by C. F. Ramuz
4. Raison d’être: Par C.F. Ramuz, 1914, Lausanne C. Tarin, Cahier Vaudois 1, ebook, https://archive.org/details/raisondtreparc00ramuuoft/page/n10 (English translation by Olivia Baes and Emma Ramadan).
5. C.F. Ramuz, “Journal, notes et brouillons,” Tome 2, 1904–1920, Slatkine, entry dated April 5, 1908.
6. “L’homme qui s’exprime vraiment ne traduit pas. Il laisse le mouvement se faire en lui jusqu’à son terme, laissant ce même mouvement grouper les mots à sa façon.” Lettre à Bernard Grasset, 14, https://ebooks-bnr.com/ebooks/pdf4/ramuz_lettre_a_bernard_grasset.pdf, Bibliothèque numérique romande d’après C. F. Ramuz, Œuvres complètes 11, Lettre à Grasset, Salutation paysanne, Passage du Poète, Autre lettre, Cézanne, Lausanne, H. L. Mermod, s.d. [1941].
7. “I also see that this gesture-language (which is another encouragement), that this language-following-gestures, where logic gives way to the very rhythm of the images, is not far from what cinema is attempting to accomplish through its own means.” “Je vois aussi que cette langue-geste (c’est un autre encouragement), que cette langue-suite-de-gestes, où la logique cède le pas au rythme même des images, n’est pas très loin de ce que cherche à réaliser avec ses moyens à lui le cinéma.” Lettre à Bernard Grasset, 27, https://ebooks-bnr.com/ebooks/pdf4/ramuz_lettre_a_bernard_grasset.pdf, bibliothèque numérique romande d’après C. F. Ramuz, Œuvres complètes 11, Lettre à Grasset, Salutation paysanne, Passage du Poète, Autre lettre, Cézanne, Lausanne, H. L. Mermod, s.d. [1941].
Jean-Luc Persecuted
to
Albert Muret
who’s from up there
CHAPTER I
SEEING AS IT HAD BEEN AGREED he would go, that Sunday, to see a goat in Sasseneire, Jean-Luc Robille, after eating, grabbed hold of his hat and baton. He then went to kiss his wife (for he liked her and they’d only been married two years). She asked him:
—When will you be back?
He answered:
—Around six o’clock.
He continued:
—I’ve got to hurry because Simon’s waiting for me, and he doesn’t like to be kept waiting.
However, before leaving the house, walking on tiptoe, he went into the bedroom and up to the cradle where the little one, whom they’d had together the year before, slept. “Be careful!” cried Christine. And he, bending over, did not kiss him as he’d intended to, but only watched him sleep. He was a big boy, eleven months and two weeks old (for you count the weeks and days in the start), with cheeks that looked varnished, and a big round head, deep in the crease of the pillow. The cradle had been made with beautiful larch by Jean-Luc himself, who had done carpenter’s work (as they say) and learned the ropes, before taking on his mother’s property, when his father was still alive. So he remained perched there a moment, watching the little one sleep. Then, he crossed the kitchen once more and opened the door: “Adieu, wife!” he said again, and again he kissed Christine.
He found Simon in bed.
—Listen, said Simon, my pains have gotten hold of me again; so, never mind today!
—We’ll go next Sunday, said Jean-Luc.
He had taken a seat near the bed; he chatted with Simon for some time, and with his daughter who had come; the three of them chatted as to pass the time; one o’clock sounded, then two o’clock. Upon which, Jean-Luc headed back. At the inn, he came across a crowd, which made him lose another fifteen minutes. However, when he was invited to come in for a drink, he refused. And the others began to laugh: “Are you still drinking? Is it allowed or not?” “Oh! it’s allowed!” said Jean-Luc. He laughed too, then quickly went home.
He went up the stairs, pushed against the latch, the door was locked. He thought: “She went to Marie’s” (Marie was the blacksmith’s wife), and, bending down, took the key from under the woodpile where they hid it. Then thought: “I’ll go have a look at Marie’s.” He didn’t find her there, and Marie hadn’t seen Christine, nor Marie’s husband, who was reading the newspaper, who looked up and said to Jean-Luc, because he liked to tease: “Wives should never be left on their own.” Jean-Luc didn’t answer, he was worried.
