Jean-Christophe, vol 1 by Romain Rolland (fb2 epub reader .txt) đź“•
He waited for contradiction, and spat on the fire. Then, as neither mother nor child raised any objection, he was for going on, but relapsed into silence.
* * * * *
They said no more. Both Jean Michel, sitting by the fireside, and Louisa, in her bed, dreamed sadly. The old man, in spite of what he had said, had bitter thoughts about his son's marriage, and Louisa was thinking of it also, and blaming herself, although she had nothing wherewith to reproach herself.
She had been a servant when, to everybody's surprise, and her own especially, she married Melchior Krafft, Jean Michel's son. The Kraffts were without fortune, but were considerable people in the little Rhine town in which the old man had settled down more than fifty years before. Both father and son were musicians, and known to all the musicians of the country from Cologne to Mannheim. Melchior played the violin at the Hof-Theater, and Jean Michel had formerly been director of the grand-ducal concerts. The o
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moment he coughed and a malicious light shone in his little gray eyes and
he came and sat at Christophe’s table. Christophe was annoyed and turned
and scowled at him; he met the cunning look of the old man, who addressed
Christophe familiarly without taking his pipe from his lips. Christophe
knew him; he knew him for a common old man; but his weakness for his
daughter made him indulgent towards the father and even gave him a queer
pleasure in being with him; the old rascal saw that. After talking about
rain and fine weather and some chaffing reference to the pretty girls in
the room, and a remark on Christophe’s not dancing he concluded that
Christophe was right not to put himself out and that it was much better to
sit at table with a mug in his hand; without ceremony he invited himself to
have a drink. While he drank the old man went on talking deliberately as
always. He spoke about his affairs, the difficulty of gaining a livelihood,
the bad weather and high prices. Christophe hardly listened and only
replied with an occasional grunt; he was not interested; he was looking at
Lorchen. Christophe wondered what had procured him the honor of the old
man’s company and confidences. At last he understood. When the old man had
exhausted his complaints he passed on to another chapter; he praised the
quality of his produce, his vegetables, his fowls, his eggs, his milk, and
suddenly he asked if Christophe could not procure him the custom of the
Palace. Christophe started:
“How the devil did he know?… He knew him then?”
“Oh, yes,” said the old man. “Everything is known …” He did not add:
“… when you take the trouble to make enquiries.”
But Christophe added it for him. He took a wicked pleasure in telling him
that although everything was known, he was no doubt unaware that he had
just quarreled with the Court and that if he had ever been able to flatter
himself on having some credit with the servants’ quarters and butchers of
the Palace—(which he doubted strongly)—that credit at present was dead
and buried. The old man’s lips twitched imperceptibly. However, he was
not put out and after a moment he asked if Christophe could not at least
recommend him to such and such a family. And he mentioned all those with
whom Christophe had had dealings; for he had informed himself of them at
the market, and there was no danger of his forgetting any detail that might
be useful to him. Christophe would have been furious at such spying upon
him had he not rather wanted to laugh at the thought that the old man would
be robbed in spite of all his cunning (for he had no doubt of the value of
the recommendation he was asking—a recommendation more likely to make him
lose his customers than to procure him fresh ones). So he let him empty
all his bag of clumsy tricks and answered neither “Yes” nor “No.” But the
peasant persisted and finally he came down to Christophe and Louisa whom he
had kept for the end, and expressed his keen desire to provide them with
milk, butter and cream. He added that as Christophe was a musician nothing
was so good for the voice as a fresh egg swallowed raw morning and evening;
and he tried hard to make him let him provide him with these, warm from the
hen. The idea of the old peasant taking him for a singer made Christophe
roar with laughter. The peasant took advantage of that to order another
bottle. And then having got all he could out of Christophe for the time
being he went away without further ceremony.
Night had fallen. The dancing had become more and more excited. Lorchen had
ceased to pay any attention to Christophe; she was too busy turning the
head of a young lout of the village, the son of a rich farmer, for whom all
the girls were competing. Christophe was interested by the struggle; the
young women smiled at each other and would have been only too pleased to
scratch each other. Christophe forgot himself and prayed for the triumph
of Lorchen. But when her triumph was won he felt a little downcast. He was
enraged by it. He did not love Lorchen; he did not want to be loved by her;
it was natural that she should love anybody she liked.—No doubt. But it
was not pleasant to receive so little sympathy himself when he had so much
need of giving and receiving. Here, as in the town, he was alone. All these
people were only interested in him while they could make use of him and
then laugh at him. He sighed, smiled as he looked at Lorchen, whom her joy
in the discomfiture of her rivals had made ten times prettier than ever,
and got ready to go. It was nearly nine. He had fully two miles to go to
the town.
