Jean-Christophe, vol 1 - Romain Rolland (best books to read in your 20s .TXT) 📗

by all the other churches, with their voices clear or

muffled, and, from the houses, by the dim chiming of the clock or husky

cuckoos.

 

They awoke suddenly from their dreams, and got up at the same moment. And

just as they were going indoors they both bowed without speaking.

Christophe went up to his room. He lighted his candle, and sat down by his

desk with his head in his hands, and stayed so for a long time without a

thought. Then he sighed and went to bed.

 

Next day when he got up, mechanically he went to his window to look down

into Sabine’s room. But the curtains were drawn. They were drawn the whole

morning. They were drawn ever after.

 

*

 

Next evening Christophe proposed to his mother that they should go again to

sit by the door. He did so regularly. Louisa was glad of it: she did not

like his shutting himself up in his room immediately after dinner with the

window and shutters closed.—The little silent shadow never failed to come

and sit in its usual place. They gave each other a quick nod, which Louisa

never noticed. Christophe would talk to his mother. Sabine would smile at

her little girl, playing in the street: about nine she would go and put her

to bed and would then return noiselessly. If she stayed a little Christophe

would begin to be afraid that she would not come back. He would listen for

sounds in the house, the laughter of the little girl who would not go to

sleep: he would hear the rustling of Sabine’s dress before she appeared on

the threshold of the shop. Then he would look away and talk to his mother

more eagerly. Sometimes he would feel that Sabine was looking at him. In

turn he would furtively look at her. But their eyes would never meet.

 

The child was a bond between them. She would run about in the street with

other children. They would find amusement in teasing a good-tempered dog

sleeping there with his nose in his paws: he would cock a red eye and at

last would emit a growl of boredom: then they would fly this way and that

screaming in terror and happiness. The little girl would give piercing

shrieks, and look behind her as though she were being pursued; she would

throw herself into Louisa’s lap, and Louisa would smile fondly. She would

keep the child and question her: and so she would enter into conversation

with Sabine. Christophe never joined in. He never spoke to Sabine. Sabine

never spoke to him. By tacit agreement they pretended to ignore each other.

But he never lost a word of what they said as they talked over him. His

silence seemed unfriendly to Louisa. Sabine never thought it so: but it

would make her shy, and she would grow confused in her remarks. Then she

would find some excuse for going in.

 

For a whole week Louisa kept indoors for a cold. Christophe and Sabine were

left alone. The first time they were frightened by it. Sabine, to seem at

her ease, took her little girl on her knees and loaded her with caresses.

Christophe was embarrassed and did not know whether he ought to go on

ignoring what was happening at his side. It became difficult: although they

had not spoken a single word to each other, they did know each other,

thanks to Louisa. He tried to begin several times: but the words stuck in

his throat. Once more the little girl extricated them from their

difficulty. She played hide-and-seek, and went round Christophe’s chair. He

caught her as she passed and kissed her. He was not very fond of children:

but it was curiously pleasant to him to kiss the little girl. She struggled

to be free, for she was busy with her game. He teased her, she bit his

hands: he let her fall. Sabine laughed. They looked at the child and

exchanged a few trivial words. Then Christophe tried—(he thought he

must)—to enter into conversation: but he had nothing very much to go upon:

and Sabine did not make his task any the easier: she only repeated what he

said:

 

“It is a fine evening.”

 

“Yes. It is a very fine evening.”

 

“Impossible to breathe in the yard.”

 

“Yes. The yard was stifling.”

 

Conversation became very difficult. Sabine discovered that it was time to

take the little girl in, and went in herself: and she did not appear again.

 

Christophe was afraid she would do the same on the evenings that followed

and that she would avoid being left alone with him, as long as Louisa was

not there. But on the contrary, the next evening Sabine tried to resume

their conversation. She did so deliberately rather than for pleasure: she

was obviously taking a great deal of trouble to find subjects of

conversation, and bored with the questions she put: questions and answers

came between heartbreaking silences. Christophe remembered his first

interviews with Otto: but with Sabine their subjects were even more limited

than then, and she had not Otto’s patience. When she saw the small success

of her endeavors she did not try any more: she had to give herself too much

trouble, and she lost interest in it. She said no more, and he followed her

lead.

 

And then there was sweet peace again. The night was calm once more, and

they returned to their inward thoughts. Sabine rocked slowly in her chair,

dreaming. Christophe also was dreaming. They said nothing. After half an

hour Christophe began to talk to himself, and in a low voice cried out with

pleasure in the delicious scent brought by the soft wind that came from a

cart of strawberries. Sabine said a word or two in reply. Again they were

silent. They were enjoying the charm of these indefinite silences, and

trivial words. Their dreams were the same, they had but one thought: they

did not know what it was: they did not admit it to themselves. At eleven

they smiled and parted.

