Jean-Luc Persecuted

by C. F. Ramuz

  A cold and faint feeling came over his entire body, with a buzzing in his head; his shoulders weighed a great deal on the straw mattress. The hour rang, he counted the strokes, there were eleven; it sounded for the second time, he counted the strokes once more. He said: “Eleven o’clock, eleven o’clock at night! Things are going to change around here.”

  Outside there was a clear gray light, from which the windows cut themselves like slabs of zinc. He remained without moving, he lifted his head, which came right back down. A mouse ran around upstairs. He heard it come, with its abrupt scampering, then a gnawing and a nibbling, to which a breath of wind at one corner of the roof responded, and then passed, and everything was quiet. He thought: “The wind is rising, because of the rain, and the weather is mild.”

  Suddenly, little Henri called to him. This made him fully regain consciousness. He saw his room, the furniture, things as they were. He said: “My name is Jean-Luc Robille, my wife is Christine Geindre.” He left bed, went to the cradle, took the little one, returned, laid him down on the side of the wall.

  And already, feeling the pleasant heat of a human presence, the child hushed, having rested his head on his father’s shoulder, and his little body loosened with the abandon of sleep. He sighed once more, seeking a warm spot on the sheets, then, tightening his fists against his face, fell back asleep.

  But Jean-Luc kept vigil, for his thoughts were now clear within him and clear was his resolution. He thought to himself: “She’s already cheated on me once, this is the second time. I was a coward before, will I be a coward once more?” He answered himself: “No!” And a crease formed between his two eyes, for he was ashamed of himself.

  He hadn’t turned on the lamp, darkness reigned, with only the pale gleam of the small windowpanes, which projected onto a corner of the table, and the rest of the furniture was barely visible; he was lying on his back, the little one’s breath sounded. Time passed.

  Then there was the sound of footsteps on the stairs, but a muffled sound, as if someone was walking on tiptoe. Following which, the kitchen door was opened, it didn’t squeak; Jean-Luc thought: “She must have oiled it.”

  He remained on his back, he didn’t move in the least: nor did he move when the lock clicked, and it was only when he heard the sound of full skirts skimming the floor that he realized someone had entered. Next someone halted as if to listen, then the footsteps started up again, advancing halfway through the room, and at that moment Christine stood before him.

  She set her brooch on the table, she came to the bed. He hadn’t closed his eyes, he kept them locked in her direction; she didn’t notice. She had started to undress. She placed her camisole and her half-slip on the chair very slowly; lifting her arms, she removed the comb from inside her chignon, then she went to lie down; but, just as she was leaning one knee on the edge of the bed, suddenly she was caught, having met his gaze. It was calm, as if empty, and solely fixed on her; under this gaze, however, she no longer moved, remaining there, one knee up.

  He said to her:

  —You’re very late.

  His voice, too, was calm, not the voice of a man woken with a jolt, but of someone who has waited and kept vigil, which frightened her more.

  She could not find an answer; Jean-Luc went on:

  —Is it because you have trouble sleeping that you’re going to bed so late?

  Precisely then, midnight rang. She said:

  —You see, my father’s ill again; he needed me.

  He said:

  —Ah! He’s ill!

  —His paralysis has gotten hold of him again, his heavy leg …

  But he, interrupting her:

  —You can’t stop lying!

  And at once:

  —Swear it!

  She answered:

  —I swear!

  He sat up, he turned the lamp back on, he came down from the bed, and went to the door to lock it. And she had moved away from him, taken with fright, her strength down all of a sudden. The crucifix was on the wall, Jean-Luc set it down on the table. He came to her; she had hidden her face behind the fold of her arm; he took her by this arm, she allowed it.

  He brought her before the crucifix and, having released her arm, took her hand, which he placed on the crucifix, and lowering his voice once more because of the child:

  —You swore it, swear it one more time!

