by Jean Giono
Unbearable heat. Tortured by physical desires and needs.
Effantin told me about the French soldiers’ animosity toward the Americans (Lemaignand had said the same thing). In Saint-Tropez, he said, women don’t dare go out alone anymore and barricade themselves in their houses. He added that the big shot he drove was going there to counter Russian influence. It’s more likely that good Effantin doesn’t know his big shot’s real mission. I’m noting briefly what he told me to help describe the present confusion in people’s minds and thinking.
I’ve read all of Proust carefully at least ten times. This time rereading Du côté de chez Swan, I realized for the first time that I was locating Combray in Normandy while it must be located, I believe, between Riems and Laon. Of course that’s because I first read À l’ombre des jeunes filles en fleurs, with the first location, as everyone else did. The trace of Balbec has not yet disappeared. The book gains in leafy shadows, as Combray seems near Shakespeare’s Arden. It’s easier to understand the Guermantes.
Wednesday, September 5
I haven’t written anything more here for eight days. I began again yesterday and I numbered these pages beginning with 1. New events have taken place that I’m going to try to note down beginning from today. This is still, now more than ever, my self-portrait, and if Joyce hadn’t already used the title, it would be, precisely, the Portrait de l’artiste par lui-même that I’m writing. First of all, for the last eight days, I’ve continued to read Proust and in large doses since I’ve read Du côté de chez Swan and À l’ombre des jeunes filles. Today I’m beginning La Prisonière. Also read a little of L’Astrée and last evening took up Don Quixote again, which has suddenly penetrated me very deeply, as it does each time, similar to embers in ice. Played chess and even began a game long distance with Crébely, each of us playing one move per day. Yesterday, played a Knight B8 – C6 (black), a waiting move that threw him off. Remained stretched out on my divan, reading, waiting. A very difficult week. It takes hellish strength of character to wait patiently as I have done. Also read one hundred pages of Saint-Simon and glanced over Retz today, which I’m certainly going to try starting again. Meant to continue with Machiavelli several times but I haven’t taken up reading it again. The weather shifted suddenly from hot to cold; from 39° in the shade yesterday to 16° today. It rained a little. Today the sky is overcast and the humid air delights me. I still don’t want to begin the account of the events of these past eight days. Below my windows, endless convoys rumbling along the road. There’s fighting in Briançon, which the Germans had supposedly retaken. For the first time in eight days, I have a little calm and rest. I’m waiting for Guy to return from Marseille where I sent him yesterday morning with a letter for Henri Fluchère. But already I have some peace and I can see clearly.
Had a visit from Lévine yesterday. He told me he was an intelligence agent for the F.F.I. He thanked me for all the help I gave him every time he was hunted down. I never gave it a thought; he was being pursued and needed help. He’s going to Marseille today, he told me, to denounce those who had denounced him. “What a pleasure,” he said, “I’m free to get behind the wheel of a car again.”
The road rumbles as though lashed by the tail of a furious dragon. There are trucks full of Arabs, Indo-Chinese, and Annamites passing through.
A fine autumn taking shape, rich, indolent, and melancholy. The trees in the valley have turned a dark and heavy green, and despite breaks of sunshine, the sky is dark, as I like it.
