Jean-Christophe, vol 1 by Romain Rolland (fb2 epub reader .txt) 📕

the beautiful actress whose name he

did not know. But the audience who had not come to see an unknown player

paid no attention to her, and only applauded when the female Hamlet spoke.

That made Christophe growl and call them: “Idiots!” in a low voice which

could be heard ten yards away.

 

It was not until the curtain was lowered upon the first act that he

remembered the existence of his companion, and seeing that she was still

shy he thought with a smile of how he must have scared her with his

extravagances. He was not far wrong: the girl whom chance had thrown in his

company for a few hours was almost morbidly shy; she must have been in an

abnormal state of excitement to have accepted Christophe’s invitation. She

had hardly accepted it than she had wished at any cost to get out of it, to

make some excuse and to escape. It had been much worse for her when she had

seen that she was an object of general curiosity, and her unhappiness had

been increased almost past endurance when she heard behind her back—(she

dared not turn round)—her companion’s low growls and imprecations. She

expected anything now, and when he came and sat by her she was frozen with

terror: what eccentricity would he commit next? She would gladly have sunk

into the ground fathoms down. She drew back instinctively: she was afraid

of touching him.

 

But all her fears vanished when the interval came and she heard him say

quite kindly:

 

“I am an unpleasant companion, eh? I beg your pardon.”

 

Then she looked at him and saw his kind smile which had induced her to come

with him.

 

He went on:

 

“I cannot hide what I think…. But you know it is too much!… That woman,

that old woman!…”

 

He made a face of disgust.

 

She smiled and said in a low voice:

 

“It is fine in spite of everything.”

 

He noticed her accent and asked:

 

“You are a foreigner?”

 

“Yes,” said she.

 

He looked at her modest gown.

 

“A governess?” he said.

 

“Yes.”

 

“What nationality?”

 

She said:

 

“I am French.”

 

He made a gesture of surprise:

 

“French? I should not have thought it.”

 

“Why?” she asked timidly.

 

“You are so … serious!” said he.

 

(She thought it was not altogether a compliment from him.)

 

“There are serious people also in France,” said she confusedly. He looked

at her honest little face, with its broad forehead, little straight nose,

delicate chin, and thin cheeks framed in her chestnut hair. It was not she

that he saw: he was thinking of the beautiful actress. He repeated:

 

“It is strange that you should be French!… Are you really of the same

nationality as Ophelia? One would never think it”

 

After a moment’s silence he went on:

 

“How beautiful she is!” without noticing that he seemed to be making a

comparison between the actress and his companion that was not at all

flattering to her. But she felt it: but she did not mind: for she was of

the same opinion. He tried to find out about the actress from her: but she

knew nothing: it was plain that she did not know much about the theater.

 

“You must be glad to hear French?” he asked. He meant it in jest, but he

touched her.

 

“Ah!” she said with an accent of sincerity which struck him, “it does me so

much good! I am stifled here.”

 

He looked at her more closely: she clasped her hands, and seemed to be

oppressed. But at once she thought of how her words might hurt him:

 

“Forgive me,” she said. “I don’t know what I am saying.”

 

He laughed:

 

“Don’t beg pardon! You are quite right. You don’t need to be French to be

stifled here. Ouf!”

 

He threw back his shoulders and took a long breath.

 

But she was ashamed of having been so free and relapsed into silence.

Besides she had just seen that the people in the boxes next to them were

listening to what they were saying: he noticed it too and was wrathful.

They broke off: and until the end of the interval he went out into the

corridor. The girl’s words were ringing in his ears, but he was lost in

dreams: the image of Ophelia filled his thoughts. During the succeeding

acts she took hold of him completely, and when the beautiful actress came

to the mad scene and the melancholy songs of love and death, her voice gave

forth notes so moving that he was bowled over: he felt that he was going

to burst into tears. Angry with himself for what he took to be a sign

of weakness—(for he would not admit that a true artist can weep)—and

not wishing to make an object of himself, he left the box abruptly. The

corridors and the foyer were empty. In his agitation he went down the

stairs of the theater and went out without knowing it. He had to breathe

the cold night air, and to go striding through the dark, half-empty

streets. He came to himself by the edge of a canal, and leaned on the

parapet of the bank and watched the silent water whereon the reflections

of the street lamps danced in the darkness. His soul was like that: it was

dark and heaving: he could see nothing in it but great joy dancing on the

surface. The clocks rang the hour. It was impossible for him to go back to

the theater and hear the end of the play. To see the triumph of Fortinbras?

