by C. F. Ramuz
The wind rose, it whistled through the chimney.
Baptiste said:
—What do you want?
And Jean-Luc:
—I want the little one.
They looked at one another, they shrugged their shoulders. Someone said: “Let’s throw him out.” But Baptiste, raising his voice:
—You’ve made enough noise as it is, you hear; stay calm, or we’ll tie you up.
He said to Mathieu:
—Go and fetch a rope.
Just then the storm was bursting. The great sound of thunder roared, and, at the same time, a mass of water resembling a wave came crashing down on the front steps, splashing into the kitchen. They could still hear Jean-Luc saying to his mother: “You promise you don’t have him?” She answered: “I promise.” He walked out.
A gust of wind took hold of him, and he spun in it with his hat, which had flown off and fell back into the puddles that had already formed, and the stream of the furrowed banks; he ran after it and slipped; the people who had taken refuge under the eaves burst into laughter. Someone cried to him: “You should’ve worn your helmet!” Upon which, the laughter increased, while he moved away, climbing straight up the slope.
He climbed, holding on with both hands to the bushes, among the thick mud that ran, where his shoes remained caught, despite the aridity of the ground, which was poorly dressed in patches of grass; then higher up among the scrub and rough little trees; then through a wheat field, some meadows; and the sleeves of his shirt were glued to his arms, while the water, having pierced through, ran steady from his wrists; he went up some more; suddenly he no longer had the heart for it, he let himself fall under a tree.
The wind, stronger still, came through in great avalanches, with birds diverted like leaves, the trees bowing to the ground, and the flogged showers seemed to rise from below, cracking all around him. A purple lightning bolt tore through the middle of the sky, and remained there a long moment, fixed, like a vein in marble. He sat with his head in his hands, all of a sudden he stood up, he said: “Where is he? Ah! my God!”, he fell back down.
When he came home in the evening, the storm raged on. He prayed all night. At least that’s what recounted Benoît, Sophie’s cousin, who had gone out around midnight, his cow ready to give birth; and so he recounted that, passing in front of Jean-Luc’s, he had seen light, had heard a voice; that, returning three hours later, again he had seen light, had heard the voice once more; and that, not able to hold back, had climbed atop a heap of wood.
And, near the window, there was a table covered in cloth, beautiful and white; on the table, the crucifix with a little vase, some paper flowers, and a picture of the Sacré-Cœur; arranged farther ahead, a little dress, a bonnet, some stockings, some shoes; lastly, two shells, set there to look pretty. “It was like an altar,” said the cousin. And, kneeling before it was Jean-Luc, who indeed prayed, his hands clasped together. “He looked like he was coming out of water,” continued the cousin. And, wanting to come down from his heap of wood, a log had rolled out from under him, yet Jean-Luc had not heard a thing. “You could’ve shot the cannon, he wouldn’t have paid any attention.”
The new tale spread from house to house, along with the tale from the previous evening; while the roofs dried, the roofs smoked a vapor, and the blue sky descended from between the fragments of the last clouds, the bad weather having gone to the Germans. Some little girls with very long skirts dragged a ram by its horns.
He tried everything. So, that same day, hoe in hand, he went off to the cemetery, and remained there until four o’clock; then they saw him enter Jéromette’s house, from which he exited with a full basket of flower seedlings and a big watering can; went back to his task, which he continued until evening, coming to fill up his water can at the fountain from time to time. And those who out of curiosity had gone to the cemetery, did not recognize little Henri’s tomb; up to that point it had remained exactly how it was the day of the funeral, the clods thrown in heaps, and bare, with nothing but the little cross, which was still planted crooked: the cross had now been straightened, the earth plowed, raked, watered, and all sorts of flowers had been planted, the pretty ones of summer: mignonette, china asters, marigolds, sweet peas. And so, because nearby, due to the great heat, the irises had wilted and the greenery had withered, the little tomb was the most beautiful, black in the middle of the gray and cracked earth. It even had a border made of flat stones, like the ones people cover roofs with, all of the same size and planted upright. Jéromette said: “He came and asked me, I gave him everything I had, after all it was for a tomb; and if I have to I’ll go and water them myself, so that the poor things don’t go thirsty.”
