Jean-Luc Persecuted

by C. F. Ramuz

  He let himself fall at the end of the bench. Then, much like when a ray of sunshine, on a sad November evening, suddenly pierces through the clouds with a false light, he saw more clearly the misery that was his life. He said: “I can’t go on! I can’t go on!”

  Some girls could be heard laughing on their way home; then came the sound of harmonicas with their light jittery notes, because this was the day of celebration before Lent comes.

  The following day, Jean-Luc began to drink. They had to carry him home and put him to bed; they even had a lot of trouble finding the key, which he had hidden in a new place; and old Jéromette, having brought the little one home around six o’clock and finding no one, had to bring him back to hers and put him to bed there.

  Jean-Luc fell from bed in the night, woke in the morning on the floor with a bump on his head. He got dressed, went out drinking again. Three days in a row, he drank.

  The fourth day, Jéromette returned, still with the child; she said to Jean-Luc:

  —I have to keep an eye out to see when you’re home. This is ugly behavior, Jean-Luc.

  He looked at her without answering, but, when she handed him the little one, whom, despite her old age, she had carried all the way there, he pushed her back hard.

  —Lead him, he said, to those who made him.

  And so, full of pity, she brought him home again, and now the little one asked for his father, and he cried the entire way back, so that people came out of their houses, and asked:

  —What’s going on?

  —Ah! well, she said, I just don’t know what to do anymore.

  For she was poor and not strong enough to take care of a child all on her own.

  But, a moment later, Jean-Luc also left, walked all the way to see Firmin Craux, who was an old man, rich and very greedy, living at the entrance of the village. In the past he had wanted one of Jean-Luc’s cows. Jean-Luc, having entered, offered it to him. Craux asked:

  —How much?

  —Three hundred, said Jean-Luc.

  The old man said:

  —That’s too much.

  For he knew everything. So Jean-Luc began to tell him:

  —Listen, I don’t need it anymore. Do you like it?

  —Yes and no, said Craux.

  —Well then! name your price!

  Craux told him:

  —Two hundred.

  It was about half of what Foumette was worth. For she produced eight liters of milk. Even so, Jean-Luc told him:

  —Agreed!

  But Craux went on:

  —One more thing, I’ll give you a hundred now and the other hundred in three months; I’ll write something up for you.

  —Never mind then!

  —Alright, then a hundred and seventy up front and you’ll bring me the beast at once.

  Jean-Luc walked back through the village. It was mild out, the roofs puffed out a vapor. He went to the stable, untied Foumette; he pulled her with the rope, but she mooed, already missing her warm litter, while people said to him:

  —What are you doing? Where are you leading her?

  But he did not give them an answer. He halted in front of Craux’s house. He returned once more, gripping his heavy wallet tight in his pocket. That night, he went out drinking again.

  He placed two fifty-franc coins on the table; he said:

  —This one’s on me.

  CHAPTER VII

  THE AIR WAS THICK, BLUE AROUND the lamp that hung from the ceiling; they were about seven or eight men, cramped around a table, Jean-Luc in the middle. He had ordered a first liter, which was now finished; he ordered a second, which was soon emptied too; then he cried: “Another one!”, which they brought. And he lifted it up while he took out his purse, which he held in the other hand; he went on: “This is still heavier.”

  —It’s because I’m rich! he continued.

  And suddenly emptied his purse on the table. The crowns began to roll, the others caught them as they went by, laying them flat before them; they counted them, saying: “Where’d you get all this money from?”, and looked at Jean-Luc with fear and respect.

  —That’s a secret! answered Jean-Luc.

  He spoke loudly, in a confident voice; he rummaged through his pocket, he took out two bank bills.

  —What about these? he said, laughing.

  And he cried:

  —Another liter!

  But suddenly, they all started to laugh, the cobbler having entered. His name was Nanche, he was a very small man, bald, with a black face and black hands, and a green apron; he only worked about two days a week; the rest of the time, he tended to his thirst, as he said, and added: “It’s the leather that dries me up.”

  He’d gone to sit alone in a corner, they called to him:

  —Hey! Nanche, you sulking?

  He didn’t move, still sober. But because Jean-Luc had started to make his crowns resound again, Nanche began to turn his head from time to time, taking a sideways glance at the shiny money, and shrugged his shoulders.

  Upon which, it was Jean-Luc’s turn to call him:

  —Come on, Nanche! we miss you.

  Nanche didn’t respond at first; then, when he finished his bottle of eau-de-vie, he suddenly stood up and came over. His eyes shone under his big drooping eyebrows, while he dried his hands on his apron. He said:

  —Hello, gang!

  —Hurray for us! cried Jean-Luc.

  He made him take a seat near him and at once made him drink.

  —Here’s to you, he started again; when one is happy one drinks well, when one drinks well one is happy.

  The noise went on increasing, as well as the smoke; they could barely see one another in the small room, with its great beams that seemed to weigh down on their heads, they spoke of anything, in any which way—the men leaning on their elbows all along the table, their heads down, looking out the corners of their eyes, and they ran their hands over their mustaches; within the group, Nanche, smaller than everyone, and Jean-Luc, pale, who laughed.