No, that did not tempt him. A fine triumph that! Who thinks of envying the

conqueror? Who would be he after being gorged with all the wild and absurd

savagery of life? The whole play is a formidable indictment of life. But

there is such a power of life in it that sadness becomes joy, and

bitterness intoxicates….

 

Christophe went home without a thought for the unknown girl, whose name

even he had not ascertained.

 

*

 

Next morning he went to see the actress at the little third-rate hotel in

which the impresario had quartered her with her comrades while the great

actress had put up at the best hotel in the town. He was conducted to a

very untidy room where the remains of breakfast were left on an open piano,

together with hairpins and torn and dirty sheets of music. In the next room

Ophelia was singing at the top of her voice, like a child, for the pleasure

of making a noise. She stopped for a moment when her visitor was announced

to ask merrily in a loud voice without ever caring whether she were heard

through the wall:

 

“What does he want? What is his name? Christophe? Christophe what?

Christophe Krafft? What a name!”

 

(She repeated it two or three times, rolling her r‘s terribly.)

 

“It is like a swear—”

 

(She swore.)

 

“Is he young or old? Pleasant? Very well. I’ll come.”

 

She began to sing again:

 

“Nothing is sweeter than my love….” while she rushed about her room

cursing a tortoise-shell pin which had got lost in all the rubbish. She

lost patience, began to grumble, and roared. Although he could not see her

Christophe followed all her movements on the other side of the wall in

imagination and laughed to himself. At last he heard steps approaching, the

door was flung open, and Ophelia appeared.

 

She was half dressed, in a loose gown which she was holding about her

waist: her bare arms showed in her wide sleeves: her hair was carelessly

done, and locks of it fell down into her eyes and over her cheeks. Her

fine brown eyes smiled, her lips smiled, her cheeks smiled, and a charming

dimple in her chin smiled. In her beautiful grave melodious voice she asked

him to excuse her appearance. She knew that there was nothing to excuse and

that he could only be very grateful to her for it. She thought he was a

journalist come to interview her. Instead of being annoyed when he told her

that he had come to her entirely of his own accord and because he admired

her, she was delighted. She was a good girl, affectionate, delighted to

please, and making no effort to conceal her delight. Christophe’s visit and

his enthusiasm made her very happy—(she was not yet spoiled by flattery).

She was so natural in all her movements and ways, even in her little

vanities and her naïve delight in giving pleasure, that he was not

embarrassed for a single moment. They became old friends at once. He could

jabber a few words of French: and she could jabber a few words of German:

after an hour they told each other all their secrets. She never thought

of sending him away. The splendid gay southern creature, intelligent and

warm-hearted, who would have been bored to tears with her stupid companions

and in a country whose language she did not know, a country without the

natural joy that was in herself, was glad to find some one to talk to. As

for Christophe it was an untold blessing for him to meet the free-hearted

girl of the Midi filled with the life of the people, in the midst of his

narrow and insincere fellow citizens. He did not yet know the workings of

such natures which, unlike the Germans, have no more in their minds and

hearts than they show, and often not even as much. But at the least she was

young, she was alive, she said frankly, rawly, what she thought: she judged

everything freely from a new and a fresh point of view: in her it was

possible to breathe a little of the northwest wind that sweeps away mists.

She was gifted. Uneducated and unthinking, she could at once feel with her

whole heart and be sincerely moved by things which were beautiful and good;

and then, a moment later, she would burst out laughing. She was a coquette

and made eyes; she did not mind showing her bare arms and neck under

her half open gown; she would have liked to turn Christophe’s head, but

it was all purely instinctive. There was no thought of gaining her own

ends in her, and she much preferred to laugh, and talk blithely, to be

a good fellow, a good chum, without ceremony or awkwardness. She told

him about the underworld of the theater, her little sorrows, the silly

susceptibilities of her comrades, the bickerings of Jezebel—(so she called

the great actress)—who took good care not to let her shine. He confided

his sufferings at the hands of the Germans: she clapped her hands and

played chords to him. She was kind and would not speak ill of anybody; but

that did not keep her from doing so, and while she blamed herself for her

malice, when she laughed at anybody, she had a fund of mocking humor and

that realistic and witty gift of observation which belongs to the people of

the South; she could not resist it and drew cuttingly satirical portraits.

With her pale lips she laughed merrily to show her teeth, like those of a

puppy, and dark eyes shone in her pale face, which was a little discolored

by grease paint.

 

They noticed suddenly that they had been talking for more than an hour.

Christophe proposed to come for Corinne—(that was her stage name)—in the

afternoon and show her over the town. She was delighted with the idea, and

they arranged to meet immediately after dinner.