He got up from the table when the door opened and a handful of soldiers
burst in. Their entry dashed the gaiety of the place. The people began to
whisper. A few couples stopped dancing to look uneasily at the new
arrivals. The peasants standing near the door deliberately turned their
backs on them and began to talk among themselves; but without seeming to do
so they presently contrived to leave room for them to pass. For some time
past the whole neighborhood had been at loggerheads with the garrisons of
the fortresses round it. The soldiers were bored to death and wreaked their
vengeance on the peasants. They made coarse fun of them, maltreated them,
and used the women as though they were in a conquered country. The week
before some of them, full of wine, had disturbed a feast at a neighboring
village and had half killed a farmer. Christophe, who knew these things,
shared the state of mind of the peasant, and he sat down again and waited
to see what would happen.
The soldiers were not worried by the ill-will with which their entry was
received, and went noisily and sat down at the full tables, jostling the
people away from them to make room; it was the affair of a moment. Most of
the people, went away grumbling. An old man sitting at the end of a bench
did not move quickly enough; they lifted the bench and the old man toppled
over amid roars of laughter. Christophe felt the blood rushing to his head;
he got up indignantly; but, as he was on the point of interfering, he saw
the old man painfully pick himself up and instead of complaining humbly
crave pardon. Two of the soldiers came to Christophe’s table; he watched
them come and clenched his fists. But he did not have to defend himself.
They were two tall, strong, good-humored louts, who had followed sheepishly
one or two daredevils and were trying to imitate them. They were
intimidated by Christophe’s defiant manner, and when he said curtly: “This
place is taken,” they hastily begged his pardon and withdrew to their end
of the bench so as not to disturb him. There had been a masterful
inflection in his voice; their natural servility came to the fore. They saw
that Christophe was not a peasant.
Christophe was a little mollified by their submission, and was able to
watch things more coolly. It was not difficult to see that the gang were
led by a non-commissioned officer—a little bull-dog of a man with hard
eyes—with a rascally, hypocritical and wicked face; he was one of the
heroes of the affray of the Sunday before. He was sitting at the table next
to Christophe. He was drunk already and stared at the people and threw
insulting sarcasms at them which they pretended not to hear. He attacked
especially the couples dancing, describing their physical advantages or
defects with a coarseness of expression which made his companions laugh.
The girls blushed and tears came to their eyes; the young men ground their
teeth and raged in silence. Their tormentor’s eyes wandered slowly round
the room, sparing nobody; Christophe saw them moving towards himself. He
seized his mug, and clenched his fist on the table and waited, determined
to throw the liquor at his head on the first insult. He said to himself:
“I am mad. It would be better to go away. They will slit me up; and then if
I escape they will put me in prison; the game is not worth the candle. I’d
better go before he provokes me.”
But his pride would not let him, he would not seem to be running away from
such brutes as these. The officer’s cunning brutal stare was fixed on him.
Christophe stiffened and glared at him angrily. The officer looked at him
for a moment; Christophe’s face irritated him; he nudged his neighbor and
pointed out the young man with a snigger; and he opened his lips to insult
him. Christophe gathered himself together and was just about to fling his
mug at him…. Once more chance saved him. Just as the drunken man was
about to speak an awkward couple of dancers bumped into him and made him
drop his glass. He turned furiously and let loose a flood of insults. His
attention was distracted; he forgot Christophe. Christophe waited for a few
minutes longer; then seeing that his enemy had no thought of going on with
his remarks he got up, slowly took his hat and walked leisurely towards the
door. He did not take his eyes off the bench where the other was sitting,
just to let him feel that he was not giving in to him. But the officer had
forgotten him altogether; no one took any notice of him.
He was just turning the handle of the door; in a few seconds he would have
been outside. But it was ordered that he should not leave so soon. An angry
murmur rose at the end of the room. When the soldiers had drunk they had
decided to dance. And as all the girls had their cavaliers they drove away
their partners, who submitted to it. But Lorchen was not going to put up
with that. It was not for nothing that she had her bold eyes and her firm
chin which so charmed Christophe. She was waltzing like a mad thing when
the officer who had fixed his choice upon her came and pulled her partner
away from her. She stamped with her foot, screamed, and pushed the soldier
away, declaring that she would never dance with such a boor. He pursued
her. He dispersed with his fists the people behind whom she was trying to
hide. At last she took refuge behind a table; and then protected from him
for a moment she took breath to scream abuse at him; she saw that all her
resistance would be useless and she stamped with rage and groped for the
most violent words to fling at him and compared his face to that of various
animals of the farmyard. He leaned towards her over the table, smiled
wickedly, and his eyes glittered with rage. Suddenly he pounced and jumped
over the table. He caught hold of her. She struggled with feet and fists
like the cow-woman she was. He was not too steady on his legs and almost
lost his balance. In his fury he flung her against the wall and slapped her
face. He had no time to do it again; some one had jumped on his back, and
was cuffing him and kicking him back into the crowd. It was Christophe who
had flung himself on him, overturning tables and people without stopping to
think
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