Jean-Christophe, vol 1 by Romain Rolland (the red fox clan .TXT) 📖

as though it were some one

else standing there in that place. He heard the buzzing of memory and of an

unknown creature within himself; the blood boiled in his veins and roared:

 

“Thus … Thus .. Thus …”

 

The centuries whirled through him…. Many other Kraffts had passed through

the experiences which were his on that day, and had tasted the wretchedness

of the last hour on their native soil. A wandering race, banished

everywhere for their independence and disturbing qualities. A race always

the prey of an inner demon that never let it settle anywhere. A race

attached to the soil from which it was torn, and never, never ceasing to

love it.

 

Christophe in his turn was passing through these same sorrowful

experiences; and he was finding on the way the footsteps of those who had

gone before him. With tears in his eyes he watched his native land

disappear in the mist, his country to which he had to say farewell.—Had he

not ardently desired to leave it?—Yes; but now that he was actually

leaving it he felt himself racked by anguish. Only a brutish heart can part

without emotion from the motherland. Happy or unhappy he had lived with

her; she was his mother and his comrade; he had slept in her, he had slept

on her bosom, he was impregnated with her; in her bosom she held the

treasure of his dreams, all his past life, the sacred dust of those whom he

had loved. Christophe saw now in review the days of his life, and the dear

men and women whom he was leaving on that soil or beneath it. His

sufferings were not less dear to him than his joys. Minna, Sabine, Ada, his

grandfather, Uncle Gottfried, old Schulz—all passed before him in the

space of a few minutes. He could not tear himself away from the dead—(for

he counted Ada also among the dead)—the idea of his mother whom he was

leaving, the only living creature of all those whom he loved, among these

phantoms was intolerable to him.

 

He was almost on the point of crossing the frontier again, so cowardly did

his flight seem to him. He made up his mind that if the answer Lorchen was

to bring him from his mother betrayed too great grief he would return at

all costs. But if he received nothing? If Lorchen had not been able to

reach Louisa, or to bring back the answer? Well, he would go back.

 

He returned to the station. After a grim time of waiting the train at last

appeared. Christophe expected to see Lorchen’s bold face in the train; for

he was sure she would keep her promise; but she did not appear. He ran

anxiously from one compartment to another; he said to himself that if she

had been in the train she would have been one of the first to get out. As

he was plunging through the stream of passengers coming from the opposite

direction he saw a face which he seemed to know. It was the face of a

little girl of thirteen or fourteen, chubby, dimpled, and ruddy as an

apple, with a little turned-up nose and a large mouth, and a thick plait

coiled around her head. As he looked more closely at her he saw that she

had in her hand an old valise very much like his own. She was watching him

too like a sparrow; and when she saw that he was looking at her she came

towards him; but she stood firmly in front of Christophe and stared at him

with her little mouse-like eyes, without speaking a word. Christophe knew

her; she was a little milkmaid at Lorchen’s farm. Pointing to the valise he

said:

 

“That is mine, isn’t it?”

 

The girl did not move and replied cunningly:

 

“I’m not sure. Where do you come from, first of all?”

 

“Buir.”

 

“And who sent it you?”

 

“Lorchen. Come. Give it me.”

 

The little girl held out the valise.

 

“There it is.”

 

And she added:

 

“Oh! But I knew you at once!”

 

“What were you waiting for then?”

 

“I was waiting for you to tell me that it was you.”

 

“And Lorchen?” asked Christophe. “Why didn’t she come?”

 

The girl did not reply. Christophe understood that she did not want to say

anything among all the people. They had first to pass through the customs.

When that was done Christophe took the girl to the end of the platform:

 

“The police came,” said the girl, now very talkative. “They came almost

as soon as you had gone. They went into all the houses. They questioned

everybody, and they arrested big Sami and Christian and old Kaspar. And

also Mélanie and Gertrude, though they declared they had done nothing, and

they wept; and Gertrude scratched the gendarmes. It was not any good then

saying that you had done it all.”

 

“I?” exclaimed Christophe.

 

“Oh! yes,” said the girl quietly. “It was no good as you had gone. Then

they looked for you everywhere and hunted for you in every direction.”

 

“And Lorchen?”

 

“Lorchen was not there. She came back afterwards after she had been to the

town.”

 

“Did she see my mother?”

 

“Yes. Here is the letter. And she wanted to come herself, but she was

arrested too.”

 

“How did you manage to come?”

 

“Well, she came back to the village without being seen by the police, and

she was going to set out again. But Irmina, Gertrude’s sister, denounced

her. They came to arrest her. Then when she saw the gendarmes coming she

went up to her room and shouted that she would come down in a minute, that

she was dressing. I was in the vineyard behind the house; she called to me

from the window: ‘Lydia! Lydia!’ I went to her; she threw down your valise

and the letter which your mother had given her, and she explained where I

should find you. I ran, and here I am.”

 

“Didn’t she say anything more?”

 

“Yes. She told me to give you this shawl to show you that I came from her.”

 

Christophe recognized the white shawl with red spots and embroidered

flowers which Lorchen had tied round her head when she left him on the

night before. The naïve improbability of the excuse she had made for

sending him such a love-token did not make him smile.

 

“Now,” said the girl, “here is the return train. I must go home.

Goodnight.”

 

“Wait,” said Christophe. “And the fare, what did you do about that?”

 

“Lorchen gave it me.”

 

“Take this,” said Christophe, pressing a few pieces of money into her hand.

 

He held her back as she was trying to go.

 

“And then….” he said.

 

He stooped and kissed her cheeks. The girl affected to protest.

 

“Don’t mind,” said Christophe jokingly. “It was not for you.”

 

“Oh! I know that,” said the girl mockingly. “It was for Lorchen.”

 

It was not only Lorchen that Christophe kissed as he kissed the little

milkmaid’s chubby cheeks; it was all Germany.

 

The girl slipped away and ran towards the train which was just going. She

hung out of the window and waved her handkerchief to him until she was out

of sight. He followed with his eyes the rustic messenger who had brought

him for the last time the breath of his country and of those he loved.

 

When she had gone he found himself utterly alone, this time, a stranger

in a strange land. He had in his hand his mother’s letter and the shawl

love-token. He pressed the shawl to his breast and tried to open the

letter. But his hands trembled. What would he find in it? What suffering

would be written in it?—No; he could not bear the sorrowful words of

reproach which already he seemed to hear; he would retrace his steps.

 

At last he unfolded the letter and read: “My poor child, do not be anxious

about me. I will be wise. God has punished me. I must not be selfish and

keep you here. Go to Paris. Perhaps it will be better for you. Do not worry

about me. I can manage somehow. The chief thing is that you should be

happy. I kiss you. MOTHER.

 

“Write to me when you can.”

 

Christophe sat down on his valise and wept.

 

*

 

The porter was shouting the train for Paris.

 

The heavy train was slowing down with a terrific noise. Christophe dried

his tears, got up and said:

 

“I must go.”

 

He looked at the sky in the direction in which Paris must be. The sky, dark

everywhere, was even darker there. It was like a dark chasm. Christophe’s

heart ached, but he said again:

 

“I must go.”

 

He climbed into the train and leaning out of the window went on looking at

the menacing horizon:

 

“O, Paris!” he thought, “Paris! Come to my aid! Save me! Save my thoughts!”

 

The thick fog grew denser still. Behind Christophe, above the country he

was leaving, a little patch of sky, pale blue, large, like two eyes—like

the eyes of Sabine—smiled sorrowfully through the heavy veil of clouds and

then was gone. The train departed. Rain fell. Night fell.

 

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