Jean Christophe: In Paris | Page 2

he marked and judged the awkward childish German, who
refused to let his bag out of his hands, and struggled hard to make
himself understood in an incredible language. He took him up an
evil-smelling staircase to an airless room which opened on to a closed
court. He vaunted the quietness of the room, to which no noise from
outside could penetrate: and he asked a good price for it. Christophe
only half understood him; knowing nothing of the conditions of life in
Paris, and with his shoulder aching with the weight of his bag, he
accepted everything: he was, eager to be alone. But hardly was he left
alone when he was struck by the dirtiness of it all: and to avoid
succumbing to the melancholy which was creeping over him, he went
out again very soon after having dipped his face in the dusty water,
which was greasy to the touch. He tried hard not to see and not to feel,
so as to escape disgust.
He went down into the street. The October mist was thick and keenly
cold: it had that stale Parisian smell, in which are mingled the
exhalations of the factories of the outskirts and the heavy breath of the
town. He could not see ten yards in front of him. The light of the
gas-jets flickered like a candle on the point of going out. In the
semi-darkness there were crowds of people moving in all directions.

Carriages moved in front of each other, collided, obstructed the road,
stemming the flood of people like a dam. The oaths of the drivers, the
horns and bells of the trams, made a deafening noise. The roar, the
clamor, the smell of it all, struck fearfully on the mind and heart of
Christophe. He stopped for a moment, but was at once swept on by the
people behind him and borne on by the current. He went down the
Boulevard de Strasbourg, seeing nothing, bumping awkwardly into the
passers-by. He had eaten nothing since morning. The cafés, which he
found at every turn, abashed and revolted him, for they were all so
crowded. He applied to a policeman; but he was so slow in finding
words that the man did not even take the trouble to hear him out, and
turned his back on him in the middle of a sentence and shrugged his
shoulders. He went on walking mechanically. There was a small crowd
in front of a shop-window. He stopped mechanically. It was a
photograph and picture-postcard shop: there were pictures of girls in
chemises, or without them: illustrated papers displayed obscene jests.
Children and young girls were looking at them calmly. There was a
slim girl with red hair who saw Christophe lost in contemplation and
accosted him. He looked at her and did not understand. She took his
arm with a silly smile. He shook her off, and rushed away, blushing
angrily. There were rows of café concerts: outside the doors were
displayed grotesque pictures of the comedians. The crowd grew thicker
and thicker. Christophe was struck by the number of vicious faces,
prowling rascals, vile beggars, painted women sickeningly scented. He
was frozen by it all. Weariness, weakness, and the horrible feeling of
nausea, which more and more came over him, turned him sick and
giddy. He set his teeth and walked on more quickly. The fog grew
denser as he approached the Seine. The whirl of carriages became
bewildering. A horse slipped and fell on its side: the driver flogged it to
make it get up: the wretched beast, held down by its harness, struggled
and fell down again, and lay still as though it were dead. The sight of
it--common enough--was the last drop that made the wretchedness that
filled the soul of Christophe flow over. The miserable struggles of the
poor beast, surrounded by indifferent and careless faces, made him feel
bitterly his own insignificance among these thousands of men and
women--the feeling of revulsion, which for the last hour had been
choking him, his disgust with all these human beasts, with the unclean

atmosphere, with the morally repugnant people, burst forth in him with
such violence that he could not breathe. He burst into tears. The
passers-by looked in amazement at the tall young man whose face was
twisted with grief. He strode along with the tears running down his
cheeks, and made no attempt to dry them. People stopped to look at
him for a moment: and if he had been able to read the soul of the mob,
which seemed to him to be so hostile, perhaps in some of them he
might have seen--mingled, no doubt, with a little of the ironic feeling of
the Parisians for any sorrow so simple and ridiculous as to show