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Jean Christophe, Vol. I

R >> Romain Rolland >> Jean Christophe, Vol. I




He recovered: but had a long convalescence. The doctor declared that his
health, which he had abused, needed to be fostered. So he stayed on in his
mother's house, sharing Christophe's bed, eating heartily the bread that
his brother earned, and the little dainty dishes that Louisa prepared, for
him. He never spoke of going. Louisa and Christophe never mentioned it
either. They were too happy to have found again the son and the brother
they loved.

Little by little in the long evenings that he spent with Ernest Christophe
began to talk intimately to him. He needed to confide in somebody. Ernest
was clever: he had a quick mind and understood--or seemed to understand--on
a hint only. There was pleasure in talking to him. And yet Christophe dared
not tell him about what lay nearest to his heart: his love. He was kept
back by a sort of modesty. Ernest, who knew all about it, never let it
appear that he knew.

One day when Ernest was quite well again he went in the sunny afternoon and
lounged along the Rhine. As he passed a noisy inn a little way out of the
town, where there were drinking and dancing on Sundays, he saw Christophe
sitting with Ada and Myrrha, who were making a great noise. Christophe saw
him too, and blushed. Ernest was discreet and passed on without
acknowledging him.

Christophe was much embarrassed by the encounter: it made him more keenly
conscious of the company in which he was: it hurt him that his brother
should have seen him then: not only because it made him lose the right of
judging Ernest's conduct, but because he had a very lofty, very naïve, and
rather archaic notion of his duties as an elder brother which would have
seemed absurd to many people: he thought that in failing in that duty, as
he was doing, he was lowered in his own eyes.

In the evening when they were together in their room, he waited for Ernest
to allude to what had happened. But Ernest prudently said nothing and
waited also. Then while they were undressing Christophe decided to speak
about his love. He was so ill at ease that he dared not look at Ernest: and
in his shyness he assumed a gruff way of speaking. Ernest did not help him
out: he was silent and did not look at him, though he watched him all the
same: and he missed none of the humor of Christophe's awkwardness and
clumsy words. Christophe hardly dared pronounce Ada's name: and the
portrait that he drew of her would have done just as well for any woman who
was loved. But he spoke of his love: little by little he was carried away
by the flood of tenderness that filled his heart: he said how good it was
to love, how wretched he had been before he had found that light in the
darkness, and that life was nothing without a dear, deep-seated love. His
brother listened gravely: he replied tactfully, and asked no questions: but
a warm handshake showed that he was of Christophe's way of thinking. They
exchanged ideas concerning love and life. Christophe was happy at being so
well understood. They exchanged a brotherly embrace before they went to
sleep.

Christophe grew accustomed to confiding his love to Ernest, though always
shyly and reservedly. Ernest's discretion reassured him. He let him know
his uneasiness about Ada: but he never blamed her: he blamed himself: and
with tears in his eyes he would declare that he could not live if he were
to lose her.

He did not forget to tell Ada about Ernest: he praised his wit and his good
looks.

Ernest never approached Christophe with a request to be introduced to Ada:
but he would shut himself up in his room and sadly refuse to go out, saying
that he did not know anybody. Christophe would think ill of himself on
Sundays for going on his excursions with Ada, while his brother stayed at
home. And yet he hated not to be alone with his beloved: he accused himself
of selfishness and proposed that Ernest should come with them.

The introduction took place at Ada's door, on the landing. Ernest and Ada
bowed politely. Ada came out, followed by her inseparable Myrrha, who when
she saw Ernest gave a little cry of surprise. Ernest smiled, went up to
Myrrha, and kissed her: she seemed to take it as a matter of course.

"What! You know each other?" asked Christophe in astonishment.

"Why, yes!" said Myrrha, laughing.

"Since when?"

"Oh, a long time!"

"And you knew?" asked Christophe, turning to Ada. "Why, did you not tell
me?"

"Do you think I know all Myrrha's lovers?" said Ada, shrugging her
shoulders.

Myrrha took up the word and pretended in fun to be angry. Christophe could
not find out any more about it. He was depressed. It seemed to him that
Ernest and Myrrha and Ada had been lacking in honesty, although indeed he
could not have brought any lie up against them: but it was difficult to
believe that Myrrha, who had no secrets from Ada, had made a mystery of
this, and that Ernest and Ada were not already acquainted with each other.
He watched them. But they only exchanged a few trivial words and Ernest
only paid attention to Myrrha all the rest of the day. Ada only spoke to
Christophe: and she was much more amiable to him than usual.

