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

that warm contact was the only one that he had of the beloved

creature. He had never dared to touch her, to take her in his arms, to hold

her to his breast. She was gone forever, and he had never known her. He

knew nothing of her, neither soul nor body. He had no memory of her body,

of her life, of her love…. Her love?… What proof had he of that?… He

had not even a letter, a token,—nothing. Where could he seek to hold her,

in himself, or outside himself?… Oh! Nothing! There was nothing left him

but the love he had for her, nothing left him but himself.—And in spite

of all, his desperate desire to snatch her from destruction, his need of

denying death, made him cling to the last piece of wreckage, in an act of

blind faith:

 

“… _he son gia morto: e ben, c’albergo cangi resto in te vivo. C’or mi

vedi e piangi, se l’un nell’ altro amante si trasforma_.”

 

“… I am not dead: I have changed my dwelling. I live still in thee who

art faithful to me. The soul of the beloved is merged in the soul of the

lover.”

 

He had never read these sublime words: but they were in him. Each one of us

in turn climbs the Calvary of the age. Each one of us finds anew the agony,

each one of us finds anew the desperate hope and folly of the ages. Each

one of us follows in the footsteps of those who were, of those before us

who struggled with death, denied death—and are dead.

 

*

 

He shut himself up in his room. His shutters were closed all day so as not

to see the windows of the house opposite. He avoided the Vogels: they were

odious to his sight. He had nothing to reproach them with: they were too

honest, and too pious not to have thrust back their feelings in the face of

death. They knew Christophe’s grief and respected it, whatever they might

think of it: they never uttered Sabine’s name in his presence. But they had

been her enemies when she was alive: that was enough to make him their

enemy now that she was dead.

 

Besides they had not altered their noisy habits: and in spite of the

sincere though passing pity that they had felt, it was obvious that at

bottom they were untouched by the misfortune—(it was too natural)—perhaps

even they were secretly relieved by it. Christophe imagined so at least.

Now that the Vogels’ intentions with regard to himself were made plain

he exaggerated them in his own mind. In reality they attached little

importance to him: he set too great store by himself. But he had no doubt

that the death of Sabine, by removing the greatest obstacle in the way of

his landlords’ plans, did seem to them to leave the field clear for Rosa.

So he detested her. That they—(the Vogels, Louisa, and even Rosa)—should

have tacitly disposed of him, without consulting him, was enough in any

case to make him lose all affection for the person whom he was destined to

love. He shied whenever he thought an attempt was made upon his umbrageous

sense of liberty. But now it was not only a question of himself. The rights

which these others had assumed over him did not only infringe upon his

own rights but upon those of the dead woman to whom his heart was given.

So he defended them doggedly, although no one was for attacking them. He

suspected Rosa’s goodness. She suffered in seeing him suffer and would

often come and knock at his door to console him and talk to him about the

other. He did not drive her away: he needed to talk of Sabine with some

one who had known her: he wanted to know the smallest of what had happened

during her illness. But he was not grateful to Rosa: he attributed ulterior

motives to her. Was it not plain that her family, even Amalia, permitted

these visits and long colloquies which she would never have allowed if they

had not fallen in with her wishes? Was not Rosa in league with her family?

He could not believe that her pity was absolutely sincere and free of

personal thoughts.

 

And, no doubt, it was not. Rosa pitied Christophe with all her heart. She

tried hard to see Sabine through Christophe’s eyes, and through him to love

her: she was angry with herself for all the unkind feelings that she had

ever had towards her, and asked her pardon in her prayers at night. But

could she forget that she was alive, that she was seeing Christophe every

moment of the day, that she loved him, that she was no longer afraid of the

other, that the other was gone, that her memory would also fade away in its

turn, that she was left alone, that one day perhaps …? In the midst of

her sorrow, and the sorrow of her friend more hers than her own, could she

repress a glad impulse, an unreasoning hope? For that too she was angry

with herself. It was only a flash. It was enough. He saw it. He threw her a

glance which froze her heart: she read in it hateful thoughts: he hated her

for being alive while the other was dead.

 

The miller brought his cart for Sabine’s little furniture. Coming back from

a lesson Christophe saw heaped up before the door in the street the bed,

the cupboard, the mattress, the linen, all that she had possessed, all that

was left of her. It was a dreadful sight to him. He rushed past it. In the

doorway he bumped into Bertold, who stopped him.