But she did not need to; Jean-Luc watered them himself. The Sunday that followed, he went to Mass with devotion and left before everyone; then, instead of going to the square, he returned to the cemetery, he went to the tomb and began to pray on it. And, as they exited, the women who had remained for the vespers (which, in these parts, are said directly after Mass) watched the poor man in the distance, and took pity on him, thinking of his great suffering. While the men, on the contrary, because they have a harder heart, said: “Who knows how this will end!” And they repeated to Christine: “Be careful.” But Jean-Luc seemed to have forgotten her.
He now moved as if swept by a great wind, no rest, no tranquility; he no longer said hello to anyone, his eyes turned to interior things, his ears occupied by a voice above him.
He no longer went to see anyone but the cobbler. The little pot of pitch was on the workbench, along with the thread and the awl; Nanche didn’t cease his work, he continued to pull on his thread. He asked:
—You still haven’t found him?
Jean-Luc shook his head. And Nanche:
—I understand you, I do.
He spoke with difficulty, his mouth full of the wooden dowels he grabbed one after the other, and hammered with a firm stroke of the tool with the rounded end; for he was a good worker when he hadn’t had anything to drink; and Jean-Luc leaned toward him:
—I showed goodwill for the property; I dug myself deep, but I resurfaced, I resurfaced purified …
He repeated: “Purified! … and I raised these things far from my mind; why is it they fall back upon me? …”
You could hear the little sound of the hammer against the leather, and far off in the village, accompanying it, the hammering of a scythe being sharpened for the second crops. Yet, that day, Nanche, planting his last dowel, and remaining with his hammer in the air:
—Do you want me to tell you? I know, I know where the little one is.
He raised a hand:
—Up there.
Jean-Luc answered:
—He would have waited for me.
The outline of roofs trembled against the sky, and everything seemed to fly in fragments through the air, because of the hot sun that dissolves and inhales.
He added:
—I did everything, and it was no use.
He sighed. He straightened his tall body, which folded itself back up, slumped, having lost more weight, which was visible because of his clothes, which had become too large, and were now in tatters. And the cobbler said again:
—We’re miserable men.
But Jean-Luc was already off in the distance. His need for movement having grabbed hold of him again, he went straight ahead of himself; children would run away when they saw him now; someone watched from a window. A trail creeps under the cemetery and descends through the meadows toward La Zaut; he allowed himself to drift that way. He cut a baton from the hedge, trimmed it, skinned it, threw it: then took up his great strides again, with the stray appearance that was now his, halting suddenly, shaking his head.
Above him there was the great dry stone wall behind which they place the dead, who are happy, never having had the chance to sleep and rest as they pleased during their stay on Earth, and now departed below; seen thus from the ground, the steeple points in the air without the rest of the
church, the very tip is cut off.
All of a sudden, standing there, Jean-Luc saw something move in the meadows. It was a woman with a very small child, whom she held in her lap. She was sitting at the foot of the hedge, she undid her camisole, then pressing the child against her, she began to breastfeed him. He approached, recognized Christine.
And felt jealous.
CHAPTER XI
JEALOUS OF THIS CHILD OF HERS, when he no longer had his own. He spied on her from inside a bush. She was there, so close, she who turned her back to him as she bent over, the nape of her neck showed, bronzed underneath the black bun, with its little copper combs. And, holding the child under the head, she clasped him to her chest; she said: “Drink little one, drink my boy.” Then moved him to the other side. And Jean-Luc thought: “She’s got one, my God!” Still thinking back to what she had said the day he had driven her out: “You’ve got yours, I’ve got mine.”
