by Jean Giono
November 12
The alert sounded last night about ten o’clock, for the fourth time in twenty-four hours. Immediately we heard a great number of planes passing over so low that the windows shook. This morning the newspaper reported bombing in Modane and Annecy and one of the small villages in the Hautes-Alpes, La Fare-en-Champsaur. I wonder, why bomb Champsaur!? And it’s not much easier to explain Annecy. In any case, the omens of birds seem to indicate troubled times for that region. On the whole, this is not so harmless. From now on, people are going to flee “for good” when the alert sounds. There are as many reasons to bomb Manosque as Annecy or La Fare. It’s a question of luck or mood. We are in a sort of magic Froissart. The squadrons of planes don’t seem to have any more military sense than the great armies of the Middle Ages. Once again the British are fighting in France, using the same methods as at the time of Bertrand de Guesclin. This was already apparent in Arabia in 1915 when Lawrence blew up the trains to Medina. That is, it’s a kind of military sense but different from that of war schools, a different school of war in which everyone is considered hostile, in which the stronghold isn’t distinguished from the remote farm. As this war grows old, nations rediscover their original natures. France today is just as spineless as during the Hundred Years’ War. The English have reverted to the same period. The Italians have quite naturally rediscovered the Borgias and Orsinis. I have no basis for judging the Russians, but they can’t be far from Tamerlane. The Germans are the mystery. They were nothing at that time. The Jews are precisely the Jews. The Jews of the Ghetto. You only have to look at their communities in Manosque or Forcalquier, clearly separate, voluntarily separate from the rest of the population. Republican achievements irremediably dead. Inevitable victor, as fleeting as that is: Communist ideas. Since the Middle Ages, in times like these, communities have formed. The ones to come will be more monstrous. The novelty is that they won’t come from the peasants. On the contrary. Modern peasants, having become Koulaks almost everywhere, are a counterrevolutionary element against Communism. They are attached to property. But their natural egoism will no doubt keep them from joining forces. So who will form the opposition (I mean through violence and from the beginning)? Cowardly, small-minded bourgeoisie, caving in before being affected, immediately lying down, a bed for the whole Communist army to camp on from the outset. Trapped within their own egos, the peasants will hypocritically give in. But they will be an element in the struggle nevertheless because inwardly they will yield nothing of their ideas and positions based on property. They will only be able to fight, though, by dissolving away the Communist elements and over the long term. Communist violence will have no direct opponent. It is only over time, a generation, maybe even two or three (time for the Koulak spirit to be reborn in young peasants if it’s destroyed in the old ones, and this rebirth happening spontaneously because it’s natural), that French Communism, broken down from within by the natural chemistry of its peasantry, will once again become simple radical-socialist democracy. Nothing will come to nothing. The dead will be dead, a speck, that’s all. (This line of reasoning doesn’t take into account America, where a f structure might precipitate.)
More and more, I’m moved by the classics. I may come around to reading Corneille; that would be the last straw. In any case, very keen pleasure in reading La Bruyère and I’m beginning to understand Saint-Simon. A curious glance at the logic of Port-Royal. (My Javanese robe in my south window is a splendor this morning! Truly as beautiful as a beautiful stained-glass window.)
I went for a short walk this afternoon, and behind my house along the path that climbs the hill there was a woman spinning wool. She could have been Joan of Arc. She had made a distaff from an old umbrella handle. I stopped to talk to her, intrigued by the elegant gestures that effortlessly returned to her. She gave a little embarrassed laugh. She was making fun of herself, of our poverty, of so-called modern times, and her hands moved divinely.
Wonderful weather, hot, clear, but the wind is from the south and rain must be on the way. The Mont-d’Or olive orchards are like something out of Virgil.
The Church once wrote, speaking like a loving mother: “Everything for the people, but everything through the priests.”
After the Church came the Monarchy: “Everything for the people, but everything through the Prince.”
The doctrinarians: “Everything for the people, but everything through the bourgeoisie.”
The Jacobins did not change the principle by changing the formula: “Everything for the people, but everything through the State.”
It is always the same governmentalism, the same Communism.”