From that time on Ernest always joined them. Christophe could have done
without him: but he dared not say so. He had no other motive for wanting to
leave his brother out than his shame in having him for boon companion. He
had no suspicion of him. Ernest gave him no cause for it: he seemed to be
in love with Myrrha and was always reserved and polite with Ada, and even
affected to avoid her in a way that was a little out of place: it was as
though he wished to show his brother's mistress a little of the respect he
showed to himself. Ada was not surprised by it and was none the less
careful.

They went on long excursions together. The two brothers would walk on in
front. Ada and Myrrha, laughing and whispering, would follow a few yards
behind. They would stop in the middle of the road and talk. Christophe and
Ernest would stop and wait for them. Christophe would lose patience and go
on: but soon he would turn back annoyed and irritated, by hearing Ernest
talking and laughing with the two young women. He would want to know what
they were saying: but when they came up with him their conversation would
stop.

"What are you three always plotting together?" he would ask.

They would reply with some joke. They had a secret understanding like
thieves at a fair.

* * * * *

Christophe had a sharp quarrel with Ada. They had been cross with each
other all day. Strange to say, Ada had not assumed her air of offended
dignity, to which she usually resorted in such cases, so as to avenge
herself, by making herself as intolerably tiresome as usual. Now she simply
pretended to ignore Christophe's existence and she was in excellent spirits
with the other two. It was as though in her heart she was not put out at
all by the quarrel.

Christophe, on the other hand, longed to make peace: he was more in love
than ever. His tenderness was now mingled with a feeling of gratitude for
all the good things love had brought him, and regret for the hours he had
wasted in stupid argument and angry thoughts--and the unreasoning fear, the
mysterious idea that their love was nearing its end. Sadly he looked at
Ada's pretty face and she pretended not to see him while she was laughing
with the others: and the sight of her woke in him so many dear memories, of
great love, of sincere intimacy.--Her face had sometimes--it had now--so
much goodness in it, a smile so pure, that Christophe asked himself why
things were not better between them, why they spoiled their happiness with
their whimsies, why she would insist on forgetting their bright hours, and
denying and combating all that was good and honest in her--what strange
satisfaction she could find in spoiling, and smudging, if only in thought,
the purity of their love. He was conscious of an immense need of believing
in the object of his love, and he tried once more to bring back his
illusions. He accused himself of injustice: he was remorseful for the
thoughts that he attributed to her, and of his lack of charity.

He went to, her and tried to talk to her; she answered him with a few curt
words: she had no desire for a reconciliation with him. He insisted: he
begged her to listen to him for a moment away from the others. She followed
him ungraciously. When they were a few yards away so that neither Myrrha
nor Ernest could see them, he took her hands and begged her pardon, and
knelt at her feet in the dead leaves of the wood. He told her that he could
not go on living so at loggerheads with her: that he found no pleasure in
the walk, or the fine day: that he could enjoy nothing, and could not even
breathe, knowing that she detested him: he needed her love. Yes: he was
often unjust, violent, disagreeable: he begged her to forgive him: it was
the fault of his love, he could not bear anything second-rate in her,
nothing that was altogether unworthy of her and their memories of their
dear past. He reminded her of it all, of their first meeting, their first
days together: he said that he loved her just as much, that he would always
love her, that she should not go away from him! She was everything to
him....

Ada listened to him, smiling, uneasy, almost softened. She looked at him
with kind eyes, eyes that said that they loved each other, and that she
was no longer angry. They kissed, and holding each other close they went
into the leafless woods. She thought Christophe good and gentle, and was
grateful to him for his tender words: but she did not relinquish the
naughty whims that were in her mind. But she hesitated, she did not cling
to them so tightly: and yet she did not abandon what she had planned to do.
Why? Who can say?... Because she had vowed what she would do?--Who knows?
Perhaps she thought it more entertaining to deceive her lover that day, to
prove to him, to prove to herself her freedom. She had no thought of losing
him: she did not wish for that. She thought herself more sure of him than
ever.