  And, making him drink once more, he patted Nanche on the back:

  —Now you’re going to sing us something.

  Which is what everyone was waiting for, because that’s how it went: when he was drunk, they did with him what they liked, they went so far as to hang him by the thumbs, as once happened, smudging his face, blackening it with tar—all this just to anger him, because that’s when the fun began.

  —You’re going to sing us something! said Jean-Luc.

  Nanche stood on the bench, he coughed two or three times, like he always did. He began:

  You’ve got your blonde, I’ve got my brunette,

  I wouldn’t want it any other way …

  It was always the same song, one they all knew well; and Jean-Luc took up the refrain, which all the others burst into after him:

  I prefer my brunette, ô gué,

  I prefer my bru-u-nette

  —Is that right? said Jean-Luc, looking up.

  He added:

  —Maybe so.

  And, during the following refrain, he sang even louder. At that moment, someone pulled the bench; Nanche fell flat on his back. They laughed up a storm. He stood up quickly and cried, clenching his fists:

  —Don’t touch me! Don’t touch me!

  But already Jean-Luc had sat him back down:

  —You’re wasting your time, you’re better off drinking.

  So Nanche drank some more, and Jean-Luc laughed, saying:

  —It’s because we’re joyous and happy, I tell you, and have jolly hearts, and are filled with trust.

  To which the others responded:

  —Of course!

  But, once again, in response to a sign someone made, Nanche was surrounded, taken, squeezed, snatched, hoisted to the ceiling, banged up there two or three times against the beams, then abruptly released; and found himself sprawled on the floor, where he remained a moment, stunned. Then, coming back to his senses, he threw himself at those who were there, without knowing who they were
, head down. At first no one could see a thing anymore, for there was great disorder; finally, the door opened, Nanche reappeared, was shoved outside—and, slipping on the stairs, he rolled through the mud; upon which, the door was shut again. Everyone cried and coughed with laughter.

  And Nanche shouted from outside:

  —Thieves! Assassins!

  While Jean-Luc started up again:

  —It’s because we’ve got light jolly hearts.

  But soon everything hushed; the square was now empty.

  —You’ll see, someone said, he’ll come back with his leather knife.

  Upon which, they all went back to the window. Indeed, Nanche returned, head bare, walking with difficulty, his clothes muddy; and he went to sit on the linden tree’s bench, sharpening his blade with a stone; he spoke the whole time, but no one could understand what he was saying. And tall Laurent, opening the window, shouted:

  —Hey! Nanche, let’s talk it out over here!

  He came over, shaking with fury, lifting his iron; suddenly his head went through the open window, with one arm forward, and the lamplight flashed on the leather knife; then the door, which was locked, was shaken, and the wood sounded beneath his kicks; following which, there was a silence, they heard something like sobbing.

  —There you go, said tall Laurent, now he’s crying.

  And so, at the table, where they’d all gone to sit back down, great laughs resounded once more. Except that Jean-Luc no longer laughed; he had pushed his glass back and placed both elbows on the table, his head in his hands. They said to him:

  —Hey! Jean-Luc! What’s up? You’re not drinking anymore.

  He shook his head, then, throwing down a coin he took out, he asked: “What does it matter?”, paid, took his change, and headed for the door. They cried to him:

  —Be careful!

  But he didn’t listen.

  Nanche was sitting on the front steps. Jean-Luc approached him, nudged him with his elbow and said:

  —Listen, I was wrong, because you and I are brothers.

  Then he held out his hand to him. The cobbler looked up, and in the window’s gleam, they stared into each other’s faces. And Nanche said:

  —Come with me.

  Jean-Luc followed him. It rained from a low sky weighing down on roofs; the sky barely prevailed, due to a crescent moon being lost behind clouds, a lack of clarity in the air, inside which the houses were square and black. They walked together, linking arms. And when they were at Nanche’s house, at the other end of the square, he went on:

  —You have to come in.

  And so Jean-Luc did, and he repeated:

  —You and I are brothers.

  —Is that true? said Nanche, who was now sitting down. They’ve taken my honor.

  Jean-Luc responded:

  —Mine too, they’ve taken my honor too.

  Nanche had his bed in what looked like the kitchen, a straw mattress laid out on the floor; one of the table’s legs was missing, this leg had been replaced by an upright crate; on the hearth, near the marmite of polenta, there was a pot of pea fondue; spiderwebs hung all about.

  They became friends, Nanche having said:

  —You’re right.

  They sat side by side before the hearth. They’d blown on the ash, where there remained a few embers that sizzled back to life, and the bundle of sticks blazed. Jean-Luc said:

  —Are you here for me? Maybe you are, you see, because we were six children, and three are dead, and of the other three, two are far away, and my father is dead too and I chased off my wife, and as for the child, they say he isn’t mine.

  Nanche repeated:

  —So it’s true that we’re brothers?

  He shook his head:

  —It’s like Our Lord, they shared his robe among themselves, they beat him, whipped him, they spat in his face, they put him on.

  And in the light of the bright flame, which trembled on the walls:

  —Well, they beat me, knocked me down, and they say: “He’s crying.” I answer them: “What are eyes for?”

