stopped dead. He closed it softly: he opened it once more: he closed it

again. Was it not closed just now? Yes. He was sure it was. Who had opened

it?… His heart beat so that he choked. He leaned over his bed, and sat

down to breathe again. He was overwhelmed by his passion. It robbed him of

the power to see or hear or move: his whole body shook. He was in terror of

this unknown joy for which for months he had been craving, which was with

him now, near him, so that nothing could keep it from him. Suddenly the

violent boy filled with love was afraid of these desires newly realized and

revolted from them. He was ashamed of them, ashamed of what he wished to

do. He was too much in love to dare to enjoy what he loved: he was afraid:

he would have done anything to escape his happiness. Is it only possible to

love, to love, at the cost of the profanation of the beloved?…

 

He went to the door again: and trembling with love and fear, with his hand

on the latch he could not bring himself to open it.

 

And on the other side of the door, standing barefooted on the tiled floor,

shivering with cold, was Sabine.

 

So they stayed … for how long? Minutes? Hours?… They did not know that

they were there: and yet they did know. They held out their arms to each

other,—he was overwhelmed by a love so great that he had not the courage

to enter,—she called to him, waited for