Worry had come to him all of a sudden, he did not know why, and it followed him into the empty kitchen, to the dying fire, and into the bedroom, where he sat near the cradle and listened to Sunday. The sound of voices, and a trickle of water, nothing more; everyone rested.
It had snowed a little the night before, a trifle again, a sprinkle, only marking that winter was there, and in the morning broad daylight had entered the bedroom, where all seemed wholly restored. He sat with his elbows on his knees, he asked himself: “Where could she have gone?” He didn’t have the answer.
And so, seized by boredom, he stood up, he looked out the window. There was the tip of the meadow’s slope, then came willows and aspens, and the large pond appeared, round and not yet frozen; but, usually beautiful as it glistened and reflected the whole of the mountain, the snow had melted on the pond and seemed to have tarnished it. In the back, beneath the blue sky, the mountain zones ascended, all white, stained with black.
Suddenly, Jean-Luc’s eyes reached the ground and lingered there. It was because of the footprints. Footprints in the snow, small, pronounced. And they didn’t head toward the village, where the path was already open, but to the other side, by the pond. He thought: “Where did she go?”
In a flash, he was decided. He took the little one who woke, wrapped him in a warm shawl, then, returning to Marie’s: “Will you look after him while I’m gone?” Marie asked: “Christine hasn’t come home?” He said no, returned to the house, but didn’t enter it; he began to follow the tracks. They started right in front of the door; he followed them without seeming to, his hands in his pockets, because of the people who could see him, but his heart beat hard in his chest; and he hoped again that once on the path that followed the bank at the back of the pond, the footprints would turn toward the village; no, not at all: they did turn, but in the other direction, in the direction of the mountain.
So he went off again more quickly. Now, on the path, the tracks were muddled, a mule and some men had also passed this way, but he watched the sides, where the layers of snow were still smooth; and, indeed, soon he saw the small footprints take a left toward some kind of fold in the terrain, like there are everywhere in the region, of which he followed the back, and was led directly to a slope where he began to climb.
On the well-exposed banks, the snow had already melted, allowing yellow layers of turf to pierce through; there, the traces suddenly ceased, but only to reappear higher up, and indeed, in the humid soil, the heel had sunk deeper, and the shoes’ hobnails had scratched the surface by slipping, there was no room for error; now, crosswise, he went off toward another way that leads to Le Plateau des Roffes. He thought: “She made a detour!” He thought, looking at the hobnails’ marks: “And she kept her Sunday shoes on.” He clearly recognized the hobnails’ pattern, planted only around the sole and at the round and smooth tip, for these shoes were a present he had given her, when he had returned from the autumn fair. Then he thought: “What small feet she has!” While a voice inside of him repeated: “Dear small feet, dear small feet, the prettiest there are!”
Nevertheless he continued, and he reached the second path. This path is rocky in the summer, lit up with sun, pretty wild rose bushes bearing small leaves and pink flowers; the snow had covered everything up, the bushes looked like big balls of unraveled yarn. Then, as you reach higher up, when you turn around, you glimpse straight beneath you all of the village houses, pressed together and tucked away in the crater like eggs in a nest, roofs white among the white, and the tall church in the middle with its bare walls; then from behind, carved out against the sky and the depth of the large valley, a strange sharp hill rises up, with edges like a saw’s teeth because of its fir trees, Le Bourni, as they call it.
That was the view, he went up. From among the bushes, at one point, comes a tall solitary pine. Arrived there, Jean-Luc abruptly
halted. For he had just seen a second trace. This second trace joined the other one under the pine. They were big footprints, a man’s footprints; and, under the pine, someone must have waited, the snow having been trodden upon; then the big footprints and the small footprints had continued on together, as could be seen farther down the trail of marks at times farther apart, at times closer together, sometimes nearly muddled.