  But Jean-Luc shouted in a terrible voice:

  —And they kneel before money! Look, look what I do with it!

  He had taken the bills from his pocket, held them out to the flame. It bit into their corners, spread rapidly; and, the paper having slipped from his fingers, it fell into the cinders. Only a bit of white ash remained, which Jean-Luc crushed with his feet. Nanche hadn’t moved an inch. He only said:

  —It’s really burning up!

  Then they remained without speaking, still very close. The stillness of night encircled the house. And Jean-Luc felt his rage die down, and, the wine haze having dispersed through his head, what he needed now was to rest and have someone near him, and he thought: “I’ve got someone here,” thinking of Nanche—but, having turned around, he realized that Nanche had fallen asleep. He slept, his head against Jean-Luc’s shoulder. And Jean-Luc, pulling out the straw mattress, laid him out on it.

  And so, once again, he found himself completely alone with himself. And once again he was no longer sure of anything. Yet, when Nanche writhed in his dreams, crying: “Leave me alone!”, suddenly sitting up, waving his arms—each time Jean-Luc went to him and put him back to bed. Then, in the end, he yielded to sleep; he lay down at Nanche’s side. He slept until morning.

  When he came home, his back was white, and spiderwebs were caught at the brim of his hat. He walked along the houses, with his red eyes, a fire in his head. He told people: “The most evil ones aren’t always the ones you think.”

  —You say: I drink. Well yes, I drink! But is there a sparkle in my glass? They’ve got a hard heart, you see.

  When he got home, he heard the blacksmith calling to him:

  —Hey! Jean-Luc, he said, it can’t go on like this, your little one spent the night at ours, and my wife already has four children to take care of.

  For a moment, he hesitated, then he responded:

  —Leave me alone!

  —Don’t listen to what people say! continued the blacksmith.

  But Jean-Luc shook his head and, without adding anything, closed the door behind him.

  That afternoon, he drank again; this time he went to sit alone in a corner with Nanche; he said: “We understand each other.” Nanche had something like respect for him; they stayed together all evening. And, when tall Laurent approached to start the teasing again, Jean-Luc looked him straight in the eye and said:

  —Don’t touch him anymore, you understand, I’m here now!

  He no longer left the inn, he was never at home anymore. So that he was not there to receive his mother the day she came, a week later. Hearing the rumors regarding her son, the money thrown afar, his passion for drinking, and, besides, even more self-interested than proud, she had thought: “I must go.” She found Félicie in the kitchen with the little one; and the poor thing did not grasp who she was, nor did she have the concerns of orderly women, for that requires reason: the bed wasn’t made, the clothes were scattered across the room; there was a stench and great filthiness; the little one had cried, the tears on his cheeks had crusted into white lines. The old woman said to Félicie: “Be off!” She chased her away. She rolled up her skirt, scrubbed and cleaned until evening.

  At that moment, Jean-Luc returned. There came the loud sound of voices, which quickly ceased; then old Philomène came back down the stairs, and she went back through the entire village, having no choice, but without speaking to anyone, nor turning around.

  Jean-Luc went on drinking. And another piece of his meadow sold for the little money Craux gave him (who kept an eye on him now); it was one of the best pieces, the one in Roussettes, which he cared about; but he didn’t seem to regret the way his property was being dismantled, piece by piece, so disconnected he was from it all. To such an extent that, one day, running into Augustin, when the latter made a detour, he cried to him:

  —Take the shortest way, I have no desire to lay a hand on you.

  He no lo
nger even had respect for religion, or so it seemed, for he no longer attended mass; the beautiful season now here, the processions had started again, making the rounds of the cemetery; he remained standing behind the wall, watching, and they heard him say: “It’s all playacting!”

  Yet the new spring was bright and gay, it seemed to rinse the heart, the vines had never been so beautiful, which explained the contentment—along with the crops and the wheat of a good height, and the grass early grown. Even the clouds are pleasant to watch, small and white in the sky, like daisies in the grass; a tall woman passed on the road, with a lamb in her arms.

  People greeted one another near the crosses. The bisse men came home from work in packs, with their pickaxes and shovels over their shoulders, they removed their hats when they walked by the cross. They had returned water to the bisse. The streams, all swollen, twirling along the thaw’s yellow water, jumped over the bridges one day, then declined and went dry. The toads, on humid nights, ambled down the paths.

  Jean-Luc went on drinking. Félicie watched the little one. She sat by the pond under a willow. The bank comes down steeply toward the water, which is immediately deep, and black in its depth; but, at the surface, it glimmers with the blue of the sky, the white of the snow, the green of the meadows; and there are also the reflections of the little trees and the bushes leaning over the water, such as the willow Félicie sat under.

  Little Henri played near her, rolling his ball of thread; or he climbed onto her lap, and having put down her knitting, she’d start to sing.

  But other times, too, she seemed to get lost outside of herself in things, with eyes that no longer saw anything, fixed on a point in the immensity before her, her spirit in flight afar; the house was empty over there; the little one, left alone, ran after the grasshoppers.