by C. F. Ramuz
It spreads across rather flat large spaces; and in some areas of the short and grazed grass, the tall gentians appeared, with their thick and glistening leaves.
The chalet is farther up; the chalet was empty, because the herd had left two or three days earlier.
You saw it in the distance, short beneath its roof, coarse with its dry stone walls, a door in front, but no window or chimney, and nearby, in a hollow, there was a great pond of green water, with muddy banks, pierced with holes by the hooves of cows. Nothing stirred. And everything looked small, due to the great wall that rises behind the chalet and seems to lean forward, because of how steep it is; the chalet was small, smaller still were the four men, who had halted, not having found anything.
They hesitated a moment, then sat down at the edge of the stream and started eating again, for running provokes hunger, and the fresh air digs a hole in your stomach. And they didn’t suspect they had been found, it was the truth, however: Jean-Luc was hidden, a little higher up than the chalet, behind the great quarter of a boulder; he had chosen this spot because of the moss, upon which he had put down the child, or so he thought. And from there he spied on the men.
They were still talking, you could hear their voices, but could not understand what they were saying. Jean-Luc watched their gestures, one of them pointing to the rocks, the other to the pastures; time passed; the sun calmly rose in the sky, supported on each side by the columns of the mountains.
And you saw Théodule flip the bottle, showing them it was empty, so they pulled another one out of the bag, and the glass again passed from hand to hand, the four men in a circle; and far below them the great land opened up, with all of its rich plains, from which a lukewarm air rose, and the echoes of the sounds of men.
Then they closed the bag back up, and ascended toward the chalet: the door was shut, but not locked, for there’s no lock, and no one leaves anything inside it: as they approached, they slowed their pace, walking with precaution, and Jean-Luc heard Théodule saying: “He might be inside.” And so two of them entered, while the other two remained at the door; the two who had entered probably searched the chalet’s nooks and crannies, for they stayed inside a long time, but finally came out again, shaking their heads; then Romain stomped his foot and said: “Hell!” For he was peeved, and the others too; at the time they were losing. And one of them repeated: “He went off toward Les Roffes.” And the others: “What would he do there?” “If it was up to me,” said Théodule, “I’d go and have another look in the sheep enclosure, and then never mind, go back down.”
And as they were beginning to climb through the rocks that had rolled down, all of a sudden, they heard a great cry, which rooted them to the spot, and Jean-Luc, lifting his empty arms in the air, came out from where he was hiding, and cried once again: “You won’t have him!” Then he left again, extending his long legs, leaning forward in the haste of his escape; upon which the others, motionless for an instant, hurled themselves behind him, while the counselor cried: “We’ve got him!” And the officer said while running: “Two of us should make a right to cut him off, in case he heads in the other direction.” So the counselor and Romain took off on the right, making a detour, while Jean-Luc continued to climb straight ahead, the two other men following him closely, for now he was visible from a distance on the more open terrain, even though he was in the lead; and at times he ran without turning around, at times he turned around, setting off again with new momentum.
Théodule cried a second time: “Give yourself up Jean-Luc, what can you do against the four of us?” He formed a bullhorn with his hands: “Give yourself up,” he said, “we won’t hurt you.” The echo returned his words, but Jean-Luc didn’t stop. “Let him be, we’ll get a hold of him at the boulders.” And indeed, off to the right, the two men pulled away then spaced out, and Théodule and the officer spaced out too, in case Jean-Luc came back down; but no sound could be heard passing over the fine lawn, where the soles of shoes get caught. At times they looked up, and there, a hundred meters from them, Jean-Luc passed by a sheep enclosure on a little eminence, walked to the back of it, where they followed him, then he reappeared, opposite the cliff face.
One more movement, and there he was. Then the shadow of a cloud came, enveloping him, and from the tips of the boulders, it fell upon him in what looked like an unfolded fabric; they saw him turn around, then he stood his back against the boulders. And so the officer shouted: “Watch out!”, and began to run, along with the other three men. But Jean-Luc burst into laughter.