 

“Ah! my dear sir,” he said, shaking his hand effusively. “Ah! who would

have thought it when we were together? How happy we were! And yet it was

because of that day, because of that cursed row on the water, that she fell

ill. Oh well. It is no use complaining! She is dead. It will be our turn

next. That is life…. And how are you? I’m very well, thank God!”

 

He was red in the face, sweating, and smelled of wine. The idea that he was

her brother, that he had rights in her memory, hurt Christophe. It offended

him to hear this man talking of his beloved. The miller on the contrary

was glad, to find a friend with whom he could talk of Sabine: he did not

understand Christophe’s coldness. He had no idea of all the sorrow that

his presence, the sudden calling to mind of the day at his farm, the happy

memories that he recalled so blunderingly, the poor relics of Sabine,

heaped upon the ground, which he kicked as he talked, set stirring in

Christophe’s soul. He made some excuse for stopping Bertold’s tongue. He

went up the steps: but the other clung to him, stopped him, and went on

with his harangue. At last when the miller took to telling him of Sabine’s

illness, with that strange pleasure which certain people, and especially

the common people, take in talking of illness, with a plethora of painful

details, Christophe could bear it no longer—(he took a tight hold of

himself so as not to cry out in his sorrow). He cut him short:

 

“Pardon,” he said curtly and icily. “I must leave you.”

 

He left him without another word.

 

His insensibility revolted the miller. He had guessed the secret affection

of his sister and Christophe. And that Christophe should now show such

indifference seemed monstrous to him: he thought he had no heart.

 

Christophe had fled to his room: he was choking. Until the removal was

over he never left his room. He vowed that he would never look out of the

window, but he could not help doing so: and hiding in a corner behind the

curtain he followed the departure of the goods and chattels of the beloved

eagerly and with profound sorrow. When he saw them disappearing forever he

all but ran down to the street to cry: “No! no! Leave them to me! Do not

take them from me!” He longed to beg at least for some little thing, only

one little thing, so that she should not be altogether taken from him. But

how could he ask such a thing of the miller? It was nothing to him. She

herself had not known his love: how dared he then reveal it to another? And

besides, if he had tried to say a word he would have burst out crying….

No. No. He had to say nothing, to watch all go, without being able—without

daring to save one fragment from the wreck….

 

And when it was all over, when the house was empty, when the yard gate was

closed after the miller, when the wheels of his cart moved on, shaking the

windows, when they were out of hearing, he threw himself on the floor—not

a tear left in him, not a thought of suffering, of struggling, frozen, and

like one dead.

 

There was a knock at the door. He did not move. Another knock. He had

forgotten to lock the door. Rosa came in. She cried out on seeing him

stretched on the floor and stopped in terror. He raised his head angrily:

 

“What? What do you want? Leave me!”

 

She did not go: she stayed, hesitating, leaning against the floor, and said

again:

 

“Christophe….”

 

He got up in silence: he was ashamed of having been seen so. He dusted

himself with his hand and asked harshly:

 

“Well. What do you want?”

 

Rosa said shyly:

 

“Forgive me … Christophe … I came in … I was bringing you….”

 

He saw that she had something in her hand.

 

“See,” she said, holding it out to him. “I asked Bertold to give me a

little token of her. I thought you would like it….”

 

It was a little silver mirror, the pocket mirror in which she used to look

at herself for hours, not so much from coquetry as from want of occupation.

Christophe took it, took also the hand which held it.

 

“Oh! Rosa!…” he said.

 

He was filled with her kindness and the knowledge of his own injustice. On

a passionate impulse he knelt to her and kissed her hand.

 

“Forgive … Forgive …” he said.

 

Rosa did not understand at first: then she understood only too well: she

blushed, she trembled, she began to weep. She understood that he meant:

 

“Forgive me if I am unjust…. Forgive me if I do not love you…. Forgive

me if I cannot … if I cannot love you, if I can never love you!…”

 

She did not withdraw her hand from him: she knew that it was not herself

that he was kissing. And with his cheek against Rosa’s hand, he wept hot

tears, knowing that she was reading through him: there was sorrow and

bitterness in being unable to love her and making her suffer.

 

They stayed so, both weeping, in the dim light of the room.

 

At last she withdrew her hand. He went on murmuring;

 

“Forgive!…”

 

She laid her hand gently on his hand. He rose to his feet. They kissed in

silence: they felt on their lips the bitter savor of their tears.

 

“We shall always be friends,” he said softly. She bowed her head and left

him, too sad to speak.

 

They thought that the world is ill made. The lover is unloved. The beloved

does not love. The lover who is loved is sooner or later torn from his