Jean-Christophe, vol 1 | Page 5

to such a

marriage--least of all Melchior. It was certainly not Louisa's beauty.
She had no seductive quality: she was small, rather pale, and delicate,
and she was a striking contrast to Melchior and Jean Michel, who were
both big and broad, red-faced giants, heavy-handed, hearty eaters and
drinkers, laughter-loving and noisy. She seemed to be crushed by them;
no one noticed her, and she seemed to wish to escape even what little
notice she attracted. If Melchior had been a kind-hearted man, it would
have been credible that he should prefer Louisa's simple goodness to
every other advantage; but a vainer man never was. It seemed
incredible that a young man of his kidney, fairly good-looking, and
quite conscious of it, very foolish, but not without talent, and in a
position to look for some well-dowered match, and capable even--who
knows?--of turning the head of one of his pupils among the people of
the town, should suddenly have chosen a girl of the people--poor,
uneducated, without beauty, a girl who could in no way advance his
career.
But Melchior was one of those men who always do the opposite of
what is expected of them and of what they expect of themselves. It is
not that they are not warned--a man who is warned is worth two men,
says the proverb. They profess never to be the dupe of anything, and
that they steer their ship with unerring hand towards a definite point.
But they reckon without themselves, for they do not know themselves.
In one of those moments of forgetfulness which are habitual with them
they let go the tiller, and, as is natural when things are left to
themselves, they take a naughty pleasure in rounding on their masters.
The ship which is released from its course at once strikes a rock, and
Melchior, bent upon intrigue, married a cook. And yet he was neither
drunk nor in a stupor on the day when he bound himself to her for life,
and he was not under any passionate impulse; far from it. But perhaps
there are in us forces other than mind and heart, other even than the
senses--mysterious forces which take hold of us in the moments when
the others are asleep; and perhaps it was such forces that Melchior had
found in the depths of those pale eyes which had looked at him so
timidly one evening when he had accosted the girl on the bank of the
river, and had sat down beside her in the reeds--without knowing
why--and had given her his hand.

Hardly was he married than he was appalled by what he had done, and
he did not hide what he felt from poor Louisa, who humbly asked his
pardon. He was not a bad fellow, and he willingly granted her that; but
immediately remorse would seize him again when he was with his
friends or in the houses of his rich pupils, who were disdainful in their
treatment of him, and no longer trembled at the touch of his hand when
he corrected the position of their fingers on the keyboard. Then he
would return gloomy of countenance, and Louisa, with a catch at her
heart, would read in it with the first glance the customary reproach; or
he would stay out late at one inn or another, there to seek self-respect or
kindliness from others. On such evenings he would return shouting
with laughter, and this was more doleful for Louisa than the hidden
reproach and gloomy rancor that prevailed on other days. She felt that
she was to a certain extent responsible for the fits of madness in which
the small remnant of her husband's sense would disappear, together
with the household money. Melchior sank lower and lower. At an age
when he should have been engaged in unceasing toil to develop his
mediocre talent, he just let things slide, and others took his place.
But what did that matter to the unknown force which had thrown him
in with the little flaxen-haired servant? He had played his part, and
little Jean-Christophe had just set foot on this earth whither his destiny
had thrust him.
* * * * *
Night was fully come. Louisa's voice roused old Jean Michel from the
torpor into which he had sunk by the fireside as he thought of the
sorrows of the past and present.
"It must be late, father," said the young woman affectionately. "You
ought to go home; you have far to go."
"I am waiting for Melchior," replied the old man.
"Please, no. I would rather you did not stay."
"Why?"

The old man raised his head and looked fiercely at her.
She did not reply.
He resumed.
"You are afraid. You do not want me to meet him?"
"Yes, yes;