They reached a clearing in the forest. There were two paths. Christophe
took one. Ernest declared that the other led more quickly to the top of the
hill whither they were going. Ada agreed with him. Christophe, who knew the
way, having often been there, maintained that they were wrong. They did not
yield. Then they agreed to try it: and each wagered that he would arrive
first. Ada went with Ernest. Myrrha accompanied Christophe: she pretended
that she was sure that he was right: and she added, "As usual." Christophe
had taken the game seriously: and as he never liked to lose, he walked
quickly, too quickly for Myrrha's liking, for she was in much less of a
hurry than he.

"Don't be in a hurry, my friend," she said, in her quiet, ironic voice, "we
shall get there first."

He was a little sorry.

"True," he said, "I am going a little too fast: there is no need."

He slackened his pace.

"But I know them," he went on. "I am sure they will run so as to be there
before us."

Myrrha burst out laughing.

"Oh! no," she said. "Oh! no: don't you worry about that."

She hung on his arm and pressed close to him. She was a little shorter
than Christophe, and as they walked she raised her soft eyes to his. She
was really pretty and alluring. He hardly recognized her: the change was
extraordinary. Usually her face was rather pale and puffy: but the smallest
excitement, a merry thought, or the desire to please, was enough to make
her worn expression vanish, and her cheeks go pink, and the little wrinkles
in her eyelids round and below her eyes disappear, and her eyes flash, and
her whole face take on a youth, a life, a spiritual quality that never was
in Ada's. Christophe was surprised by this metamorphosis, and turned his
eyes away from hers: he was a little uneasy at being alone with her. She
embarrassed him and prevented him from dreaming as he pleased: he did not
listen to what she said, he did not answer her, or if he did it was only at
random: he was thinking--he wished to think only of Ada. He thought of the
kindness in her eyes, her smile, her kiss: and his heart was filled with
love. Myrrha wanted to make him admire the beauty of the trees with their
little branches against the clear sky.... Yes: it was all beautiful: the
clouds were gone, Ada had returned to him, he had succeeded in breaking the
ice that lay between them: they loved once more: near or far, they were
one. He sighed with relief: how light the air was! Ada had come back to him
... Everything brought her to mind.... It was a little damp: would she not
be cold?... The lovely trees were powdered with hoar-frost: what a pity she
should not see them!... But he remembered the wager, and hurried on: he was
concerned only with not losing the way. He shouted joyfully as they reached
the goal:

"We are first!"

He waved his hat gleefully. Myrrha watched him and smiled.

The place where they stood was a high, steep rock in the middle of the
woods. From this flat summit with its fringe of nut-trees and little
stunted oaks they could see, over the wooded slopes, the tops of the pines
bathed in a purple mist, and the long ribbon of the Rhine in the blue
valley. Not a bird called. Not a voice. Not a breath of air. A still, calm
winter's day, its chilliness faintly warmed by the pale beams of a misty
sun. Now and then in the distance there came the sharp whistle of a train
in the valley. Christophe stood at the edge of the rock and looked down at
the countryside. Myrrha watched Christophe.

He turned to her amiably:

"Well! The lazy things. I told them so!... Well: we must wait for them...."

He lay stretched out in the sun on the cracked earth.

"Yes. Let us wait...." said Myrrha, taking off her hat.

In her voice there was something so quizzical that he raised his head and
looked at her.

"What is it?" she asked quietly.

"What did you say?"

"I said: Let us wait. It was no use making me run so fast."

"True."

They waited lying on the rough ground. Myrrha hummed a tune. Christophe
took it up for a few phrases. But he stopped every now and then to listen.

"I think I can hear them."

Myrrha went on singing.

"Do stop for a moment."

Myrrha stopped.

"No. It is nothing."

She went on with her song.

Christophe could not stay still.

"Perhaps they have lost their way."

"Lost? They could not. Ernest knows all the paths."

A fantastic idea passed through Christophe's mind.

"Perhaps they arrived first, and went away before we came!"

Myrrha was lying on her back and looking at the sun. She was seized with
a wild burst of laughter in the middle of her song and all but choked.
Christophe insisted. He wanted to go down to the station, saying that their
friends would be there already. Myrrha at last made up her mind to move.

