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

together higgledy-piggledy. She giggled at a

dinner-service decoration with Wagner’s cross-grained face, or at a hair

dresser’s shop-window in which there was the wax head of a man. She made no

attempt to modify her hilarity over the patriotic monument representing the

old Emperor in a traveling coat and a peaked cap, together with Prussia,

the German States, and a nude Genius of War. She made remarks about

anything in the faces of the people or their way of speaking that struck

her as funny. Her victims were left in no doubt about it as she maliciously

picked out their absurdities. Her instinctive mimicry made her sometimes

imitate with her mouth and nose their broad grimaces and frowns, without

thinking; and she would blow out her cheeks as she repeated fragments

of sentences and words that struck her as grotesque in sound as she

caught them. He laughed heartily and was not at all embarrassed by her

impertinence, for he was no longer easily embarrassed. Fortunately he had

no great reputation to lose, or his walk would have ruined it for ever.

 

They visited the cathedral. Corinne wanted to go to the top of the spire,

in spite of her high heels, and long dress which swept the stairs or was

caught in a corner of the staircase; she did not worry about it, but pulled

the stuff which split, and went on climbing, holding it up. She wanted very

much to ring the bells. From the top of the tower she declaimed Victor Hugo

(he did not understand it), and sang a popular French song. After that she

played the muezzin. Dusk was falling. They went down into the cathedral

where the dark shadows were creeping along the gigantic walls in which

the magic eyes of the windows were shining. Kneeling in one of the side

chapels, Christophe saw the girl who had shared his box at Hamlet. She

was so absorbed in her prayers that she did not see him: he saw that she

was looking sad and strained. He would have liked to speak to her, just to

say, “How do you do?” but Corinne dragged him off like a whirlwind.

 

They parted soon afterwards. She had to get ready for the performance,

which began early, as usual in Germany. He had hardly reached home when

there was a ring at the door and a letter from Corinne was handed in:

 

“Luck! Jezebel ill! No performance! No school! Come! Let us dine together!

Your friend,

 

“CORINETTE.

 

“P.S. Bring plenty of music!”

 

It was some time before he understood. When he did understand he was as

happy as Corinne, and went to the hotel at once. He was afraid of finding

the whole company assembled at dinner; but he saw nobody. Corinne herself

was not there. At last he heard her laughing voice at the back of the

house: he went to look for her and found her in the kitchen. She had taken

it into her head to cook a dish in her own way, one of those southern

dishes which fills the whole neighborhood with its aroma and would awaken a

stone. She was on excellent terms with the large proprietress of the hotel,

and they were jabbering in a horrible jargon that was a mixture of German,

French, and negro, though there is no word to describe it in any language.

They were laughing loudly and making each other taste their cooking.

Christophe’s appearance made them noisier than ever. They tried to push him

out; but he struggled and succeeded in tasting the famous dish. He made a

face. She said he was a barbarous Teuton and that it was no use putting

herself out for him.

 

They went up to the little sitting-room when the table was laid; there were

only two places, for himself and Corinne. He could not help asking her

where her companions were. Corinne waved her hands carelessly:

 

“I don’t know.”

 

“Don’t you sup together?”

 

“Never! We see enough of each other at the theater!… And it would be

awful if we had to meet at meals!…”

 

It was so different from German custom that he was surprised and charmed by

it.

 

“I thought,” he said, “you were a sociable people!”

 

“Well,” said she, “am I not sociable?”

 

“Sociable means living in society. We have to see each other! Men, women,

children, we all belong to societies from birth to death. We are always

making societies: we eat, sing, think in societies. When the societies

sneeze, we sneeze too: we don’t have a drink except with our societies.”

 

“That must be amusing,” said she. “Why not out of the same glass?”

 

“Brotherly, isn’t it?”

 

“That for fraternity! I like being ‘brotherly’ with people I like: not with

the others … Pooh! That’s not society: that is an ant heap.”

 

“Well, you can imagine how happy I am here, for I think as you do.”

 

“Come to us, then!”

 

He asked nothing better. He questioned her about Paris and the French. She

told him much that was not perfectly accurate. Her southern propensity

for boasting was mixed with an instinctive desire to shine before him.