He was standing there, arms over the load he still thought that he carried, and was leaning over it, considering it with fire and love; the wind ruffled his beard, he had lost his hat. He looked up and said softly (for the others were close enough to hear): “Come, but you’ll never have him.”
And there was no space left to him but the space toward the gorge; it opened up over there, cut distinctly from the edge; a fence ran along it, made of intertwined shards of wood; he looked that way and continued: “The Good Lord has returned him to me, I’ll return him to the Good Lord …” At that moment, the sun reappeared and the smooth rock glistened in the great radiant daylight. He leaned over the child, he kissed him twice. Next he said: “It’s over,” and he said: “You’ll say adieu for me and pray for him and me.” And he hurled himself toward the gorge.
—Run! cried the officer to Théodule, run, cut him off!
The other two, having arrived, followed him with difficulty, and the officer too, overtaken on the left; while Théodule ran right to the top with all of his strength, but it was too late; and all of a sudden they no longer had the heart for it, they all looked away—only the officer watched. He cried again:
—What are you doing? My God! What are you doing?
And then: “Grab him!”, for Jean-Luc had arrived at the fence, had jumped over it, and, standing at the ledge overlooking the void, had turned around one last time, to say:
—Come now!
And so they saw him kneel and begin to pray, upon which the officer, still hoping to reach him, hurled himself toward him, but Jean-Luc was already standing again; he slowly lifted his arms in the air as if they held a substantial weight, which he then threw before him into the void; he leaned forward, as if to watch it fall; and then it was his turn, he moved back, he gained momentum.
They had remained where they were standing, pale and breathless. Théodule said: “Damned!” Romain repeated: “Damned!” Everything was calm, a second cloud passed; the sound of water hadn’t changed, mingled with the long murmur of the wind; the light dimmed once more, then reappeared, casting shadows aside.
They allowed time to pass, no longer sure of anything. Then Théodule said: “We have to go.” And three of them descended into the gorge while the fourth ran to the village. They found Jean-Luc on a stone bank.
The torrent’s water was passing just near him, sliding soundlessly in its smooth bed; the men lifted the body; it was hard work, it took some time.
They had wrapped a cloth around his head; they said: “It cracked like a nut; the brains leapt out.”
There were open doors, lanterns, voices; Jean-Luc was heavy to carry all the way to his bed, where he remained lifeless.
And he was tall on the bed; he was ever so tall.
CHARLES-FERDINAND RAMUZ (born Sept. 24, 1878, Cully, Switzerland—died May 23, 1947, Pully, near Lausanne) was a Swiss novelist whose realistic, poetic, and somewhat allegorical stories of man against nature made him one of the most iconic French-Swiss writers of the twentieth century. As a young man, he moved to Paris to pursue a life of writing, where he struck up a friendship with Igor Stravinsky, later writing the libretto for The Soldier’s Tale (1918). Returning to Switzerland in 1914, he spent the rest of his life living and writing in the canton of Vaud, where he was born. Ramuz pioneered a common Swiss literary identity, writing books about mountaineers, farmers, or villagers engaging in often tragic struggles against catastrophe. His legacy is remembered throu
gh the Ramuz Foundation, which grants the quintannual literary award, the Grand Prix C.F. Ramuz, for Swiss writers in the French language, and his portrait is featured on the 200 Swiss franc note.
OLIVIA BAES is a Franco-American multidisciplinary artist who grew up between France, Catalonia, and the United States. She holds a Bachelor’s Degree in Comparative Literature and a Master of the Arts in Cultural Translation from the American University of Paris. She has written multiple feature-length screenplays, including L’Homme au piano and Riches, which was selected as a project in development for the 70th Cannes Film Festival. Her translations include a co-translation of Me & Other Writing by Marguerite Duras (Dorothy, a Publishing Project, 2019).
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