Jean-Luc Persecuted

by C. F. Ramuz

  The wind had picked up again, warmer, the wind called the snow-eater; the dark layers widened; the pond blackened, cracked: one day the water was liberated. And so the dead frogs floated back up from the bottom, and the murders of crows flew in circles around them. The shadows arrived; there was the forest’s darkness, a blue-black on the mountain, a sky that remained burdened, and some scattered islands of light. Again, she called him. But he answered her: “Never.”

  CHAPTER III

  YET, AT THE END OF APRIL, he broke his leg.

  On account of early snow the previous fall, they hadn’t been able to finish chopping wood in Sassette, and they’d gone back there, Théodule Chabbey, old Romain Aymon, Jean-Pierre Carraux, and Fardet—Jean-Luc was the fifth. It is in the gorge of La Zaut behind Le Bourni, a steep and rocky slope that runs straight down to the flowing torrent, full in this season.

  At a very early hour, they had already started their drudgery; the fir trees in question had bent over the void on their own as a result of the weight of the branches up top, there was no need to tie the rope, the men attacked them at the root; when the notch was deep enough, they broke, smashing on the rockery, bouncing all the way to the path.

  There was still fog. It had taken shape little by little, rising from the bottom of the gorge like water does in a basin. Strangled between boulders, the great rumble of water filled the air; the men could hardly hear one another. There they were, hanging on the slope: then, a little farther ahead, it steepens some more, and suddenly, it becomes a real wall, a hundred-meter wall. Where the bisse runs, a great wooden canal suspended in the air, fixed with beams dug into cracks in the rock, thus reaching the length of the wall up to the areas of lingering snow, from which it gathers the water that serves to irrigate meadows; without which, the climate is too dry, the grass would burn quickly. You see it shrink, still overhanging the void, now like a string, marked in black against the lighter stone, then suddenly turn, disappear.

  They worked all morning; around noon they ate; following which, they immediately took up their axes again, for work was calling. Nonetheless, around three, they found themselves rather ahead, as only one out of the five trees they had to chop down still stood standing, the largest one, yes, but old and rotten; and Théodule had started on it, while under him, Jean-Luc and Romain had begun to limb the tree. Neither of them spoke, too busy, and out of breath too; due to habit and the way it forms, the men no longer even heard the great sound of the water, it was turned into silence; nothing but the axes chopping away, the larger strokes, Théodule’s on the fly, and the other shorter and sharper hacks of Jean-Luc and Romain.

  The sun had lowered in the sky; suddenly it pierced through the clouds, the large side of the bisse turned pink; somewhere water dripped, there was a damp layer, it shone like gold.

  Smoke was rising from the hills, and, far away, at the bottom of the great valley, the vast land came into view, with the river’s silver bar and at the back of the horizon, a heap of tall mountains. A great bird of prey appeared and hung in the air for a moment; then it fell like a stone.

  A small warm wind had blown in, vapors passed, rising then coming undone, much like fine wisps of ink in the fallen light, where the sun had drowned. You could already smell the damp scent of the evening.

  You could still hear the axe hacking away at the heart of the tree, Théodule lifting the tool with the long handle, swinging it forward with a rounded movement of the shoulders; the shiny iron bouncing out of the widening notch. Suddenly the trunk cracked. Théodule cried: “Watch out!”, then began to strike again; the tip of the fir tree shook. “Watch out!” Théodule cried once more. But his mouth was still wide open when the trunk showed something like hesitation; it leaned to the right, it leaned to the left, and Théodule barely had enough time to leap back: the entire mass fell, among the whistling of branches, collapsed and rolled in a sort of pine needle smoke as bark debris launched into the air around him; then, all of a sudden, Romain, who had hidden behind a large rock, came running, screaming: “Ah! My God! he’s trapped underneath.” And those who were still on the path climbed the slope in great haste.