"You would be certain to lose them!... There was never any talk about the
station. We were to meet here."

He sat down by her side. She was amused by his eagerness. He was conscious
of the irony in her gaze as she looked at him. He began to be seriously
troubled--to be anxious about them: he did not suspect them. He got up once
more. He spoke of going down into the woods again and looking for them,
calling to them. Myrrha gave a little chuckle: she took from her pocket a
needle, scissors, and thread: and she calmly undid and sewed in again the
feathers in her hat: she seemed to have established herself for the day.

"No, no, silly," she said. "If they wanted to come do you think they would
not come of their own accord?"

There was a catch at his heart. He turned towards her: she did not look at
him: she was busy with her work. He went up to her.

"Myrrha!" he said.

"Eh?" she replied without stopping. He knelt now to look more nearly at
her.

"Myrrha!" he repeated.

"Well?" she asked, raising her eyes from her work and looking at him with a
smile. "What is it?"

She had a mocking expression as she saw his downcast face.

"Myrrha!" he asked, choking, "tell me what you think...."

She shrugged her shoulders, smiled, and went on working.

He caught her hands and took away the hat at which she was sewing.

"Leave off, leave off, and tell me...."

She looked squarely at him and waited. She saw that Christophe's lips were
trembling.

"You think," he said in a low voice, "that Ernest and Ada ...?"

She smiled.

"Oh! well!"

He started back angrily.

"No! No! It is impossible! You don't think that!... No! No!"

She put her hands on his shoulders and rocked with laughter.

"How dense you are, how dense, my dear!"

He shook her violently.

"Don't laugh! Why do you laugh? You would not laugh if it were true. You
love Ernest...."

She went on laughing and drew him to her and kissed him. In spite of
himself he returned her kiss. But when he felt her lips on his, her lips,
still warm with his brother's kisses, he flung her away from him and held
her face away from his own: he asked:

"You knew it? It was arranged between you?"

She said "Yes," and laughed.

Christophe did not cry out, he made no movement of anger. He opened his
mouth as though he could not breathe: he closed his eyes and clutched at
his breast with his hands: his heart was bursting. Then he lay down on the
ground with his face buried in his hands and he was shaken by a crisis of
disgust and despair like a child.

Myrrha, who was not very soft-hearted, was sorry for him: involuntarily
she was filled with motherly compassion, and leaned over him, and spoke
affectionately to him, and tried to make him sniff at her smelling-bottle.
But he thrust her away in horror and got up so sharply that she was afraid.
He had neither strength nor desire for revenge. He looked at her with his
face twisted with grief.

"You drab," he said in despair. "You do not know the harm you have
done...."

She tried to hold him back. He fled through the woods, spitting out his
disgust with such ignominy, with such muddy hearts, with such incestuous
sharing as that to which they had tried to bring him. He wept, he trembled:
he sobbed with disgust. He was filled with horror, of them all, of himself,
of his body and soul. A storm of contempt broke loose in him: it had long
been brewing: sooner or later there had to come the reaction against the
base thoughts, the degrading compromises, the stale and pestilential
atmosphere in which he had been living for months: but the need of loving,
of deceiving himself about the woman he loved, had postponed the crisis as
long as possible. Suddenly it burst upon him: and it was better so. There
was a great gust of wind of a biting purity, an icy breeze which swept away
the miasma. Disgust in one swoop had killed his love for Ada.

If Ada thought more firmly to establish her domination over Christophe by
such an act, that proved once more her gross inappreciation of her lover.
Jealousy which binds souls that are besmirched could only revolt a nature
like Christophe's, young, proud, and pure. But what he could not forgive,
what he never would forgive, was that the betrayal was not the outcome of
passion in Ada, hardly even of one of those absurd and degrading though
often irresistible caprices to which the reason of a woman is sometimes
hard put to it not to surrender. No--he understood now,--it was in her a
secret desire to degrade him, to humiliate him, to punish him for his moral
resistance, for his inimical faith, to lower him to the common level, to
bring him to her feet, to prove to herself her own power for evil. And he
asked himself with horror: what is this impulse towards dirtiness, which
is in the majority of human beings--this desire to besmirch the purity of
themselves and others,--these swinish souls, who take a delight in rolling
in filth, and are happy when not one inch of their skins is left clean!...

