by Jean Giono
December 19
Six o’clock, and I’m writing. Three loud explosions outside at intervals of thirty seconds. The railway being bombed? Or the Sainte-Tulle factory? The electricity goes out for a moment, then comes back on. Angele who spent the afternoon with my mother and had just left, turns around, rings the bell, comes back in and says she’s afraid. Élise comes up to ask me what I think of it. Nothing. And besides, it’s over, all we can do is wait, we’ll find out what it was. They might have attacked the pylons where the electric lines cross the Durance. I open the window. Outside, nothing. The train is arriving at the station. The Saint-Sauveur bells are ringing.
Throughout the second reading of Margaret Mitchell’s long novel, one is often bored, and occasionally bowled over. The characters aren’t alive. The fires are alive. Scarlett has no ass. Even when Mme. Mitchell tries to inflate her. Rhett has no balls even when he sleeps with the little redheaded whore. Property and puritanism. If Scarlett’s afraid of being raped, it’s no different from her fear of a toothache. A sexless novel. A drama for the castrated choirs of the Sistine Chapel. There’s ten times more sex in Le Père Goriot, and next to Mme. Mitchell, Stendhal, that prude Stendhal, becomes a pornographer.
Gave 400 francs to Mme. E. this morning to pay for her room. Always the same financial troubles.
December 20
Gone with the Wind. Part two, finally Ashley wants to make love with Scarlett and tells her so. He even talks about making love to her outside in the mud. Finally Scarlett gets ready to prostitute herself to Rhett. Finally her heart throbs in her breast. But it’s too late. She can’t suddenly just come to life, she was never born. It doesn’t seem authentic.
December 21
This morning when the cleaning woman arrived, she told us that Christiani was killed in Sainte-Tulle last evening. First we’d heard that he was the one who had killed his assailant. Christiani was a venal, mediocre man, it seems (I’m only repeating what I’ve heard, I didn’t know him myself, not even by sight). Nevertheless he remained in the ranks after the first attack, so he was brave. He had a small construction business.
December 23
May God rid all our countries of patriots. No idea will ever do as much harm as the idea of the fatherland. Men are so naturally bad that after two thousand years of Christianity all it takes is a little anarchy for them to revert to the wild dogs they are. Not lions or wolves, nothing noble, but vile dogs.
Meyerowitz is in Marseille, I believe, and so I have some peace ever since I had Aline answer the phone and tell him I was traveling.
This morning Christiani was buried amid a great showing by the militia. This afternoon Michel Auguste came by to rant and rave about the dead man. Why do people always want to put down their enemies and not acknowledge their qualities of courage or loyalty? Don’t they understand they’re actually putting themselves down? I didn’t know Christiani, not even by sight, and I know that as a member and officer of the militia he was my enemy, but I call him courageous for going from Peyrolle to Manosque alone at night by bicycle, despite the risk of attack.
December 24
I have to learn some words. Enrich my vocabulary. My sentences will be more graceful and accurate. New tones will give me license, add new colors to my thoughts. Because I can always invent and construct with originality, prolifically, and tirelessly. But my sentences are poor and weak. My senses are extraordinary; I hear and I see with new ears and eyes. But the tools I use to express myself aren’t sharp enough. I must learn some words. Read and pay attention to all the words that are new to me and note them down, humbly keep lists. And then have the wisdom not to use them, almost never, except a few, very rarely, so that they don’t become a habit for me. Clearly prone to quiet meditation, I will always be awkward in the world. If I’ve lost my friends, it’s from wanting to enjoy their company. They should have enjoyed my company without getting mixed up with me.
While he was ranting, A. Michel said, “He kept his nose to the ground like a dog.” (Christiani was found dead in the fields near the road, in fact, his nose to the ground.)