He opened his eyes, he couldn’t believe it and yet he was forced to, for the layer of snow became thicker, having been crammed into crevices by the wind; so, as far as you could see on this shoulder of the hill, indicated in blue by a shadow, the deep holes continued on like the seam to a sheet.
He had set off again, he began to walk faster, he quickly arrived at the crest; there, you enter a comb, the trail goes off down the middle. Larches the color of honey, their trunks gray, gray in certain branches already skinned, looked to be arranged all around; up ahead, from a gash in the green sky, a faraway summit appeared, pink. There was a little pink too, almost blonde rather, in the light, on the snow, while various dips and ridges, in this velvet, sparkled like gold, like so on a bush, the tip of a tree, a rift in the terrain.
But the heart is sad, and all was in silence. A chough in flight passed now and again in the sky, where it occupied a space, then no longer occupied it; sounds came from very far off, like strangers to the land: you heard the village bell ring, you didn’t know from where, maybe in the prairie, soon it hushed; a gunshot blasted, a poacher’s, in a gorge all the way over there, which dragged out for a long time, jarred into echoes.
And Jean-Luc brushed his hand against his forehead, for he was sweating, but he didn’t halt: now he would have had his eyes closed, guessing it all. He went up the comb, took another right; then, among the first larches, headed toward the forest. He entered the forest. Suddenly there was another place that had been trampled upon; following which, he could only distinguish a single trace, that of the man’s big footprints.
He examined it: no, only one, his legs failed him; he thought: “He had to have carried her; she was tired, he carried her!” And indeed the traces were deeper than before, more dragged, with here and there a stone popping up and under the trees a little black earth or the needles of larches; elsewhere someone had banged into a hidden root, then had rested; and that is when the two small feet appeared once more.
It was as he had predicted. At the edge of the forest, there was a new hayloft belonging to a man named Augustin Crettaz. “It’s him!” thought Jean-Luc. “But they told me he was away, so it must be that he’s back, and she didn’t tell me!” He was leaning against a tree, he watched. You couldn’t hear anything, you couldn’t see anything, there must have been hay, it’s comfortable to lie in hay. He moved as if to go forward, but at that moment someone, over there, began to laugh; he knew this laugh well; he hurried back down.
It was five o’clock when she returned, and the day was coming to a close (for it was during one of the shortest days of the year). At the same time, the cold of the winter nights lowered itself down, the cold that surprises flowing water and hardens paths. Then the bell-ringer came out of the inn, began to walk up the high stairs of the church tower, for the time of the angelus had come.
She was surprised to find the kitchen door not fully closed. She walked in; a little daylight still filtered through the window, she saw Jean-Luc sitting by the fireplace.
No fire, and the ash died-out; he sat there. She said to him:
—How come you’re back already?
He answered:
—I never left, Simon was sick.
Her shoulders fidgeted, but at once the movement was contained, and he did not notice, leaning as he was; in fact he was not watching her, he stared at the floor before him.
She went on:
—Aren’t you cold without the fire? It’s starting to freeze.
Jean-Luc responded:
—I’m not cold.
The angelus rang, they both remained quiet. Jean-Luc kept his head lowered, the child was lying in his arms. He was starting to become heavy, for he was falling asleep: a child sleeps and eats like this all day long. The angelus came to an end, the little eyelids unfolded, and a more crimson blood spread under the skin, with the dampness of sleep.
—Has he eaten? said Christine.
Jean-Luc answered:
—That’s my business.
She was starting the fire. At once, she was vivid with light. And so what had not been visible now showed. Her hair, a bit disheveled, fell on her forehead in small curls (that were usually so smooth), and drops glittered there, trapped; the fake gold needle she kept at the top of her camisole was fastened on crooked; on her shoulders, and her chest, were wet stains. Jean-Luc had turned toward her.
—I didn’t think it was raining?
—Those are the drops falling from the rooftops.
She said this with confidence. And then abruptly, going to him:
—Give me the child a minute.
He shook his head.