Ada waited two days for Christophe to return to her. Then she began to be
anxious, and sent him a tender note in which she made no allusion to what
had happened. Christophe did not even reply. He hated Ada so profoundly
that no words could express his hatred. He had cut her out of his life. She
no longer existed for him.

* * * * *

Christophe was free of Ada, but he was not free of himself. In vain did
he try to return into illusion and to take up again the calm and chaste
strength of the past. We cannot return to the past. We have to go onward:
it is useless to turn back, save only to see the places by which we have
passed, the distant smoke from the roofs under which we have slept, dying
away on the horizon in the mists of memory. But nothing so distances us
from the soul that we had as a few months of passion. The road takes
a sudden turn: the country is changed: it is as though we were saying
good-bye for the last time to all that we are leaving behind.

Christophe could not yield to it. He held out his arms to the past: he
strove desperately to bring to life again the soul that had been his,
lonely and resigned. But it was gone. Passion itself is not so dangerous as
the ruins that it heaps up and leaves behind. In vain did Christophe not
love, in vain--for a moment--did he despise love: he bore the marks of its
talons: his whole being was steeped in it: there was in his heart a void
which must be filled. With that terrible need of tenderness and pleasure
which devours men and women when they have once tasted it, some other
passion was needed, were it only the contrary passion, the passion of
contempt, of proud purity, of faith in virtue.--They were not enough, they
were not enough to stay his hunger: they were only the food of a moment.
His life consisted of a succession of violent reactions--leaps from
one extreme to the other. Sometimes he would bend his passion to rules
inhumanly ascetic: not eating, drinking water, wearing himself out with
walking, heavy tasks, and so not sleeping, denying himself every sort of
pleasure. Sometimes he would persuade himself that strength is the true
morality for people like himself: and he would plunge into the quest of
joy. In either case he was unhappy. He could no longer be alone. He could
no longer not be alone.

The only thing that could have saved him would have been to find a true
friendship,--Rosa's perhaps: he could have taken refuge in that. But the
rupture was complete between the two families. They no longer met. Only
once had Christophe seen Rosa. She was just coming out from Mass. He had
hesitated to bow to her: and when she saw him she had made a movement
towards him: but when he had tried to go to her through the stream of the
devout walking down the steps, she had turned her eyes away: and when he
approached her she bowed coldly and passed on. In the girl's heart he felt
intense, icy contempt. And he did not feel that she still loved him and
would have liked to tell him so: but she had come to think of her love as a
fault and foolishness: she thought Christophe bad and corrupt, and further
from her than ever. So they were lost to each other forever. And perhaps
it was as well for both of them. In spite of her goodness, she was not
near enough to life to be able to understand him. In spite of his need of
affection and respect he would have stifled in a commonplace and confined
existence, without joy, without sorrow, without air. They would both have
suffered. The unfortunate occurrence which cut them apart was, when all was
told, perhaps, fortunate as often happens--as always happens--to those who
are strong and endure.

But at the moment it was a great sorrow and a great misfortune for them.
Especially for Christophe. Such virtuous intolerance, such narrowness of
soul, which sometimes seems to deprive those who have the most of them of
all intelligence, and those who are most good of kindness, irritated him,
hurt him, and flung him back in protest into a freer life.

During his loafing with Ada in the beer gardens of the neighborhood he had
made acquaintance with several good fellows--Bohemians, whose carelessness
and freedom of manners had not been altogether distasteful to him. One
of them, Friedemann, a musician like himself, an organist, a man of
thirty, was not without intelligence, and was good at his work, but he was
incurably lazy and rather than make the slightest effort to be more than
mediocre, he would have died of hunger, though not, perhaps, of thirst.
He comforted himself in his indolence by speaking ill of those who lived
energetically, God knows why; and his sallies, rather heavy for the most
part, generally made people laugh. Having more liberty than his companions,
he was not afraid,--though timidly, and with winks and nods and suggestive
remarks,--to sneer at those who held positions: he was even capable of not
having ready-made opinions about music, and of having a sly fling at the
forged reputations of the great men of the day. He had no mercy upon women
either: when he was making his jokes he loved to repeat the old saying of
some misogynist monk about them, and Christophe enjoyed its bitterness just
then more than anybody:

_"Femina mors animae."_

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