Jean Christophe, Vol. I by Romain Rolland

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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 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 him, trembled lest he should
enter.... And when at last he made up his mind to enter, she had just made
up her mind to turn the lock again.

Then he cursed himself for a fool. He leaned against the door with all his
strength. With his lips to the lock he implored her:

"Open."

He called to Sabine in a whisper: she could hear his heated breathing. She
stayed motionless near the door: she was frozen: her teeth were chattering:
she had no strength either to open the door or to go to bed again....

The storm made the trees crack and the doors in the house bang.... They
turned away and went to their beds, worn out, sad and sick at heart.
The cocks crowed huskily. The first light of dawn crept through the wet
windows, a wretched, pale dawn, drowned in the persistent rain....

Christophe got up as soon as he could: he went down to the kitchen and
talked to the people there. He was in a hurry to be gone and was afraid
of being left alone with Sabine again. He was almost relieved when the
miller's wife said that Sabine was unwell, and had caught cold during the
drive and would not be going that morning.

His journey home was melancholy. He refused to drive, and walked through
the soaking fields, in the yellow mist that covered the earth, the trees,
the houses, with a shroud. Like the light, life seemed to be blotted out.
Everything loomed like a specter. He was like a specter himself.

* * * * *

At home he found angry faces. They were all scandalized at his having
passed the night God knows where with Sabine. He shut himself up in his
room and applied himself to his work. Sabine returned the next day and shut
herself up also. They avoided meeting each other. The weather was still
wet and cold: neither of them went out. They saw each other through their
closed windows. Sabine was wrapped up by her fire, dreaming. Christophe
was buried in his papers. They bowed to each other a little coldly and
reservedly and then pretended to be absorbed again. They did not take
stock of what they were feeling: they were angry with each other, with
themselves, with things generally. The night at the farmhouse had been
thrust aside in their memories: they were ashamed of it, and did not know
whether they were more ashamed of their folly or of not having yielded to
it. It was painful to them to see each other: for that made them remember
things from which they wished to escape: and by joint agreement they
retired into the depths of their rooms so as utterly to forget each
other. But that was impossible, and they suffered keenly under the secret
hostility which they felt was between them. Christophe was haunted by the
expression of dumb rancor which he had once seen in Sabine's cold eyes.
From such thoughts her suffering was not less: in vain did she struggle
against them, and even deny them: she could not rid herself of them. They
were augmented by her shame that Christophe should have guessed what was
happening within her: and the shame of having offered herself ... the shame
of having offered herself without having given.

Christophe gladly accepted an opportunity which cropped up to go to Cologne
and Duesseldorf for some concerts. He was glad to spend two or three weeks
away from home. Preparation for the concerts and the composition of a new
work that he wished to play at them took up all his time and he succeeded
in forgetting his obstinate memories. They disappeared from Sabine's mind
too, and she fell back into the torpor of her usual life. They came to
think of each other with indifference. Had they really loved each other?
They doubted it. Christophe was on the point of leaving for Cologne without
saying good-bye to Sabine.

On the evening before his departure they were brought together again by
some imperceptible influence. It was one of the Sunday afternoons when
everybody was at church. Christophe had gone out too to make his final
preparations for the journey. Sabine was sitting in her tiny garden warming
herself in the last rays of the sun. Christophe came home: he was in a
hurry and his first inclination when he saw her was; to bow and pass on.
But something held him back as he was passing: was it Sabine's paleness, or
some indefinable feeling: remorse, fear, tenderness?... He stopped, turned
to Sabine, and, leaning over the fence, he bade her good-evening. Without
replying she held out her hand. Her smile was all kindness,--such kindness
as he had never seen in her. Her gesture seemed to say: "Peace between
us...." He took her hand over the fence, bent over it, and kissed it. She
made no attempt to withdraw it. He longed to go down on his knees and say,
"I love you."... They looked at each other in silence. But they offered no
explanation. After a moment she removed her hand and turned her head. He
turned too to hide his emotion. Then they looked at each other again with
untroubled eyes. The sun was setting. Subtle shades of color, violet,
orange, and mauve, chased across the cold clear sky. She shivered and drew
her shawl closer about her shoulders with a movement that he knew well. He
asked: