by C. F. Ramuz
CHAPTER VIII
ON THAT DAY (IT WAS NEARING the end of May), he found himself, as always, sitting with Nanche at the inn, it was four in the afternoon, it was beautiful and mild out. On the square, in the sun, the linden tree’s shadow was already round. In front of the shop was a mule, tied by a rope to a wall, with its wooden packsaddle, where a man put down a great sack of bran, securing it tightly. At that instant, the prior’s rooster, out with its chicken, got up on its legs, and began to sing. A great white cloud appeared behind the roofs, and extended toward the top of the sky, like a dog with its paws on the wall.
Jean-Luc pushed back his hat, the cobbler sighed, he pointed to the empty bottle:
—One more?
Jean-Luc shook his head no. They fell back into silence.
At once, from behind Nanche’s house, a man appeared, head bare, running; he climbed the front steps, opened the door of the drinking room and shouted:
—Jean-Luc, you need to come now.
—Why’s that? said Jean-Luc.
The man repeated:
—Come quickly, I tell you!
And he left in the same way he arrived.
Jean-Luc said:
—They can try to fetch me as much as they’d like, I like it here, I’m staying.
But the cobbler had risen and was looking outside. Then another man came, with a woman, both of them out of breath, and, from outside the inn, they called once again:
—Jean-Luc! Jean-Luc!
Upon which, Nanche opened the window. They went on:
—Tell him to come if he’s with you!
And the woman said:
—It’s a tragedy! a tragedy!
So Jean-Luc, now also standing, asked:
—What is it?
They answered:
—Come already!
He walked out, took a left; he walked askew, with the man and woman, and the cobbler who followed.
There were a lot of people by the pond, a whole group standing around something on the ground, and everywhere, in the meadows, men and women came running. “My God!” they cried; and, among those who had stopped, someone was lifting both the arms, an old woman had crouched down and held the head in her hands; there were two girls who had approached, and who now ran off; as well as two or three women who were there with their children, and, so as to hide their eyes, covered their faces with their aprons. And the blacksmith, whom they’d gone to fetch, had come, his hammer in hand; now he had thrown his hammer in the grass. Hence, because of all of the people arriving, the group continuously did and undid itself, and the entity moved in the sunshine, with voices you could hear coming, then a silence, then a scream once again—while, behind her willow, Félicie was crouching, and at times she looked quickly to one side, then lowered her head again, placing her hands back over her eyes.
The sun poured onto the gray roofs and the large rocks covering them; on the smooth water of the pond was the fine lace formed by the little drafts of air that dip their fingers there in in jest; and in the little trees, which seemed braided of yellow straw, because of the new leaves, you could see moving and glimmering. But what you could not see, was what was lying on the ground.
The blacksmith had leaned forward with another man, who wore an old hat and had a large beard beneath his eyes. The latter said:
—We have to hang him by the feet.
The blacksmith however:
—What would be the use?
Someone asked:
—Was the poor thing in the water long?
—Quite some time … Can’t you see! he’s as dead as they come.
Someone asked again:
—How did it happen?
—Well, said a woman, I heard Félicie scream, I thought: “That’s Félicie screaming, what’s going on?” So I went to have a look and I saw some movement in the pond; what?—like a duck flapping its wings; so I screamed too; then Hippolyte came, and he went to fish him out, but it was hard, the others had to come and help him, and yes he was close to the edge, but the water was deep there …
—Ah! my God! someone said.
—Hippolyte, lift his head, you see, it falls right back down.
—Look at all that foam!
Some women had started to cry.
—Ah! poor thing! they repeated.
And, when some youngsters arrived, the blacksmith chased them away with kicks, saying:
—Go on, scram, vermin!
Meanwhile, Jean-Luc was on his way. At once they saw him appear from between the houses; he walked with his hands in his pockets, without looking up, with the man and the woman; he was nearing, so they all moved out of his way, and, as if through a door that now opened, what had not been visible came into sight.
And it was little Henri. He was lying on the grass, his robe fully soaked and now void of color; you could see, coming out of it, his skinny legs in blue stockings, with the big shoes and their hooks and brass eyes; his little arms, as if detached from his body, seemed to have been set down beside him. And his head, because of its roundness, seemed very big, the hair stuck to the forehead, from which drops still rolled down onto his purple cheeks every now and again; some weeds in his hair; the eyes had come out of their sockets, like the eyes of someone who was strangled.
Jean-Luc did not speak; he just stared. He must have been thinking: “Who is that?” So great is the distance between what contains life and the same being when deprived of it; he remained motionless for a time; then asked:
—What is it?
No one was speaking, no one was moving either; a breath of air came through once more with its curled outline on the pond, you could hear some movement in the branches; the blacksmith at last:
—Jean-Luc, it’s a tragedy!
He looked up at the blacksmith, and, with a changed voice:
—Serves me right, I’m punished!
Then, abruptly, crouching down, he grabbed the child and took him away.
And, at first, because of the body’s moisture and cold temperature, he shivered, and almost hesitated, but only the length of a thought; now, nearly running, he went off in the direction of his house, clutching his child in his arms. And the others, in their astonishment, remained a moment without moving, then all began to follow him, the men and the women, forming a cortege behind him. And, having reached the house, they all went up the stairs and entered the kitchen. But they saw it was empty; there was only, there in the middle, on the newly black tiles, a damp trail.
Marie said:
—He’s in the bedroom.
She went to push the latch: the door was locked. She called:
—Jean-Luc, it’s me!
No one answered; she listened, you couldn’t hear a thing. The kitchen was full, and many people waited outside the house as well; little by little they left, little by little the kitchen also emptied itself, only Marie and two women remained, but, at the hour of supper, they too had to leave.
Félicie, all alone, had not moved from under the willow. The sun went down and touched the tip of the great pointed Bourni, which turned black against the illuminated sky; it crept into the shining ball like a corner, by which the ball was cracked, split from the bottom, then bitten more deeply and halved. Next, like from an ember that collapses, a dust of sparks ascended high in the sky. From all sides the golden horizon opened up, along with the vastness of the land, with its thousands of mountains, and a vapor ascended from within the cavities, while the pond now descended into shadows little by little, and the round snows of the summits, suspended above things by a succession of forest and rockery, from which the beautiful radiance of day slowly fled, were, on the contrary, flowering and painted with pink. And, farther away, all around the church, you could hear the village stir, with the voices, the cracks of the whip, the clear ringing of the cowbells; but here it was silence that reigned, the house was empty, the kitchen filled with black.
One o’clock sounded at the church tower. Then, the shadows having accumulated, and the sn
ows having extinguished and melted above, the angelus began to ring with the soft sound of its bell, following which the three strokes of the prayer came, fell one by one.
When night came, Marie reappeared, accompanied by her husband; once again she went to knock on the bedroom door:
—Jean-Luc! she said …
She went on:
—Let me in, you need help, and you’ll have to make a statement.
Then it was the blacksmith who knocked, and he said:
—Don’t stay alone, you have to conserve your strength.
Yet, once again, Jean-Luc did not answer.
When the day was over, some people had returned, chatting in a whisper before the house, they said to the blacksmith:
—Well?
He answered them:
—He hasn’t moved, he’s locked up!
People wondered: “What’s he doing? What’s the matter with him?” Nobody knew.
Yet, later still, some neighbors having gone to the bell ringer’s house, they saw a light in Jean-Luc’s bedroom. And, from the bell ringer’s house, which is a little higher up, you could see into the bedroom and glimpse one corner of the bed. They saw that Jean-Luc was sitting in front of the bed.
The little one was on the bed; he had been dressed in a new robe; he wore a bonnet of knitted wool, which was tight around his temples and embellished with pink and blue; the crucifix, which had already been of use, was of use once more, lying on his chest; a candle burned on the table, with the cup of holy water and the twig plunged inside it.
And Jean-Luc was by the bed; he was sitting on a chair; he moved little more than the dead.
They went to fetch Marie, who came, her husband too, everyone looked out the window. They asked themselves: “What on earth is he doing?” They thought: “He’s been drinking all day, he’s under the influence of wine.” And they did not dare to disturb him, in any case they understood it would be pointless. So they said: “Let’s wait until tomorrow.” And they did.
The night was clear, with a thousand large and white stars that swayed gently through the sky; and soon the croaking of frogs began to travel from one side of the pond to the other.
The following day, early in the morning, Jean-Luc went to the village. He walked upright, did not seem sad, on the contrary he seemed to have recovered some liveliness and vigor. He said to those he met on the road:
—I’m so happy, he’s back.
In the afternoon, he went out again, because of the preparations; he began to say:
—I’m sure of it this time, he’s really mine.
And, Marie having returned, he allowed her to enter, she put everything in order; his mother had come too, he spoke to her like in the old days.
And so two days passed, and the whole time people came, as is the custom, even though the little body was very ugly and swollen, and the face black: women with their children, men, boys, girls, the door was left open, and they said a prayer with the sign of the cross; it lasted until Friday, which was the day of the burial. The little coffin was easily built with a board sawed into four pieces, it was nailed together, painted blue with a white cross, it was brought over Thursday evening; Friday morning, the little one was lowered inside.
Then they lifted the miserable crate and placed it on two stools before the door, with paper roses as decoration, a white sheet, and, on top of it, a lighted lamp, because the flame indicates that true life does not extinguish. Until morning, a rather strong wind had blown, so that great herds of clouds traversed the sky; they disappeared little by little behind the mountains, and the sun appeared, while the neighbors and two or three close relatives arrived. And the beautiful pink flowers sparkled, with some geraniums borrowed from Jéromette, left in their pots, arranged on the ground around the casket; then, at nine o’clock, the bell started, not the one for men, big and with the muffled toll, but the little one, clear and rung on the fly.
Then, they placed the pole on the little coffin, and fastened it with rope they tightly wound all the way around; a boy grabbed it on each end. Ahead of the coffin went the cross, the one that would be planted on the tomb; behind came Jean-Luc, two or three women, two or three men; they had taken a little street, the sun, still low in the sky, only lit up the top of the roofs; but suddenly the tall pointed church tower appeared, upright in the air, and it sparkled from top to bottom.