  She had turned her head the other way and, using all of her body weight, she was leaning to one side, sought to escape; but he tightened his grip around her wrist, with such force that tears formed in her eyes. Yet she did not swear, because of the Christ placed before her, whose name she bore. And, all of her blood having descended to her heart, with her waist already heavy, she was sad and miserable, leaning back, and yet attempting to stand straight again, with still some pride deep within her, while she suffered the humiliation.

  But he had started up again:

  —Swear that you’re not coming from his.

  Then came a moment of hesitation, and the crucifix sat there. It was an old crucifix, the kind that you can stand upright, with a pedestal fully carved in wood; it was painted red and blue, with ornaments and a very small Christ, and the arms of the cross very large; the crucifix also seemed to be waiting.

  And Jean-Luc watched Christine, and now she watched him, too, with glittering eyes, even feverish, and at that instant a kind of mockery shone through them, so that without even meaning to he tightened his grip again, and she writhed in pain. He spoke in a rushed tone:

  —And the little one, is he mine?

  This time, at once, she answered:

  —I swear!

  —And the one who isn’t born yet?

  She looked down:

  —I don’t know.

  And so, as if despite himself, he violently pushed her back, she fell against the wall, tears ran down her cheeks one by one, rolling down to her shirt, under which she was naked and numb with cold; he crouched against her, still holding on to her, and suddenly raised an arm. For, in the same way she had been with him, she had been with another, and though perhaps this was something he had previously guessed, he had never imagined it clearly, the way he did now, and, having grabbed her by the shoulders, he came down upon her.

  But Christine was upright again, they fought each other off for a while. She fell to her knees. She let out a terrible scream. The child too had woken. Jean-Luc said:

  —Ask for forgiveness!

  She had no desire to; three times she got back on her feet, three times he folded her back down to the ground, and her knees clapped against the floor, she closed her eyes, and he, raising his voice:

  —Ask for forgiveness!

  Did she hope this forgiveness would come? or was she defeated? At once she slumped forward, her braids hanging before her face; she said:

  —Forgive me!

  He immediately released her. Having gone to get her clothes from the chair, he brought them to her:

  —Dress yourself! he said.

  Then returned to the crying child and, taking him in his arms, standing near the bed, rocked him.

  At the other end of the bedroom, she had started to put her clothes back on. Slowly she put on her skirt, fastened her waist and her camisole, and, in front of the little mirror, having turned around, did up her chignon again. And, in the mirror, she saw herself, with her blazing eyes and the red blotches on her cheeks; she did up her chignon again, added in the bronze combs; as for him, he remained near the bed, without moving.

  When she was finished:

  —Are you ready?

  She nodded.

  —What about your shoes?

  She said:

  —They’re in the kitchen.

  —Well then! he said. Come with me!

  The little one went on crying, he put him back to bed, he made her pass by him. And, in the kitchen, he said to her:

  —Now you can put your shoes back on.

  Sitting on the bench, she put her shoes back on, and he continued:<
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  —You can also take your scarf, what’s yours is yours.

  Obedient, she took her scarf. And, once again, he asked her:

  —Are you ready?

  And, once again, she nodded.

  He went to stand in front of the big door with its heavy lock of wrought iron, which was fixed on the inside by thick crossties; then, sliding the bolt with its beaten handle and small engraved images, the big door opened, he held it open. The night was dark and cold, the wind blowing even harder, with a nasty draft, and the weight of the fog still on the pond; she felt fear in the face of this night. She said:

  —Jean-Luc!

  He answered:

  —Be off!

  She bowed her head, she left. At once, he shut the door. In slamming, the latch made a great sound in the silence. He listened, he heard something like a sigh: and for a while she remained on the stoop without moving; then she went down a step, halted again; went down another, and hesitated in this way down the entire staircase. All of a sudden, she burst into laughter, she ran back up the stairs, she knocked at the door with her fist:

  —Since I’ve got one, she screamed, what do I care? What do I care? You’ve got yours, I’ve got mine.

  She laughed some more, then he heard her walk off. He returned to bed, he had grabbed the child, he was lifting him into his arms. And the little one called:

  —Maman! Maman!