She didn’t insist, she didn’t even seem surprised; and continued to tidy up, coming and going through the kitchen, taking the cups and dishes to the rack; the pot was on the fire, she went down to the cellar to cut a slab of cheese, she brought the bread; the water started to boil, she poured it into the coffee press. The noise of those little drops that pierce through the filter and fall into the tinplate recipient sounded; upon which, they dwindled, and the milk came to a boil:
—You can come now, she said, it’s ready.
The child was completely asleep. Yet Jean-Luc had not left him; and, coming to sit at the table, did not leave him; he lifted him with precaution, and laid him down on his knees with one leg slightly raised. Christine no longer said anything.
They sat facing each other, the width of the table between them; there, the flat bread roll was set down, and the pot of milk and the cheese, which she cut with her knife and began to eat at once. She had also filled the ceramic cups with their yellow interior; the coffee was steaming with its good smell. She ate and drank. Jean-Luc had also cut from the bread roll, had started to eat, but the bites didn’t go down, even though he usually had a big appetite, for he was a strong and good worker. But now the bread felt like dry earth in his mouth, so he drank to make it go down, but his plate remained full, while Christine had had another helping and filled her cup again. She asked him:
—What’s wrong?
He pushed his plate away, let his knife fall onto the table, hung his head, and remained.
She went on:
—Jean-Luc!
He didn’t move, he was absent; and his hands slipped off the side of the table, his big empty hands hung there.
She saw that they needed to talk.
—Listen, she said, we should hear each other out. I’m sure you remember, the day of the Patron, when you asked me, when you said that you loved me, and I answered: “I like Augustin better, and he’s asked me too, but his father is against it because I’m too poor, and I’ve had enough of being a servant in other people’s homes, so let’s get engaged if you’d like; but if Augustin wants to kiss me, I’ll let myself be kissed.” Is that not what I told you?
He didn’t answer, she continued:
—And when your mother was against it too and you went to her and said: “I don’t care what you think!” didn’t I give you a piece of advice: “Listen,” I said, “don’t quarrel with her, it’s bad luck. You’ll find another.” And you didn’t listen to me. Is that not the truth, too?
She waited, nothing came; she went on:
—And since you kept coming to visit me and came around all the time, didn’t I say: “You’re not like the others.” And I said: “On top of it, you’re too thin.” You laughed. Well, is that not true?
Again she stopped; it was no use.
—So what? he came back, he asked to see me, we went to fetch hay together. And if you snuck up from behind, what can I do about it?
Having spoken, she hushed;
he was still quiet. There was a big log on the fireplace; eaten away in the middle, it suddenly broke in half, and one of the pieces rolled through the ash. Pointing at the child, Christine said again:
—Give him to me, you hear.
But he had moved back abruptly and, making a gesture with his hand as if to push her away from him:
—You will no longer touch him!
She shrugged her shoulders, she said: “I’ve got someone to comfort me.”
She opened the door, she went out on the stoop and leaned against the railing.
There was no moon, but many stars, beautiful and white, as if made of glass, which seemed to hang from threads, moving together in the wind: they barely lit up anything. And beneath the great darkness of the sky and the shadows, the snow was strange to behold, with its vast white sweep, the gleam that came from it, and in the middle, the pond all dark, the snow having melted on it. Christine held her shawl tight.
Then, leaning away from the stoop, she looked toward the village, which you can barely see from behind the corner of the house; she looked at a certain window. The squares of the roofs were marked in white, and the walls of dark wood, as if come undone and dissolved in the night, appeared to be suspended in midair. There was this dot of light, like a red eye, that was all.
Meanwhile there was movement in the kitchen, the footsteps moved away, a door creaked, the footsteps were in the bedroom, the footsteps returned. Suddenly they came closer, she turned around; at that very moment he passed by her. He had on his hat, the child on one arm, under the other a bag; he walked down the stairs. She said: “What are you doing?” She repeated: “Jean-Luc what are you doing?” but it was too late. He was already off in the distance. He walked toward the village.
The next day, it was said he had gone down to his mother’s, and it was confirmed when Félicie, the little servant, came on his behalf to get the two cows and the goat.