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

said, she had no desire to

leave Christophe at present: if he irritated her and often bored her she

knew the worth of such devotion as his: and she loved no one else. She

talked so for fun, partly because she knew he disliked it, partly because

she took pleasure in playing with equivocal and unclean thoughts like a

child which delights to mess about with dirty water. He knew this. He did

not mind. But he was tired of these unwholesome discussions, of the silent

struggle against this uncertain and uneasy creature whom he loved, who

perhaps loved him: he was tired from the effort that he had to make to

deceive himself about her, sometimes tired almost to tears. He would think:

“Why, why is she like this? Why are people like this? How second-rate life

is!”… At the same time he would smile as he saw her pretty face above

him, her blue eyes, her flower-like complexion, her laughing, chattering

lips, foolish a little, half open to reveal the brilliance of her tongue

and her white teeth. Their lips would almost touch: and he would look at

her as from a distance, a great distance, as from another world: he would

see her going farther and farther from him, vanishing in a mist…. And

then he would lose sight of her. He could hear her no more. He would fall

into a sort of smiling oblivion, in which he thought of his music, his

dreams, a thousand things foreign, to Ada…. Ah! beautiful music!… so

sad, so mortally sad! and yet kind, loving…. Ah! how good it is!… It is

that, it is that…. Nothing else is true….

 

She would shake his arm. A voice would cry:

 

“Eh, what’s the matter with you? You are mad, quite mad. Why do you look at

me like that? Why don’t you answer?”

 

Once more he would see the eyes looking at him. Who was it?… Ah! yes….

He would sigh.

 

She would watch him. She would try to discover what he was thinking of. She

did not understand: but she felt that it was useless: that she could not

keep hold of him, that there was always a door by which he could escape.

She would conceal her irritation.

 

“Why are you crying?” she asked him once as he returned from one of his

strange journeys into another life.

 

He drew his hands across his eyes. He felt that they were wet.

 

“I do not know,” he said.

 

“Why don’t you answer? Three times you have said the same thing.”

 

“What do you want?” he asked gently.

 

She went back to her absurd discussions. He waved his hand wearily.

 

“Yes,” she said. “I’ve done. Only a word more!” And off she started again.

 

Christophe shook himself angrily.

 

“Will you keep your dirtiness to yourself!”

 

“I was only joking.”

 

“Find cleaner subjects, then!”

 

“Tell me why, then. Tell me why you don’t like it.”

 

“Why? You can’t argue as to why a dump-heap smells. It does smell, and that

is all! I hold my nose and go away.”

 

He went away, furious: and he strode along taking in great breaths of the

cold air.

 

But she would begin again, once, twice, ten times. She would bring forward

every possible subject that could shock him and offend his conscience.

 

He thought it was only a morbid jest of a neurasthenic girl, amusing

herself by annoying him. He would shrug his shoulders or pretend not to

hear her: he would not take her seriously. But sometimes he would long to

throw her out of the window: for neurasthenia and the neurasthenics were

very little to his taste….

 

But ten minutes away from her were enough to make him forget everything

that had annoyed him. He would return to Ada with a fresh store of hopes

and new illusions. He loved her. Love is a perpetual act of faith. Whether

God exist or no is a small matter: we believe, because we believe. We love

because we love; there is no need of reasons!…

 

*

 

After Christophe’s quarrel with the Vogels it became impossible for them to

stay in the house, and Louisa had to seek another lodging for herself and

her son.

 

One day Christophe’s younger brother Ernest, of whom they had not heard for

a long time, suddenly turned up. He was out of work, having been dismissed

in turn from all the situations he had procured; his purse was empty and

his health ruined; and so he had thought it would be as well to

re-establish himself in his mother’s house.

 

Ernest was not on bad terms with either of his brothers: they thought very

little of him and he knew it: but he did not bear any grudge against them,

for he did not care. They had no ill-feeling against him. It was not worth

the trouble. Everything they said to him slipped off his back without

leaving a mark. He just smiled with his sly eyes, tried to look contrite,

thought of something else, agreed, thanked them, and in the end always

managed to extort money from one or other of them. In spite of himself

Christophe was fond of the pleasant mortal who, like himself, and more than

himself, resembled their father Melchior in feature. Tall and strong like

Christophe, he had regular features, a frank expression, a straight nose, a

laughing mouth, fine teeth, and endearing manners. When even Christophe saw

him he was disarmed and could not deliver half the reproaches that he had

prepared: in his heart he had a sort of motherly indulgence for the

handsome boy who was of his blood, and physically at all events did him

credit. He did not believe him to be bad: and Ernest was not a fool.

