He did not sleep. Through the night he counted one after another the chimes of the clock. From one o’clock on he was rambling round the Kerichs’ house; he entered it as soon as he could. He did not see Minna, but Frau von Kerich. Always busy and an early riser, she was watering the pots of flowers on the veranda. She gave a mocking cry when she saw Jean-Christophe.
“Ah!” she said. “It is you! … I am glad you have come. I have something to talk to you about. Wait a moment. …”
She went in for a moment to put down her watering can and to dry her hands, and came back with a little smile as she saw Jean-Christophe’s discomfiture; he was conscious of the approach of disaster.
“Come into the garden,” she said; “we shall be quieter.”
In the garden that was full still of his love he followed Frau von Kerich. She did not hasten to speak, and enjoyed the boy’s uneasiness.
“Let us sit here,” she said at last. They were sitting on the seat in the place where Minna had held up her lips to him on the eve of her departure.
“I think you know what is the matter,” said Frau von Kerich, looking serious so as to complete his confusion. “I should never have thought it of you, Jean-Christophe. I thought you a serious boy. I had every confidence in you. I should never have thought that you would abuse it to try and turn my daughter’s head. She was in your keeping. You ought to have shown respect for her, respect for me, respect for yourself.”
There was a light irony in her accents. Frau von Kerich attached not the least importance to this childish love affair; but Jean-Christophe was not conscious of it, and her reproaches, which he took, as he took everything, tragically, went to his heart.
“But, Madam … but, Madam …” he stammered, with tears in his eyes, “I have never abused your confidence. … Please do not think that. … I am not a bad man, that I swear! … I love Fräulein Minna. I love her with all my Soul, and I wish to marry her.”
Frau von Kerich smiled.
“No, my poor boy,” she said, with that kindly smile in which was so much disdain, as at last he was to understand, “no, it is impossible; it is just a childish folly.”
“Why? Why?” he asked.
He took her hands, not believing that she could be speaking seriously, and almost reassured by the new softness in her voice. She smiled still, and said:
“Because. …”
He insisted. With ironical deliberation—she did not take him altogether seriously—she told him that he had no fortune, that Minna had different tastes. He protested that that made no difference; that he would be rich, famous; that he would win honors, money, all that Minna could desire. Frau von Kerich looked skeptical; she was amused by his self-confidence, and only shook her head by way of saying no. But he stuck to it.
“No, Jean-Christophe,” she said firmly, “no. It is not worth arguing. It is impossible. It is not only a question of money. So many things! The position. …”
She had no need to finish. That was a needle that pierced to his very marrow. His eyes were opened. He saw the irony of the friendly smile, he saw the coldness of the kindly look, he understood suddenly what it was that separated him from this woman whom he loved as a son, this woman who seemed to treat him like a mother; he was conscious of all that was patronizing and disdainful in her affection. He got up. He was pale. Frau von Kerich went on talking to him in her caressing voice, but it was the end; he heard no more the music of the words; he perceived under every word the falseness of that elegant soul. He could not answer a word. He went. Everything about him was going round and round.
When he regained his room he flung himself on his bed, and gave way to a fit of anger and injured pride, just as he used to do when he was a little boy. He bit his pillow; he crammed his handkerchief into his mouth, so that no one should hear him crying. He hated Frau von Kerich. He hated Minna. He despised them mightily. It seemed to him that he had been insulted, and he trembled with shame and rage. He had to reply, to take immediate action. If he could not avenge himself he would die.
He got up, and wrote an idiotically violent letter:
“Madam—
“I do not know if, as you say, you have been deceived in me. But I do know that I have been cruelly deceived in you. I thought that you were my friends. You said so. You pretended to be so, and I loved you more than my life. I see now that it was all a lie, that your affection for me was only a sham; you made use of me. I amused you, provided you with entertainment, made music for you. I was your servant. Your servant: that I am not! I am no man’s servant!
“You have made me feel cruelly that I had no right to love your daughter. Nothing in the world can prevent my heart from loving where it loves, and if I am not your