December 25, Christmas
This is not a journal. It’s simply a tool of the trade. My life is not completely depicted. Nor would I want it to be. As I’ve said, here I practice scales, I break up my sentences, I try to stick as closely as possible to the truth. But sometimes events are so rich with drama or pathos (the business with Charles) that practicing scales – my scales – isn’t sufficient and I have to invent. For me, anyway, expressing truths of this order is impossible without inventing. Moreover, it’s to be able to express them simply that I force myself to do this daily work. Maybe it will help me improve my skills in the direction I’d like. I was just interrupted. Mme. Castel, the cleaning woman, was knocking on my door. I told her to come in. A formality because she’s completely deaf and nearly blind. Infirmities that originated with syphilis. Ten years ago she unabashedly shared the doctor’s diagnosis. She’s been with us for sixteen years. Today we invited her to have Christmas dinner with us. She ate at the family table. It was very beautiful, a beauty that no one noticed. I would have liked Aline to notice. Is she too young despite her seventeen years, or too rich? Twelve people at the table, including Barbara the maid, Mme. Castel, Charles who came out of hiding, Élise’s cousin André from the concentration camp (a brave fellow but mediocre, a braggart with a Tarascon temper), Aunt Noémie, a distant cousin of Élise, the widow of a family friend. Élise’s mother, my mother, Élise, Mme. Henry (Henry is still in the hospital; after much worry, he is, for the moment, out of danger), me, Aline, Sylvie. That was the table. A good Christmas dinner: rabbit galantine, veal sauce, a beautiful roast turkey, chocolate cake, a very good rosé wine the color of red currants, a little bubbly (from Margotte) and coffee. With rare lack of concern for vulgarity, André drank nonstop. I don’t blame him: he just spent three years in a concentration camp for Communism, and he’s not even a Communist. He’s lazy and sleeps like a log. He says (among other things) that he’s a nonconformist. That is to say, the worst kind of conformist. He’d be very surprised to learn that I’m the true revolutionary here with all my efforts that go against the current (counter to the general opinion, against terrorism, smug Anglomania, restored Germany, the war, etc.). Charles didn’t say a word. Sometimes he looked my way with a subtle, more affectionate smile than when he stayed with us before this business. Élise went to a lot of trouble for this dinner. And it was her idea to invite Mme. Castel. Élise is very good, very forthright in the best way. A small, solid, and honest woman. It’s good to have her beside me. I’m often unfair to her. But even when I’m angry, when it comes to Élise, I always know that I’m being unfair, and that I couldn’t ask for more than what she is and what she gives. I try hard not to get angry, but this morning Aline provoked me. I blame myself for losing control, but sapped by this pain my foot’s been causing me for the last week, I let myself go. Nevertheless, it was Christmas morning and Aline’s and Sylvie’s shoes were here in my office, before the fireplace. I had piled them high with toys and books. That was the start of it. And Aline’s unyielding, inflexible nature that gives her a severity I worry about. I love this first daughter, born in the time of our trials, who is the expression of the love between Élise and me. And who resembles me so much and is so close to me. My mistake, I believe, is wanting her to have that restraint I’ve gradually and painfully imposed upon myself, but only after forty-plus years and still not completely. She was awake early this morning, as I was after spending the night with an aching foot. I didn’t get up right away. My foot still hurt and I was putting off getting dressed and going up to discover the shoes with Aline and Sylvie. Moreover, Charles had spent the night on the divan in my office and he wasn’t up yet. I heard him stirring. I told Aline to wait for Charles to get up. Very obediently she agreed. (Had to break off here. Sick to my stomach with nausea. A result of all this colchicine I’m foolishly taking to reduce my pain.) So
she was good and didn’t let her impatience get the better of her, and I was wrong to let my pain get the better of me. But meanwhile Sylvie slipped upstairs alone. I heard the slap of bare feet. She just took one look and ran back down, and (although outraged that she overstepped her traditional rights) I was wrong to say, “That little monster Sylvie has already gone up.” Aline suddenly explodes. Violence, tears, her pigheadedness, and innocent Sylvie comes into the room and looks at us dumbfounded. She didn’t think she’d done anything. And Christmas was ruined and Sylvie went to collect her presents while I raged, then lectured (very calmly, but a moment later I spoiled everything again with an outburst), roared, and upset everyone. Fierce, bad tempered, shaky, I didn’t want – and I didn’t want Aline – to ruin Christmas. Heroically she left her presents upstairs without even peeking at them. Finally yielding to the reasons I gave (and not because of the presents), Aline came to me quietly about ten o’clock, apologized, and gave me a hug. She spent the rest of the day thanking me. This morning my mother came up to spend a few moments with me. She’s getting old. And at noon, at the table, I had to scold her (if she knew how painful that is for me!). She picked a fight with Aunt Noémie (who is a bit like André). After lunch, I went over to kiss my mother and whispered in her ear, “I blamed you because it’s your home and in one’s own home, one doesn’t speak to people as you did.” “Well,” she said with a wave toward Aunt Noémie, “she’s not people.”