Without culture, he was not without brains: he was even not incapable of

taking an interest in the things of the mind. He enjoyed listening to

music: and without understanding his brother’s compositions he would listen

to them with interest. Christophe, who did not receive too much sympathy

from his family, had been glad to see him at some of his concerts.

 

But Ernest’s chief talent was the knowledge that he possessed of the

character of his two brothers, and his skill in making use of his

knowledge. It was no use Christophe knowing Ernest’s egoism and

indifference: it was no use his seeing that Ernest never thought of his

mother or himself except when he had need of them: he was always taken in

by his affectionate ways and very rarely did he refuse him anything. He

much preferred him to his other brother Rodolphe, who was orderly and

correct, assiduous in his business, strictly moral, never asked for money,

and never gave any either, visited his mother regularly every Sunday,

stayed an hour, and only talked about himself, boasting about himself, his

firm, and everything that concerned him, never asking about the others, and

taking mo interest in them, and going away when the hour was up, quite

satisfied with having done his duty. Christophe could not bear him. He

always arranged to be out when Rodolphe came. Rodolphe was jealous of him:

he despised artists, and Christophe’s success really hurt him, though he

did not fail to turn his small fame to account in the commercial circles in

which he moved: but he never said a word about it either to his mother or

to Christophe: he pretended to ignore it. On the other hand, he never

ignored the least of the unpleasant things that happened to Christophe.

Christophe despised such pettiness, and pretended not to notice it: but it

would really have hurt him to know, though he never thought about it, that

much of the unpleasant information that Rodolphe had about him came from

Ernest. The young rascal fed the differences between Christophe and

Rodolphe: no doubt he recognized Christophe’s superiority and perhaps even

sympathized a little ironically with his candor. But he took good care to

turn it to account: and while he despised Rodolphe’s ill-feeling he

exploited it shamefully. He flattered his vanity and jealousy, accepted his

rebukes deferentially and kept him primed with the scandalous gossip of the

town, especially with everything concerning Christophe,—of which he was

always marvelously informed. So he attained his ends, and Rodolphe, in

spite of his avarice, allowed Ernest to despoil him just as Christophe did.

 

So Ernest made use and a mock of them both, impartially. And so both of

them loved him.

 

In spite of his tricks Ernest was in a pitiful condition when he turned up

at his mother’s house. He had come from Munich, where he had found and, as

usual, almost immediately lost a situation. He had had to travel the best

part of the way on foot, through storms of rain, sleeping God knows where.

He was covered with mud, ragged, looking like a beggar, and coughing

miserably. Louisa was upset and Christophe ran to him in alarm when they

saw him come in. Ernest, whose tears flowed easily, did not fail to make

use of the effect he had produced: and there was a general reconciliation:

all three wept in each other’s arms.

 

Christophe gave up his room: they warmed the bed, and laid the invalid in

it, who seemed to be on the point of death. Louisa and Christophe sat by

his bedside and took it in turns to watch by him. They called in a doctor,

procured medicines, made a good fire in the room, and gave him special

food.

 

Then they had to clothe him from head to foot: linen, shoes, clothes,

everything new. Ernest left himself in their hands. Louisa and Christophe

sweated to squeeze the money from their expenditure. They were very

straitened at the moment: the removal, the new lodgings, which were dearer

though just as uncomfortable, fewer lessons for Christophe and more

expenses. They could just make both ends meet. They managed somehow. No

doubt Christophe could have applied to Rodolphe, who was more in a position

to help Ernest, but he would not: he made it a point of honor to help his

brother alone. He thought himself obliged to do so as the eldest,—and

because he was Christophe. Hot with shame he had to accept, to declare his

willingness to accept an offer which he had indignantly rejected a

fortnight before,—a proposal from an agent of an unknown wealthy amateur

who wanted to buy a musical composition for publication under his own name.

Louisa took work out, mending linen. They hid their sacrifice from each

other: they lied about the money they brought home.

 

When Ernest was convalescent and sitting huddled up by the fire, he

confessed one day between his fits of coughing that he had a few

debts.—They were paid. No one reproached him. That would not have been

kind to an invalid and a prodigal son who had repented and returned home.

For Ernest seemed to have been changed by adversity and sickness. With

tears in his eyes he spoke of his past misdeeds: and Louisa kissed him and

told him to think no more of them. He was fond: he had always been able to

get round his mother by his demonstrations of affection: Christophe had

once been a little jealous of him. Now he thought it natural that the

youngest and the weakest son should be the most loved. In spite of the

small difference in their ages he regarded him almost as a son rather than

as a brother. Ernest showed great respect for him: sometimes he would

allude to the burdens that Christophe was taking upon himself, and to his

sacrifice of money: but Christophe would