  Jean-Luc was indeed lying there, having been trapped during his escape. His bottom half was trapped, so that only his top half showed, with a face like the white of bread, and wide-open misty eyes. The forehead’s skin was split open, blood had trickled down to his mustache; his chest was bare. And did not stir, flat on his back, arms far apart, like those of a man nailed in the shape of a cross.

  So that at first they thought he was dead, and Romain, who was pious, crossing himself, said a prayer, as they observed from his moving lips, while the others remained standing there, filled only with great astonishment. Then Fardet removed his hat and said twice: “Hell! Hell!” Théodule, behind his large black beard, had grown even paler than Jean-Luc; he said: “I did cry out, only the trunk was rotten at its core.”

  But suddenly Jean-Luc let out a sigh, the red color of blood creeping back under his skin, he looked around him, most likely remembered everything; he said: “It’s nothing, only my legs are trapped.”

  They pulled him out from where he was, they laid him out on a flat mossy surface, they placed a garment rolled up in the form of a pillow under his head, and, because Romain had gone to get the small keg, the wine finished warming him and helped him to regain his senses. Then they examined how hurt he was; along with his shirt, his pants had been ripped to bits, and, though one of his legs was only scratched and bruised, when they touched the other, he groaned. Below the calf, the bone had broken, so that it was already very swollen, and, on one side, a black blood clot hung from the wound.

  “It’s nothing!” repeated Jean-Luc, for he was courageous. Upon which Romain said to him: “Take another swig.” Jean-Luc drank. The four of them lifted him up, they carried him to the path.

  Having made a kind of stretcher with branches and rope, they laid him down on it, then were off. Romain had taken the lead. The others slowly followed the path that borders the gorge, which goes on widening, then opens up, and you arrive in the meadows; then the village appears.

  She had come to meet him, and, as soon as she saw a speck in the distance, ran, just as Romain had found her, her sleeves rolled up, her apron soaked (for she’d been doing the dishes and had left in a hurry)—she started to run from afar, and arrived, throwing herself at him: “What’s wrong? she said, what’s wrong?” For she feared that Romain hadn’t told her the truth. Jean-Luc answered her: “I’ve broken my leg.” Then she kissed him in front of everyone, many people having already come; she repeated: “Is that really the truth? the truth? and this blood!” And she wiped this blood, with her handkerchief, then went off toward the house; and when the men arrived with the stretcher, the bed was already made, the water on the fire, the cloth for the bandages all prepared. Then, as soon as Jean-Luc was in bed, she sat near him.

  But he didn’t seem to see her, having closed his eyes, nor to hear her when she spoke, and she seemed to resign herself, no longer moving, no longer speaking. Marie and her husband, the blacksmith, had come, then some neighbors, the whole kitchen was full; people came in and out continuously; someone had gone to fetch the butcher, for he was an expert in such things. He cleaned the forehead and leg wounds, he said: “The doctor has to come.”

  Christine immediately burst into tears. Théodule had already harnessed the mule, then had gone; she remained there, her head down, crossing both hands over her face, tears rolling through her fingers one by one; and Marie said to her: “Calm down Christine, it won’t be serious!” but she kept crying. Then, once in a while, she would start up again: “Jean-Luc, listen to me! Jean-Luc, listen to me!” He didn’t even turn his head.

  This made her cry even harder; then suddenly her tears dried, she said to Marie: “Have you made some tea?” And because she answered no: “Look, the fever’s taking hold of him.” Christine ran to the kitchen and made some tea, which she brought him, but he didn’t want to drink it. And f
rom that moment on, she no longer left her chair until late in the evening when the doctor arrived, and Jean-Luc began to writhe and uncover himself.

  The doctor, having entered, placed his case on the table, he examined the swelling: “What I need,” he said, “is two strong men.” The blacksmith left; and the doctor, once again, addressing Christine: “You’ll have to leave too.” But she didn’t want to. He added: “Then you’ll remain calm!” She sat watching him, meanwhile two men had arrived. And like the doctor had ordered, they took Jean-Luc by the shoulders, while, with the help of the blacksmith, the doctor began to pull on the leg. It was extremely swollen, shapeless, the foot all round and purple; they pulled on it with all their might. Jean-Luc let out a great scream.