 

Next day they did not even try to talk: they resumed their sweet silence.

At long intervals a word or two let them know that they were thinking of

the same things.

 

Sabine began to laugh.

 

“How much better it is,” she said, “not to try to talk! One thinks one

must, and it is so tiresome!”

 

“Ah!” said Christophe with conviction, “if only everybody thought the

same.”

 

They both laughed. They were thinking of Frau Vogel.

 

“Poor woman!” said Sabine; “how exhausting she is!”

 

“She is never exhausted,” replied Christophe gloomily.

 

She was tickled by his manner and his jest.

 

“You think it amusing?” he asked. “That is easy for you. You are

sheltered.”

 

“So I am,” said Sabine. “I lock myself in.” She had a little soft laugh

that hardly sounded. Christophe heard it with delight in the calm of the

evening. He snuffed the fresh air luxuriously.

 

“Ah! It is good to be silent!” he said, stretching his limbs.

 

“And talking is no use!” said she.

 

“Yes,” returned Christophe, “we understand each other so well!”

 

They relapsed into silence. In the darkness they could not see each other.

They were both smiling.

 

And yet, though they felt the same, when they were together—or imagined

that they did—in reality they knew nothing of each other. Sabine did not

bother about it. Christophe was more curious. One evening he asked her:

 

“Do you like music?”

 

“No,” she said simply. “It bores me, I don’t understand it.”

 

Her frankness charmed him. He was sick of the lies of people who said that

they were mad about music, and were bored to death when they heard it: and

it seemed to him almost a virtue not to like it and to say so. He asked if

Sabine read.

 

“So. She had no books.”

 

He offered to lend her his.

 

“Serious books?” she asked uneasily.

 

“Not serious books if she did not want them. Poetry.”

 

“But those are serious books.”

 

“Novels, then.”

 

She pouted.

 

“They don’t interest you?”

 

“Yes. She was interested in them: but they were always too long: she never

had the patience to finish them. She forgot the beginning: skipped chapters

and then lost the thread. And then she threw the book away.”

 

“Fine interest you take!”

 

“Bah! Enough for a story that is not true. She kept her interest for better

things than books.”

 

“For the theater, then?”

 

“No…. No.”

 

“Didn’t she go to the theater?”

 

“No. It was too hot. There were too many people. So much better at home.

The lights tired her eyes. And the actors were so ugly!”

 

He agreed with her in that. But there were other things in the theater: the

play, for instance.

 

“Yes,” she said absently. “But I have no time.”

 

“What do you do all day?”

 

She smiled.

 

“There is so much to do.”

 

“True,” said he. “There is your shop.”

 

“Oh!” she said calmly. “That does not take much time.”

 

“Your little girl takes up your time then?”

 

“Oh! no, poor child! She is very good and plays by herself.”

 

“Then?”

 

He begged pardon for his indiscretion. But she was amused by it.

 

“There are so many things.”

 

“What things?”

 

“She could not say. All sorts of things. Getting up, dressing, thinking of

dinner, cooking dinner, eating dinner, thinking of supper, cleaning her

room…. And then the day was over…. And besides you must have a little

time for doing nothing!”

 

“And you are not bored?”

 

“Never.”

 

“Even when you are doing nothing?”

 

“Especially when I am doing nothing. It is much worse doing something: that

bores me.”

 

They looked at each other and laughed.

 

“You are very happy!” said Christophe. “I can’t do nothing.”

 

“It seems to me that you know how.”

 

“I have been learning lately.”

 

“Ah! well, you’ll learn.”

 

When he left off talking to her he was at his ease and comfortable. It was

enough for him to see her. He was rid of his anxieties, and irritations,

and the nervous trouble that made him sick at heart. When he was talking to

her he was beyond care: and so when he thought of her. He dared not admit

it to himself: but as soon as he was in her presence, he was filled with a

delicious soft emotion that brought him almost to unconsciousness. At night

he slept as he had never done.

 

*

 

When he came back from his work he would look into this shop. It was not

often that he did not see Sabine. They bowed and smiled. Sometimes she was

at the door and then they would exchange a few words: and he would open the

door and call the little girl and hand her a packet of sweets.

 

One day he decided to go in. He pretended that he wanted some waistcoat

buttons. She began to look for them: but she could not find them. All the

buttons were mixed up: it was impossible to pick them out. She was a little

put out that he should see her untidiness. He laughed at it and bent over

the better to see it.

 

“No,” she said, trying to hide the drawers with her hands. “Don’t look! It

is a dreadful muddle….”

 

She went on looking. But Christophe embarrassed her. She was cross, and as

she pushed the drawer back she