The swallows, which had returned, were all through the air; they cried, delighted by the morning, with a flight as sharp as the stroke of the sickle, and along the church wall you could feel the heat of the stones already infused with the sun. But it was humid inside; there, prayers and words of consolation were spoken, and everyone listened, leaning forward or kneeling, while the sunshine, coming in through the great windows, unwound among the benches and onto the tiles like ribbons of color, with the golden objects that glowed on the altar, and the statues of saints and the suspended paintings.
Then, the service was over, they walked out into broad daylight. Just opposite the door is the cemetery gate; it was already open and the tomb was there, in the corner for children. They walked for a moment down the path in the middle. Among the little mica stones and the dry and cracked soil, where the tilting blue crosses pierce through the earth, the good heat had hastened first growths for the carnations and tall irises, which were not yet flowering. The flies circled, awake, the wasps, the bees—the men grabbed the little coffin and lowered it down effortlessly, as light as it was short. When the holy water was thrown, they looked over at Jean-Luc; they saw he was not crying.
Back home, he cried no more than before, calm and rested. Those who were there ate and drank at the kitchen table; speaking of the little one, someone said: “That’s it, he’s gone now.”
A smile crept on Jean-Luc’s face, he answered: “Not the real one.”
CHAPTER IX
HE CONTINUED: “YOU CAN GO HOME in peace, because he’s mine, and the only thing left to me.” It was time to leave him. And they all left, his mother too, like he wanted.
Already, that same evening, they became acquainted with his madness, but even more so the following day. For he came to the blacksmith’s, and they hadn’t seen him there for some time; he sat with everyone on the bench outside the house. It faces the gardens, people often rest there a while, waiting for nightfall, they chat, they tell each other the latest; the blacksmith is in on it all, and skillfully recounts things, making the others laugh.
Between the little fences, there were two or three plum trees; a little farther off, some wooden beehives, painted all sorts of colors and in a straight line; the bees who had returned buzzed inside them, they sounded like a spinning wheel; the branches were full to the brim with birds who went to sleep.
And so Jean-Luc arrived, arms folded like when one carries a child; they thought: “Is it possible?” Yes, he thought he still had his, he carried him like a real child; then, sitting down, he started to rock him; he spoke to him, he told him: “Sleep, little one! Are you comfortable?” He went on: “You no longer have a mother, but you’ve got your father. Well then! sleep, he’s right here.” And bounced his knees up and down.
And then, because the others had hushed in their surprise, he asked them: “Why aren’t you talking? …” They began to speak in order not to upset him, but soon Jean-Luc interrupted them: “More softly, he’s fallen asleep.” He lowered his own voice.
Two lovers passed behind a barn, they held each other tight, hiding from the gaze of others, so as to be more alone, and tilting under one same weight and one same secret; they came out of the shadows, which they reentered straightaway. And a burning star showed itself on Le Bourni, first lamp in the sky that signals to those beneath, which lit up in their turn. Jean-Luc went on speaking in a whisper; suddenly he rose, saying: “Here comes the cold, I have to put him to bed, he could fall ill.”
And he went off.
They said: “Did you see that?” and they understood his behavior the previous days, and his countenance at the bu
rial; that same night the rumor spread through the entire village, where people halted to tell each other the news, and ran all the way to the inn, where the blacksmith purposely came, and repeated: “He’s gone mad!” while the cobbler lifted his hat and said: “He’s a saint!”
They quickly realized that his was a particular kind of madness, for it had not consumed his entire mind and carried off his reason; he had it there in a corner, if you could put it that way; for the rest, he retained his common sense. And, cheerfulness having returned to him, he went off laughing on the paths, which were now filled with people, as the summer incites going out, and the meadows too were filled with people.
First, they were surprised, then out of habit, no one thought about it anymore. He came and went, carrying his child, they left him to it. Only sometimes, when he passed the washhouse, which was always filled with women scrubbing their boards, one of them, looking up, would cry: “Hey! Jean-Luc, how’s your little one?” He would answer: “He’s well, thanks.” And all of them would start to laugh but, far from turning angry, he would laugh along with them. They went on: “So you like walking now, do you?” And he: “The little one needs air.”
Indeed, he no longer did a thing; he left his meadows to the Good Lord’s wind, and his grain to the beaks of birds. They had told him: “Lease them at least.” He hadn’t wanted to. And pointing to the child: “I’ve neglected him, I’ve got to redeem myself!”
To go on living, he had sold his second cow. So, when he was not down the paths or in the village, you could find him in front of his house. There, sitting on the bench, his legs wide, with a square of old fabric laid out at his feet for the child that he had, which was an empty place in the eyes of others, he spent his time carving wood into beasts, figurines, women in large skirts, men with pointed hats—all sorts of toys and objects for Henri, as he said, when pointing to them; he held them out to the child; when they fell to the floor: “He doesn’t know how to hold them yet!”
And then:
—How do you think he’s doing? he looks well.
People didn’t know how to answer, they said:
—He looks well.