  And he continued to scream despite his courage, the pain was so sharp; the stronger the men pulled, the bone still resisting, the more piercing the screams became. The doctor said to him: “It’s almost done, be patient!” and Jean-Luc clung to his chair, gritting his teeth, it was all in vain.

  In the meantime Christine had walked over to a corner of the room. At the first sound of his screams, a great shiver had seized her, and she’d plugged her ears, but it was no use, she still heard them, those screams, as if from within, they shook all of her—and so, suddenly, she threw herself at the doctor.

  No one had time to stop her. She was yelling: “Let him go! let him go, I tell you, you’re going to kill him.” She had him by the shoulders; as she was very strong, he couldn’t get rid of her. “Get her out of here,” he said, “she’s crazy!” It wasn’t easy, the blacksmith had to let go of Jean-Luc, and attempt to drag Christine to the door. She struggled with him, the doctor was saying: “Hurry up now!”

  But, at that instant, Jean-Luc spoke: “Pierre-François, be gentle.” And he started again: “Leave the room, Christine, they say it’s almost done, you can return afterward.” She was looking at him, and he was looking at her. “Poor woman,” he continued, “her heart aches to see me suffer!” And abruptly she had become docile, she said to François: “I’ll leave on my own,” and indeed left, entering the kitchen where Marie waited for her, while the doctor went back to his task, which was soon brought to completion.

  She came right away; while the doctor had gone to wash his hands, and the men to drink, you could hear her saying to Jean-Luc: “Is it possible? You still love me a little!” And Jean-Luc answering her.

  So that when Marie, having finished putting everything away, wished to say goodnight to them, she knocked out of discretion: no one answered; she pushed the door open. Christine was lying at Jean-Luc’s side.

  She hadn’t wanted anyone’s help in watching over him. She was lying there, lying with all of her clothes on, sprawled out near her husband, gently running her hand through his hair—and he had his eyes closed beneath her caresses. She was repeating: “Say, are you alright, big fellow?” He answered: “Yes, thanks.” She kissed him, he returned her kiss. And, stirring, writhing in his bed, with the heavy leg that made him suffer, at times he was carried off by some kind of nightmare; but, returning to himself, he found her there, with her fresh hands and bright smile.

  Time passed, she hadn’t left him. You could hear the great hours of the night crack, fall, tumbling from the church tower like ripe fruits shaken off; nothing but the little light, and Jean-Luc lying down, and Christine at his side. He had nodded off, his head on his arm; through the misty little windows, you could see a corner of the pond; everything was in silence.

  Yet Jean-Luc started to writhe again. Suddenly, as midnight rang with its twelve sluggish chimes, he woke with a jolt, he asked Christine: “Are they ringing for the dead?” “Ah! my God! What were you thinking about? she said. Jean-Luc! Listen, I’m here.” And pulling him close to her, she laid her cheek against his prickly cheek; he had calmed down at once, at once he fell back asleep.

  Jean-Luc healed quickly, robust as he was; the swelling had gone down, they put a cast on him; soon he was rid of those awful feverish nights.

  It was a clear morning. He had slept in, beautiful sunlight filtered in through the window, the grass had already turned green again, and now Christine arrived, bringing the little Henri, who was beginning to speak and get to know him; she said to him: “That’s your Papa there.” He repeated: “Papa! Papa!” Jean-Luc extended his arms to him.

  She gave him the child to hold for a moment while she went to make coffee, then, having returned with a full cup, she took the little one again and held him under both arms while he attempted to walk, for he too was beginning to walk, but first she had to pull up the long swaddling clothes and, in an amusing manner, he launched forward his little feet, with their large pink wool stockings, advancing hunched over, wobbling, while Christine, who had lowered herself, walked behind him; then from time to time she extended her arms and the little one took two or three steps on his own. “You see, he’s got it!” she’d say, but at that instant, he would fall forward; she barely had time to catch him.