  He said to him:

  —You no longer have a mother.

  CHAPTER VI

  SHE DID NOT RETURN. IT WAS said that she had gone to live with her sister, where she was to give birth.

  And so, not long afterward, Jean-Luc, one morning, left the house. Tall and slightly stooping, they saw him come, after locking his door; he walked slowly, leaning with one hand on a big baton, holding the little one in the other.

  First he went to the blacksmith’s. The blacksmith was so surprised at how much he had aged that he halted his iron. Jean-Luc said to him:

  —She’s betrayed me a second time, don’t ever mention her to me again!

  Meanwhile Marie, having heard him, had come down; he repeated to her:

  —Don’t ever mention her to me again.

  He added:

  —I’ve come to let you know.

  He left, he continued on his way, he went off to the village. From time to time, he stopped, sitting on the edge of a wall, a heap of beams, a fence. And everyone thought the same as the blacksmith: “How thin and aged he looks!”

  For the little one’s sake, he also went to see his two cousins, Théodule and Dominique, then he started back, walking down the little street, passing by the fountain, then along the gardens in front of the houses, which are so small, but square and tidy between the crooked fences. Some women, some girls came; one of them carried a little pot of cream, and walked with precaution; another, light in color, had blond hair and a blue and white apron; some men said hello to Jean-Luc: he continued on his way without answering them.

  Great sunlight had spread through the sky again, clearer and brighter, as can sometimes be the case after days of bad weather; the remains of the snow melted, and the edges of the roofs in the shade, still garnished, dripped: then, in the hollow earth, a straight line appears where little stones, unveiled, gleam.

  He went home, boiled some water, began to wash the cups and dishes. He swept the kitchen; when it was in order, around midday, he made the soup; he gave it to the little one to eat, clumsily holding out the big spoon to him.

  Then placed his hands before him, and told himself: “They’re too heavy. Hers were small and light; but her hands have known evil.” He went on: “These here, these are mine.” He looked up: “We’ll put them to use.”

  Upon which, Félicie having arrived, he put together a big pile of Christine’s clothes, which he gave to her; and he said:

  —Take these and bring them to your house. And be off, I don’t want to see you anymore!

  But she returned, and he took pity on her simple-mindedness; she regained her place by the fire. And thus he entered his new life.

  It was difficult, but he held on nevertheless. Others helped him, for they thought: “It’s Christine who’s in the wrong, not him; he has a lot of qualities; but he doesn’t see clearly.” Which is why Marie, from the very first day, said to him:

  —Jean-Luc, when you leave, be sure to bring me the child, I’ll keep him with my own, one more will go unnoticed.

  Jéromette too had come. She was a little old woman, who had once had two daughters and one son—and all her children were dead, her husband too, like her children; so she had put her love in flowers to such an extent that they were everywhere in her bedroom, and her windows were garnished with them, as well as her little garden. She said to Jean-Luc:

  —I’ll watch over the little one too.

  So that when he went to the woods, upon his return he found the child well-bathed and well-dressed, which encouraged him to go on living. He made an effort, he said: “I have to show everyone I’m strong!”, and lifted his heavy fists. And encouraged himself, grabbing his ax or the wedge for the tree trunks, and when he fell back down, as sometimes happened, he cried: “Get up!”, he got back up, for he thought: “I’ve got this child and he’s mine; I have to last for him.”

  He still found comfort in this, and by repeating it to himself, went on:

  “One shouldn’t ask for too much.” And, sometimes, in the evening, he felt something like relief, the days having come one after the other, like fresh water over a wound; with little pleasures that reappear: to feel his work was accomplished, eating one’s fill, smoking before the fire, and heat ran through him, the kind that makes the blood run and the heart beat more at its ease; he went to see the little one who slept, he returned; he told himself: “There, I’m at peace, I’ve come to terms with it.”