According to her, everybody in Paris was free: and as everybody in Paris

was intelligent, everybody made good use of their liberty, and no one

abused it. Everybody did what they liked: thought, believed, loved or did

not love, as they liked; nobody had anything to say about it. There nobody

meddled with other people’s beliefs, or spied on their consciences or tried

to regulate their thoughts. There politicians never dabbled in literature

or the arts, and never gave orders, jobs, and money to their friends or

clients. There little cliques never disposed of reputation or success,

journalists were never bought; there men of letters never entered into

controversies with the church, that could lead to nothing. There criticism

never stifled unknown talent, or exhausted its praises upon recognized

talent. There success, success at all costs, did not justify the means, and

command the adoration of the public. There were only gentle manners, kindly

and sweet. There was never any bitterness, never any scandal. Everybody

helped everybody else. Every worthy newcomer was certain to find hands held

out to him and the way made smooth for him. Pure love, of beauty filled the

chivalrous and disinterested souls of the French, and they were only absurd

in their idealism, which, in spite of their acknowledged wit, made them

the dupes of other nations. Christophe listened open-mouthed. It was

certainly marvelous. Corinne marveled herself as she heard her words.

She had forgotten what she had told Christophe the day before about the

difficulties of her past life. He gave no more thought to it than she.

 

And yet Corinne was not only concerned with making the Germans love her

country: she wanted to make herself loved, too. A whole evening without

flirtation would have seemed austere and rather absurd to her. She made

eyes at Christophe; but it was trouble wasted: he did not notice it.

Christophe did not know what it was to flirt. He loved or did not love.

When he did not love he was miles from any thought of love. He liked

Corinne enormously. He felt the attraction of her southern nature; it was

so new to him. And her sweetness and good humor, her quick and lively

intelligence: many more reasons than he needed for loving. But the spirit

blows where it listeth. It did not blow in that direction, and as for

playing at love, in love’s absence, the idea had never occurred to him.

 

Corinne was amused by his coldness. She sat by his side at the piano while

he played the music he had brought with him, and put her arm round his

neck, and to follow the music she leaned towards the keyboard, almost

pressing her cheek against his. He felt her hair touch his face, and quite

close to him saw the corner of her mocking eye, her pretty little mouth,

and the light down on her tip-tilted nose. She waited, smiling—she waited.

Christophe did not understand the invitation. Corinne was in his way: that

was all he thought of. Mechanically he broke free from her and moved his

chair. And when, a moment later, he turned to speak to Corinne, he saw that

she was choking with laughter: her cheeks were dimpled, her lips were

pressed together, and she seemed to be holding herself in.

 

“What is the matter?” he said, in his astonishment.

 

She looked at him and laughed aloud.

 

He did not understand.

 

“Why are you laughing?” he asked. “Did I say anything funny?”

 

The more he insisted, the more she laughed. When she had almost finished

she had only to look at his crestfallen appearance to break out again. She

got up, ran to the sofa at the other end of the room, and buried her face

in the cushions to laugh her fill; her whole body shook with it. He began

to laugh too, came towards her, and slapped her on the back. When she had

done laughing she raised her head, dried the tears in her eyes, and held

out her hands to him.

 

“What a good boy you are!” she said.

 

“No worse than another.”

 

She went on, shaking occasionally with laughter, still holding his hands.

 

“Frenchwomen are not serious?” she asked. (She pronounced it:

“Françouése.”)

 

“You are making fun of me,” he said good-humoredly.

 

She looked at him kindly, shook his hands vigorously, and said:

 

“Friends?”

 

“Friends!” said he, shaking her hand.

 

“You will think of Corinette when she is gone? You won’t be angry with the

Frenchwoman for not being serious?”

 

“And Corinette won’t be angry with the barbarous Teuton for being so

stupid?”

 

“That is why she loves him … You will come and see her in Paris?”

 

“It is a promise … And she—she will write to him?”

 

“I swear it … You say: ‘I swear.’”

 

“I swear.”

 

“No, not like that. You must hold up your hand.” She recited the oath of

the Horatii. She made him promise to write a play for her, a melodrama,

which could be translated into French and played in Paris by her. She was

going away next day with her company. He promised to go and see her again

the day after at Frankfort, where they were giving a performance.

 

They stayed talking for some time. She presented Christophe with a

photograph in which she was much décolletée, draped only in a garment

fastening below her shoulders. They parted gaily, and kissed like brother

and sister. And, indeed, once Corinne had seen that Christophe was fond of

her, but not at all in love, she began to be fond of him, too, without

love, as a good friend.

 

Their sleep was not troubled by it. He could not see her off next day,

because he was occupied by a rehearsal. But on the day following he managed

to go to Frankfort as he had promised. It was a few hours’ journey by

rail. Corinne hardly believed Christophe’s promise. But he had taken it

seriously, and when the performance began he was there. When he knocked at

her dressing-room door during the interval, she gave a cry of glad surprise

and threw her arms round his neck with her usual exuberance. She was

sincerely grateful to him for having come. Unfortunately for Christophe,

she was much more sought after in the city of rich, intelligent Jews, who

could appreciate her actual beauty and her future success. Almost every

minute there was a knock at the door, and it opened to reveal men with

heavy faces