  She turned toward the bed; she saw Jean-Luc, who held his cup and had ceased drinking, sitting against the pillows, watching her and the child. She said to him:

  —He’s so beautiful and strong for his age!

  He said: “Oh yes!” and she, coming closer, threw the little one over to him, saying: “Go see your Papa.” And while the child rolled against him, Jean-Luc laughed in his short beard, which had grown back. He said to Christine: “You come too.” She said to him: “What about your leg?” “Don’t worry,” he said, “I can’t feel the pain anymore.” She came too.

  He spoke to her, he said: “Listen, it’s all been forgotten, right?” “Of course.” And he, once more: “Of course?” “As much as I can!” she said. And then, she said, “Kiss me.” “And where would you like me to kiss you?”

  She smiled, looking at him with her face right up to his; at the same time, she lifted her hair, two pretty folds against her tanned cheeks. Between her parted lips, her beautiful white teeth gleamed; one of them, on the side, had had no room to grow, and remained a little crooked; she said to him:

  —Kiss me on the light of my eyes.

  She stretched them out to him, they were damp and beautiful, the color of chestnuts; he held them wide open beneath him.

  She went on:

  —And now, on the forehead.

  He kissed her on the forehead, hers was high and rounded.

  —Christine, he said, little Christine!

  But she was saying: “And now on my cheeks!” And he bit into them like apples. And then she laughed: “Some more,” she said, “as much as you can and under my nose.”

  Only, as she looked up, he had already grabbed her, pressed her against him, and lifted her with the little one holding on to her; and he could see now his old love had returned, as great as before, even greater, as if the days of their separation and the difficult things that had come to pass had been destroyed and flattened between them. And he was delighted by his broken leg, by the day in Sassette, by his pain, by everything. Which is why he called her sweet names, speaking to her from within his kiss:

  —Christine, Christine my love, how cool one feels against these teeth.

  She said to him:

  —Maybe they’re to bite!

  He kissed her again. Little birds cried along the edge of the roof.

  CHAPTER IV

  HAPPINESS REIGNED ONCE MORE. He’d bought her some fabric for a dress, which she tailored and sewed herself, having borrowed the machine from a neighbor; he, stretching out his leg on the bench, watched her spin the wheel with the bouncing needle, while Marie gave her advice.

  Then he started to go out a little, leaning on his cane; he had hired a man to work the land during the day; he went to keep an eye on him, he returned, he had a brand new heart, a brand new head.

  Spring had arrived, mingled as it is of blue and black, with days of beautiful sunshine, then some showers and some wind. But what did it matter to him?—he found pleasure in the rain, he found pleasure in the sun.
There had been the violet anemones, the crocus that loves water, the hepatica of the hedges, the primrose like plates. Then come the gentians. You feel like you can see the wheat growing: suddenly, it’s one foot tall. And, at night, the air that comes through tastes like fresh bread. Jean-Luc opened his mouth, he said: “How nice!”

  Then he found her, who had heard him come from afar, who came out on the doorstep, who said: “Do you want me to help you climb the stairs?”

  He answered: “I can do it well enough on my own.”

  He demonstrated how well he could.

  “I feel like I’m sixteen years old!” he said; then other little footsteps and another little voice sounded, it was Henri, who arrived behind his mother; Jean-Luc would toss him in the air; and the little Henri laughed and was afraid at once.

  Likewise the people who had kept their distance began to reappear Sundays after mass, some neighbors, Christine’s friends; little by little too, Jean-Luc walked with more ease, he went through the village; someone would invite him in for a drink, he would enter; and in turn he would invite others, and they came. One night, there were about seven or eight people in the cellar, Christine and Marie too. They had gone for the muscat, Jean-Luc filled the glass, the men passed it to each other, standing in a circle around the barrel. And Christine was in a corner, from which she chatted and joked, but the others knew how to respond—and they laughed about Marie, who hid both hands under her apron every time you held out a glass to her.