  Whereas those first days, he constantly searched for Christine, and everything was like an image of her; such was a die he found, a planted nail, the sound of footsteps, or a voice outside, and he turned toward the door, and it was only Félicie, or whoever, just someone passing by. And he felt something break within him, every time. A great weariness also, for he fought it with all of his might, having promised himself never to think of her again. Humiliation each time too, for he told himself: “She’s the stronger one!”, and he thought: “Is there someone in the world who’s unhappier than I am?”

  Now he was cured, at least he wanted to believe it and forced himself to. One day the sun came out from behind the forest branches, from where the snow had come down (there were heaps of it at the base of the trees); he saw the sun hoist itself into the air, fling itself at the sky—and, after the intense cold and the sad mornings of winter, it was a great joy to behold. Jean-Luc went to see his fences, they were deteriorating, he told himself: “As soon as the weather’s good, I’ll begin to rebuild them; the property has to be in good shape for the little one.” He also examined the house, which had been neglected during summer, when the days are devoured by work in the fields, and the previous winter too, for he hadn’t been around (something he thought long about)—he saw the loose steps on the staircase, the walls dented and cracked; he told himself: “We’ve lived in disarray, that’s all over now!”

  He had a little money in a box, which he had saved with difficulty and patience, he counted it, he thought: “I need to double that by next year.” And, daydreaming of how he could achieve this: “Well, there isn’t much to do this time of year … what if I went to see Comby, he needs a worker, and I’m qualified.” He went to see Comby, the carpenter; he was hired in no time, he went back to the shooting board, to the gouge, and to the brace.

  “For,” as he repeated, “land is the best investment, it stays put, it lasts; money just has a pretty sound.” Only a sad feeling and grave air remained with him, a certain wisdom had come. When, once again, everything was destroyed in one swoop.

  Mardi Gras had arrived, and, because it was beautiful and hot out, he had gone to see the mas
ks, the buffoons, as they’re called, and all those who were in the village had done the same, so that, all up and down the street, the benches were filled with people. There were a dozen of these masks; the pack walked up the street, then came back down it.

  And so, the elderly, a little removed from life, looked on without saying anything, leaning forward on their hard knees, while the young enjoyed themselves.

  The pack walked by, walked by again; with, as is custom, boys dressed as girls—and they all had their faces hidden or else colored with soot, having faked bellies with pillows, having changed their gait, having changed their voices. The game, for those watching, was to try and recognize them; you wondered: “Who’s that?” And you figured it out, and you laughed.

  They laughed hardest about a buffoon who had just arrived, short and paunchy, walking with a bag full of ashes he threw at girls’ faces, and you could hear the girls scream among the laughs, while the paunchy buffoon ran after them. Everyone said: “It has to be Anthime.” He was Jean-Luc’s neighbor, and had quarreled with him over a share of water; all of a sudden, seeing Jean-Luc, he approached him, and, standing there, legs wide, began to say, pointing to the little one:

  —Where’d you find this one here?

  The little one, who was afraid, hid behind his father’s shoulder. The buffoon went on:

  —Was he expensive?

  The crowd watched Jean-Luc grow pale. He didn’t answer him, except to say:

  —Be on your way.

  But, as soon as he left, Jean-Luc rose and went home.

  That same evening, he had been invited to the blacksmith’s, he didn’t come; sometime past eight o’clock, someone decided to fetch him; they found the house shut and came back, saying: “He was already asleep.”

  He was not asleep, quite the opposite, for the thought had entered his head like a worm pierces through wood, he was tormented by it, to the point that all thought of sleep had deserted him. He told himself: “If that was Anthime, he’s my enemy, he may have lied; but she too may have lied, she’s never done anything but!” Holding the lamp above the child, he went on: “His hair is blond, not black like mine, and, she too, she too had black hair; he’s blond like him, ah! my God!” He went to stand before the small mirror, he examined himself. Because the light came from above, his face appeared even more thin and hollow, with two holes instead of eyes, two holes in the middle of his cheeks, creases in his forehead, and his pallor. He thought to himself: “Does he look like me? How can I be sure? What should I do?”