Mme. Castel came to tell me about her husband, who’s in the hospital. She had just been there. She found him much changed (I think he’s going to die). She came in search of some hope, asking what I thought. I don’t know, I haven’t seen her husband for a long time. I shout at her at the top of my lungs that I’ll go see him as soon as I can walk. “And if misfortune strikes,” she says in her small deaf voice. I shout at the top of my lungs that we’ll take her in, she doesn’t need to worry. She squeezes my hand. She says to me, “What would I do without you, without all of you. I often think that. You are all so good.” I make a dismissive gesture as though to say, “Well, yes, what of it?”
Alice Cocéa did a kind deed that I find moving. Aware of my financial worries through my efforts to publish Le Voyage en calèche before it’s performed on stage, she sent me an advance of 25,000 francs.
To forget my pain, yesterday and this morning I quickly reread Louis Chadourne’s Le Maître du navire…or the art of beating around the bush.
December 29
First, I’ve been quite sick with extreme pain. I’ll say more about that later. Then, some serious turns of events. I’ll say more about that later, too.
1944
January 1
I must learn some tricks for entering events here. The point of practicing these daily scales is to discover new tricks. Entries on Charles, on Lucien Jacques, on vast countries, woods, the green tent, Robin Hood and his Merry Men.
I just gave Mlle. Servin’s sister the manuscripts for Que ma joie demeure and Chant du monde. She’s leaving for Paris tomorrow morning and will deliver them to Gallimard. The bookseller is buying them for a firm 40,000 each and I absolutely need this money to pay my taxes. I’m mad at myself for all my generosities that now force me to part with these manuscripts, which I love and intended for my daughters. I’m mad at myself for being too weak to force Salomé to sell the horse (weak, but mostly incompetent). I’m not exaggerating the value of these objects. I’m being well paid for the manuscripts, but my regret lies in their sentimental value, there’s not a bit of pride in it. Well, there’s nothing to be done but write others.
January 2
Not a single problem is ever resolved; new problems just replace old ones.
Jacqueline Dez, Hélène’s daughter, came to see me. Her brother, who was arrested in Grenoble by the German police, is surely going to be shot, she tells me. Young Alain is really the biggest imbecile I’ve ever met. I ask what he’s done. The look of a heroine! Oh how carefully rehearsed it all is. She plays the hero’s sister with such relish. I say, “Poor Hélène!” She says, “Oh yes, poor Maman,” but she’s careful to keep “the dignity of the martyr” in her speech. Although to myself I’m thinking, just a band of deadbeats, Alain, you and your sister, little tramps and good-for-nothings, without character or value. Stupid lout who finally found a label for his villainy: patriotism. That’s exactly what all this drama is. She says to me, “Ah, when young men ‘go to battle’!” Well, it’s a two-way game, so when you come moaning that Germans “go to battle,” what are you complaining about?” And if Hélène were here, I would tell her that as a pacifist who renounced her pacifism, she has nothing to say. Her son is making war. I warned them all that governments always find a way to introduce war and make sure it’s waged. This is one of them. If Alain is shot, he will die in the war. All he had to do was not make it. The only ones who live are those who don’t make war, any war. But I immediately give Jacqueline a glowing letter for A. de Chateaubriant (which compromises me) and another for Montherlant (in which I make myself perfectly ridiculous); and I ask idiotic favors from my friends. And I know that all this will come back to slap me in the face. And I do it for these vain, soulless, wretched beings. These destroyers of peace and of worlds, these poor excuses for suffragettes.