But the little one was satisfied; she buttoned her blouse; following which, rising, she took the child on her arm, took the rake lying near her—and went off, climbing back up the path. And Jean-Luc followed her, sneaking behind the hedges.
But suddenly he hid inside a bush again, having seen the daughter of the bell ringer arrive, who was on her way down, and bumped into Christine—who stopped, and the two of them began to chat. He listened. Ludivine said:
—How’s the little one?
Christine responded:
—He’s well, thanks.
She showed him to her. He could see the little bonnet, the big cheeks, just like Henri’s were in the past, in the cradle—and the two women bent over him: “He’s so beautiful, how old is he?” “Three months old.” “Only three months, and so big, and so strong! What do you give him?”
Christine was standing upright, her rake against her shoulder, she beat on her chest:
—I’ve got plenty here.
Jean-Luc lost his breath; he was crouching, leaning on his hands, he felt them shake under him.
—That’s right, continued Christine, as long as he wants it, I’ve got some right here.
Ludivine continued:
—You’re not like Josette, she had to put hers under the goat.
They laughed upright in the sunshine.
—You see, said Christine, mine eats when he’s hungry, he sleeps well, he doesn’t cry, he’s a sweet boy.
And when Christine had gone off, Ludivine cried to her again from afar:
—When will you be done with the second crop?
—Almost done, two more days in these parts, and then I’ll only have Tové left.
Once again, he followed her, and up at the top of the path, the tip of the village appears, made up of wheat barns and haylofts, high on their pillars of stone, which is where he went to hide, making a detour to watch her pass.
He didn’t resurface the entire day, except around sunset when he came to pray under the Cerniou cross, for, since the Sunday they had found him kneeling in the cemetery, he had prayed before all the crosses.
He remained under the Cerniou cross until nighttime, he came home; the little empty cradle was there; he carried it to the kitchen, and, grabbing an ax, chopped it to pieces. He walked over to the little garments, the dress, the stockings, and the bonnet, which he used to make a little package he tied with a string, and placed into a chest, which he locked, holding on to the key.
And at length he remained collapsed on a chair; then, all of a sudden, stood up, returned to the kitchen, and, leaning over the fragments of the cradle, he grabbed them one by one, trying to put them back together, he thought: “If only he would return!” And he felt regret; so he went back to the chest, took out the package, undid it, put away the clothes like before.
He sat back down, pondered things. He got back up, pondered things. He made an effort. He came and went in great strides through the bedroom; in the stillness of night, the whole house trembled and cracked. For a while, the sound of footsteps continued, with the lamp on, and the square of light that dimly marked the meadow; he told himself: “I have to keep trying,” and looked out the windows to see whether the sky grew pale, for the night had advanced, not much however, but he no longer had any perception of the time you measure with accuracy in your everyday life, until one day you’re ejected from it.
So much so that it was not quite daybreak when Augustin, who had woken very early to scythe, and had just entered the barn, heard someone call to him. He was about to come out with his scythe; he didn’t recognize the voice. He peeped through a crack between the beams, saw Jean-Luc. But quite another man, with his pallor, with his shirt open underneath his unbuttoned vest, his head bare, and his long hair falling on his forehead; so that Augustin took fright, and didn’t answer, went to hide in the corner behind the door, while this man called for him once again.
It was that pleasant hour when the houses wake, along with the kitchen lamps; all over the paths there are men on their way; the herd of goats has already gone, guided by the little shepherd, and there’s a fire on the tip of the mountains. But Jean-Luc called a third time. And Augustin, because he was beginning to feel ashamed, and thinking that Jean-Luc would enter if he didn’t come out, appeared all of a sudden, his scythe in hand.
—What do you want?
Jean-Luc had come forward—and as Augustin moved away, on his guard:
—Don’t be afraid, he began to say. I just want to speak with you.
He repeated:
—I want to speak with you.
Augustin answered: “Alright, I’m listening.” Jean-Luc lowered his voice and with haste: “Go to Christine and advise her to leave! straightaway, today or tomorrow, you understand.”