Proudhon (Souvenirs d’un révolutionnaire)
Clemenceau to Lloyd George:
“The day after the armistice I find you the enemy of France.”
“Well, isn’t that our politics as usual!”
(Grandeurs et misères d’une victoire)
Nothing is noble but pacifism. And you better believe, M. Montherlant, that it requires the nerves of a toreador and the strength of an athlete. And much more courage than war. I made war in 1914 well enough. I haven’t been able to make peace in 1939.
Albert arrived. He’s the boyfriend of Marguerite, the maid who preceded Barbara. One morning my mother-in-law heard noise in Marguerite’s room. My wife went up and found Albert hidden in the space between the bed and the wall. He was spending nights there. They were fired. Albert has always liked me. He’s from Thionville. He talks as if his tongue isn’t completely detached from his palate. He’s handsome in the way of young film stars. He’s had much success with women. He tells me his troubles. He thinks that Marguerite cheated on him with an Italian soldier – I wouldn’t wish on anyone what happened to me, he says darkly. Of course I agree with him, but what can you do. He told me that he was shaking, that he lost his head, and then he beat her, and then he sat up with her all night. It seems she was spitting blood. Marguerite cried and told him that she was going to die, that she had only six months, and that he must let her do what she wanted if he loved her. He asks me for advice and I give it. He took Marguerite to Marseille to the doctor’s. There’s nothing wrong with her. But he also tells me that M., out of jealousy, beat a girl that he had looked at, and then she fainted in his arms. Impossible to render the tone of these confidences, mixed with declarations of love that he offers me, or the declarations of love that Marguerite makes through him. Finally I tell him to come back sometime if he needs to get things off his chest, and he gives me a bag of tobacco as a parting gift and leaves.
November 13
Stendhal. I was belaboring the point. I didn’t need to find all the terms of endearment he uses for his father in the letters to Pauline. He writes to him on March 3, 1803 (Letter 36, Divan, vol. I, p. 109) and you vvcouldn’t ask for more humility, love, submission, or tenderness. So much so that it’s clear: this is hypocrisy. Impossible to love someone with whom one uses this tone of complete inferiority. Especially when the writer is ambitious, and even though he has just written to Pauline that among the men of genius in Grenoble their father ranks first. It’s obvious what he really thinks of him. What he will say in H.B.
I wrote so hurriedly last evening about Albert’s confidences that what I wrote about Marguerite may seem ambiguous. Albert, who considers me his friend, said this in an awkward and exaggerated way (what I jokingly called his declarations of love); and it’s exactly the same with regard to what I call Marguerite’s declarations of love. She was just surprised that I showed her kindness and understanding, accustomed as she was to everyone’s harsh treatment of her. So A. told me awkwardly that she remembers me with warm feelings. That’s all there is to it. I have no interest in women. Especially not her. For me it’s just as though she didn’t exist. Except to give her a hundred francs when she went to Marseille to see a doctor. And with me she was always very respectful and slightly dumbstruck. Yes, it’s true, women (in plural) r
eally don’t interest me. It would surprise me if there wasn’t some legend about this.
Alain Cuny, in Paris one day, said something to me about it – at the corner of Rue Bonaparte, along the Seine. The truth is very different. Yes, I’m sensual, very much so, but pathologically faithful. I become attached and never again detach myself. Infidelity is physically impossible for me, while I might be enormously physical straightaway with whatever I love. Romanticism. The need for feeling. And then delights. The rest, no. I really do prefer a pipe and solitude.
The mistral again. Not very cold, as when it begins and will last for several days. Skies heavy with the green marshes of the southern gulfs. Despite the wind, clouds motionless, so very high up. Over Marseille, in that direction, brilliant cumulus against a background of murky gray sky.
Office peaceful, cozy, warm; magnificent morning light through the Javanese stained-glass.
At noon, bucolic lunch, the two farmers from Margotte and Criquet were there, having come with fresh supplies. There’s always some disappointment. The distillation of the marc at Margotte that should have provided forty liters of brandy only produced twenty-four. At Criquet where it should have produced another twenty (the same weight), it provided eighteen. Large Mme. Bonnefoy sat next to little Salomé and they both ate our lentils. I had equipped them each with a little horse and carriage with rubber tires to come to Manosque. Regarding horses, Salomé has taken it upon himself to sell the Criquet horse, which is sick. But at first it was to be about 80,000, now Salomé hopes to get 60,000, but he claims he has a buyer offering 30,000. All this small talk is not insignificant. Nothing a farmer says is random. Well, in any case, Salomé, who was shoeless, shirtless, and penniless two years ago and to whom I gave a 400,000 franc advance (without requiring anything in exchange) (current rate, but real outlay 150,000) has a bank account now, and Mme. Bonnefoy has the air of a lady. So much the better. And they both bring me fresh supplies on the dot.
The lawyer paid me 3,500 francs. The balance from the sale of Uncle’s printing press (which my father and mother spent all their savings to buy in 1909 – 4,000 francs I believe and they went into debt for 7 or 8,000 I think. I remember that as soon as we sat down to eat, all anyone talked about were the machines, the paper cutter, etc., and whenever my father and mother could talk without Uncle hearing, there were tears and wailing on my mother’s side – especially as the end of the month approached when payments came due – I still remember Gonelle’s features and name. And on my father’s side, a kind of resigned sadness. Because Uncle continued to get drunk regularly and the beautiful work he did at first deteriorated. Finally, seven or eight years ago, I forced Uncle to sell. He was no longer working – he never worked – and he was still getting drunk. It was Rico who bought it, 20,000 francs, I think (which would have come in handy back then), paying 10,000 down, with the other 10,000 to be paid in installments handled by the lawyer. These 3,500 francs are the last of those installments. I gave the money to my mother. Not that she needs anything of course, but I know that it makes her happy and it makes sense that this money is returned to her. She had enough worries when she was up to her neck in debt, with her ironing as her only means of income and her old shoemaker husband upstairs in his lonely workshop.
At three o’clock, Maman comes up to my office. I hear her feeling her way through Barbara’s room, then her blind steps, and she knocks. She’s brought her small purse. I tell her to sit down and catch her breath. Then her funds must be organized. She has me count and stack the thousand-franc notes (she already had three from her old-age pension). Since she’s blind, I have her touch the bills and I tell her that one of the recently issued bills is smaller than the others. She counts; there are now five thousand-franc notes. The 500-franc notes are in another pocket. There are four of them. Five, because I discover another one hidden in separate pocket of her wallet. She’s reassured, she thought she’d lost it. That makes 7,500 francs total. “If you didn’t have to pay inheritance tax,” she says, “I’d invest them!” She’s happy, she laughs, she’s in good spirits. This is all perfectly useless. She wraps her wallet in a handkerchief. She tucks it into her purse. She puts the purse strap over her arm and I walk her down to the first floor. She says to me, “switch off the lights, I’m going to go through Mémé’s room.” I go back to my office.
November 14
I’m trying hard to record as precisely as possible the most ordinary everyday events. My taste for invention can lead to an obscure lyricism. I need somewhere private, not meant to be published, where I can practice scales, exercise my fingers on tougher disciplines. I must try to express these small everyday events quickly and in the most accurate way possible. Stick close to and describe what happens; the most commonplace, invent nothing. Acquire that style, if possible. It’ll at least allow me to feel my way maybe for two or three years. But I enjoy this effort, so if, by the end of that time, I’ve only acquired mastery over myself (if invention no longer masters me, which is always the case now), it will have been worth it. After nearly twenty years of work, I’ve still not managed to write a true book. I haven’t worked hard enough. These calisthenics may build my muscles. To date, everything I’ve done lacks depths. I will only be able to lie well (truly invent) when I learn to be very true. Submit to the object. Find the style. An analytical art.
Stendhal. He detests Mounier. He writes him very long letters, obsequious in their fawning and pretending to be direct. Mostly he writes about his feminine conquests, which he invents or exaggerates or turns to his advantage. He depicts himself as a rogue, disenchanted conqueror, a Don Juan. Harassed by women. In fact, he isn’t writing to Mounier, he couldn’t care less about Mounier. He’s writing so that Mounier will show these letters to his sister Valentine with whom he’s in love. And Mounier will never do that. The rogue out-rogued.
Barometer very low this evening. No wind. Heavy black clouds rising from the south and west. Already all I can see of the sky is murky and formless. A coating of mud. The signs of a storm, of rough weather, any violent shift, give me great physical pleasure. And when it breaks, my only fear is seeing it end. Evening blue almost black, a lid. The chestnut leaves trembling, the branches still. The arrival of these great things that have nothing to do with men. Escape from the petty.
November 15
What is the meaning of André Gide’s silence? He was in Tunis when the English took it. Since then, not a word. There’s the radio. There are friends who speak up for you. There are those who proudly declare their allegiance. He was already partisan, which could prevent him from taking sides again. Why he doesn’t speak up himself can be explained to some degree: he’s too honest to want to play spokesman in an armed conflict. But if he’s in English territory, he must have relations with the authorities. And if they are friendly relations, it’s surprising that the authorities haven’t used Gide’s name to their advantage for propaganda purposes. It would be significant if Radio Algiers reported that M. Gide was siding with the English. They used the name of Max-Pol Fouchet and the Fontaine staff. Nevertheless, nothing. Dead silence. Could it be the Russians?
Despite my barometer, a very fine cold sun this morning.
But once again this afternoon, overcast.
We can’t give France a finer gift than to destroy its great cities with the bomb. Imagine the flood of ready cash pouring in from all sides of the globe for reconstruction. It would be the time of plenty and easy money. We are establishing a low pressure system here that will make us the center of a money cyclone after the war.
And just wait for all our industries that converted their factories for the war to write off their expenditures for machinery.
Satisfied with the beginning what I’m writing on Virgil. I’m getting there in a roundabout way. I want to be interesting. I’m incapable of saying anything new about Virgil or anything scholarly, and I don’t know Latin. At the beginning of these poetic pages, simply to do my poetic work. T
he sentence has number (what I’ve been seeking for a long time – succeeded in Pour saluer Melville) and I’m sure that up to this point (four pages written) it reads not only interestingly but makes the reader eager for what comes next. But it’s still the art of summary. Up to this point.
November 16
Everything’s going smoothly with Virgile. I’m enjoying it. I think I’m going to call it “Jardins d’Armide.” Make it – if possible – a kind of poetics. Above all, I would like it to be read and appreciated as an adventure story. The best part is that, for the moment, I’m enjoying writing the story as if I were telling it to myself.
At noon an alert, thirty minutes later, all over. Nothing, as usual.
Kerolyr, who got a ride with the Forcalquier Roads and Bridges engineer, came to see me this morning. It’s been three years since I’ve seen him. He’s still making photographs of space in his observatory up there, but, he says, the more beautiful they are, the more of a pain in the neck. If he had had help, he could have been the one to do the photographic index of the Herschel nebulae. A month ago I received a letter from him with a 500 franc note. What is this 500 franc note, I wrote back. He told me that I had lent it to his daughter, and today he came to see if I could lend it back to him again, which I did. Took advantage of the opportunity to mention Meyerowitz to the engineer, who will mention him to the sub-prefect. I spoke in glowing terms, as they could play beautiful music together. If M. is patient and takes my advice, I can arrange a very peaceful and safe situation for him in Forcalquier; he’ll risk nothing whatsoever. Hardly had I finished writing this when the bell rings and it’s Meyerowitz. He’s found lodgings in Saint-Maime. He tells me that Kerolyr is “comestible” but that X is a “parody of Joan of Arc,” and that she’s “anti-erectable.” I tell him that between Kerolyr, the engineer, and the sub-prefect, he’s already safe enough in Forcalquier and even in Saint-Maime. But on a new front, M. has already seen the Saint-Maime priest. Played his organ, charmed and disgusted the postman, and moved into the lodgings near the grade crossing. Everything has to be redone. Also, M. met Auréas’s daughter and has managed to get himself invited to Aubenas. Mme. B. has sent him the key to her house in Vachères. I wonder what the hell I’m doing mixed up in this business!