My health is not improving very quickly. My foot still gives me pain.
Fluchère’s visit a few days ago. I was shamefully and woefully mistaken about him, and out of shame I must leave intact that entry I wrote some months back. He is loyal and loving. And most of all, exceptionally intelligent. He spoke with passion (plural, many passions, lit and burning from all sides) on the problem of Death and Justice, Aeschylus, the Oresteia, Seneca, and Machiavelli, with whom a new morality begins. Spoke to him of Luther’s tract, De Servo Arbitrio, which he didn’t know and which is relevant to his research. He left, too soon, but Jacqueline Dez was waiting downstairs. I don’t see enough of him.
This evening Jacqueline ate with us, at Élise’s invitation. Edith Berger was also there, having come from Lalley to discuss with me plans for publishing a book of mine that she would illustrate. I proposed to her a deluxe edition of Vraies Richesses and Triomphe de la vie combined. Edith, who is and continues to be a self-made woman, has learned to express herself with great skill. It’s hard to find finer qualities. Everything this woman accomplishes in all areas is admirable. Living alone now in the mountains, employed as town clerk for 250 francs a month, having witnessed her best plans quashed by a lout of a husband and the death of a child who was wanted and heroically conceived, the sole breadwinner for her mother, her sisters, and their many children (nine people), she feeds them all, supports herself, and paints and draws wonderfully, nonstop. I met her here in 1929 as the nursemaid who did everything for the Atgers at the Aurabelle estate. “It was you who, without saying anything, encouraged me,” she tells me. (She said that better than I just did, she didn’t say “encourage.” I think she said “determined my course.”)
Charles spoke to me about Lucien. But I’m waiting to write it down. In any case, I may have been wrong about Lucien, I ought to take the first step. I’m not a saint or angel, I don’t want to take the first step. And that’s wrong of me. It’s not our friendship I need to write about, but the comic events that could have turned tragic. He thought of sending Charles to me. I understand very well that everything I’ve written is quite vague, but that’s on purpose. Imagine first, morning, high up in the Boyers hamlet, the isolated house, Lucien’s room with its horrible chaos of dirty laundry and watercolor paints, dirty dishes growing moldy beards, mixed with glasses for brushes, pots of Chinese ink, pans of old soup, typescript pages on the floor beside old shoes, all of it beyond description. Our Lucien is sitting on the bed, typewriter on his lap, typing out a poem, on a chair next to him a rhyming dictionary. A knock at the door, or rather no knock, three men enter suddenly, maybe four.
January 3
Visit from Rabi this morning, he’s retur
ning to the Krivines’s after having just taken his wife and daughter to the station. Rabi is writing a play about Judas. “I want to write for the duration,” he tells me. We discuss style. “Oh you,” he says, “you’re a master.” He knows very well that annoys me, means nothing, and furthermore, it’s not true, I’m not a master. Rabi is very intelligent. He lives and he laughs. He giggles a bit. From one side of his mouth, as though taking a bite. I inquire about his work with much genuine concern. He asks me what I think of the Jewish problem. He would like me to write on the Jewish problem. He would like me to take a position. I tell him that I don’t give a damn, I’m about as interested in the Jews as I am my ass; there are better things to do on this earth than worry about the Jews. What narcissism! There’s nothing to do on this earth but look after Jews? No. I’m busy with other things.