Augustin said to him:
—I will, but I need to know why.
—You see, it’s the little one. She’s the reason he went away. So here’s what I’ve been thinking: if she goes, he’ll return; but, you see, I just can’t, I can’t go on living without him.
—And what will she think if I tell her: “Be off”? Does she not have a right to be in the village like you do, owning a house like you do?
—You will tell her you’re coming on my behalf. Otherwise … tragedy!
Jean-Luc was shaking, was it because of the cool air or did he have a fever? His hands were as restless as leaves in the wind, his entire body too, and his large shoulders, however accustomed to the great weight of hay loads, were all too weak under this other weight—then he pointed to the clouds in the air:
—They’re headed in the right direction.
He inhaled the air:
—The air is cool, it no longer gives me any pleasure.
With that, something else in him broke, he continued:
—You see, I’ve come because I’ve forgotten it all, and perhaps she’ll listen to you because she loves you, and you can be with her now, it no longer matters to me; she’s no longer the one that I need.
He grabbed a fallen leaf:
—This right here, this is her.
So Augustin said to him:
—Why don’t you go and see her yourself?
He placed a hand on his heart:
—It would cause me too much pain, I’ve got an open wound right here.
—Well then! I’ll go! said Augustin.
But he did not keep his promise. Where he did go, was to the village and to the inn, and repeated it all, even inflating the truth. He finished by saying: “He should be locked up.” But Jean-Luc was not locked up, and three more days passed. In the end he made up his mind.
He made one last effort, he went to her himself. This section of the village is on a slope; there are, between the houses, narrow little passages, which one descends through and sinks deep inside of; and above, the roofs touch each other, so that you can barely see the sky. Christine lived there; the house had two stories and her bedroom was located on the second floor. Jean-Luc went up the stairs, he knocked at the door, Félicie was singing, she stopped singing; then the little one started to
cry, and a voice said: “Is that you, Augustin?” He answered: “No, it’s not Augustin, it’s me.” Once again they didn’t recognize his voice.
Then, Jean-Luc pushed the door open, and at once she saw him, he who was standing at the threshold, without entering. Because the entranceway was so small, he was forced to lower his head; and yet he looked so tall and fearsome, less because of his height than because of his appearance, with his pallor and sad eyes, so tall and fearsome to her, who remained speechless as she watched him. The little one was on the table, for she had been swaddling him; but, standing there, she hid him; he didn’t see him at first. What he did see, was the kitchen and poor Félicie, who opened her mouth, and a sort of scream escaped. The fire was blazing, daylight filtered in through the window, some dust danced through the sunlight. He said:
—I’ve come.
But, as soon as he took one step inside, she cried:
—This is not your home.
He halted, he said:
—I’m well aware this is not my home, but I want the truth to be out; there are two of us, that’s one too many.
She answered him:
—You’re not worth listening to.
—One too many! he said, you have to go.
And he looked her in the face. But, just then, she picked up the child, whom he saw all of a sudden, and he looked away. Then, without looking up:
—It’s my advice to you: be off while you can.
She didn’t seem worried about him, and Jean-Luc, still looking down:
—To avoid a tragedy.
He continued: “Do you understand?” He said: “A tragedy! a tragedy! because I did everything and you did nothing; will you answer me?” She answered: “Leave me alone.”
He closed the door, he ran down the stairs.
A while later, Marie, who was hanging up her washing on the garden wall, called her husband: “Come quickly!” He was busy shoeing a mule brought over by a girl who was standing near the beast; he dropped his pliers and came. Marie said to him: “Look over there.”
Jean-Luc was once again under the cross, no longer kneeling, but bowed all the way down to the earth, and the great cross with its golden Christ rose above him. And, behind the cross, the painter’s house, all flowering with geraniums, emerged with honey-colored wood; then, in the sky, like boats beneath their sails, the clouds, filled with wind, glided by calmly—Jean-Luc was before the cross and was flat on his face.