Thursday, September 6
It was just eight days ago, last Thursday evening while Chevaly was visiting, that Mme. Wustner’s arrival was announced. I asked Chevaly to let me receive her. He went downstairs to wait in the library. Mme. Wustner came up. She was very upset and her distress confirmed the fears that I felt instinctively as soon as she was announced. She stammered out that I was going to be arrested. Her husband had heard it at the F.F.I. headquarters. It was, apparently, the Republic Commissioner, Aubrac, who said in passing that he was surprised I hadn’t been arrested yet. “Giono,” he said, “hasn’t he already been arrested? What are you waiting for?” Indignation from Wustner who wants to hand in his resignation and immediately he sent his wife to warn me. At the time, this left me almost indifferent. I thanked and gently dismissed Mme. Wustner, reassuring her, and I had Chevaly come back up, calmly ending our visit. When he left, I saw the difficulty, the difficulties for my mother and Élise. The trouble of being subject to humiliation by our entire lunatic population, seething like milk. This is clearly no picnic. I’m certainly not afraid of the National Security Committee. On the contrary, it might let me make public my real actions during the occupation. I imagine it’s very easy to compile all the facts, all perfectly and easily verifiable, that will leave these gentleman flabbergasted. And what a surprise when the facts are compared to the legend! The reassuring part is that everything is perfectly verifiable through testimony, and that testimony comes from witnesses impossible to suspect. Thinking this out, I went down to dinner and said nothing to anyone. But the next day was the funeral for Aunt Noémie, who finally died from her “intestinal eclosion,” and to explain why I couldn’t go to the funeral I had to break the news to Élise. She took it very bravely. I waited all morning, and then for the rest of the day, and nothing happened. At this point, I’ve decided to make the first move. What purpose will it serve for me to sit around, who knows how long, in the Digne prison, especially with people on the other side; according to hearsay, ten or twelve per cell, and simple thin soup once a day. Nevertheless I’ve accepted the idea without enormous dread. I know that even there I can experience great joys. But it’s unbearable to wait. Every time the bell rings, I say, “There they are.” Each time, no, and then the waiting begins again. So I’ve made a summary of those verifiable facts and, after calling Curet who’s agreed to defend me, I’ve delivered the summary to him so that he can use it to build my defense.
Ah, it’s raining, the sky is dark, low, soft as down, and the rain is drowning the distances in milk; it’s so cool that I’ve put on a sweater. The leaves stand out against the dark trees. What peace! Over the course of the morning, the rain has become more and more wonderful. There’s hardly any daylight here. The foliage on the chestnut trees is singing loudly. Hedges shimmering in the silver rain emerge from the distance in the valley. And above all, this delicious moist air, cool and thick, that lubricates the whole body. But sadly the wind is from the north. What wonderful charcoal clouds amassing in the south.
Retz, who delights me this time, a little Astrée, a little Don Quixote, Stendhal’s letters (1825, so rich, Divan VI), sometimes Saint-Simon who remains dry (sometimes crystalline, but sometimes arid) (especially after reading Retz, so rich, so similar to the present times). And what else: I’m mixing in old volumes of the Tour du monde dating from 1868, a very fat study on the utopian novel in English literature, so that’s my reading for now. I’ve abandoned Proust.
For the last three weeks all sorts of cheering along the road below. They’ve exhausted all the patriotic songs. Right now there are troops going by, just letting out shrill, wild shrieks. I’m told that these are Moroccan Goumiers.
The clouds are breaking up. The rain has stopped. There are blue holes in the sky through which sunlight passes. But the south remains charcoal and the west is heavy with that good melancholy of autumn. Will life return with its hopes and its peaceful joys? Oh, to feel distant once again from all struggle, from all politics, my only ambition to enjoy each day, enjoy life.
Sunlight about five o’clock, from the west where it’s completely clear now.
Ludovic Eyriès came to see me, to chat, and he brought me the latest news from town. Little by little I’ll discuss it. Basically, he was nervous, his pale eyes darting about. He came to ask my advice. I gave it to him.
Still haven’t resumed work on Deux cavaliers. I’ve just been writing this journal, my self-portrait. But on my table
lies the page interrupted eight days ago. And maybe tomorrow – thank heavens – I’ll be able to start working again.
The whole sky this evening swept clean and bright. The western horizon sleek and clean as a sword. The rain is already over. It’s cool, but it’s the rain that I love, the thick, moist air and the sound of rain in the gutters and the trees. It is so peaceful.
More than ever I need solitude, mountains, silence, and peace. Nothing that I see can make me love man and society, and the empty hustle and bustle of enterprises that devour energy and strength for nothing. Nothing they create is of value. For me, in any case, I would be completely happy in a mountain hut on the most solitary Valguademar peak. Kilometers away from anything civilized, newspaper, radio, anything like that.
L.E.’s remark, not so stupid after all, speaking of B: “They can keep you from thinking, if they want to.” You said it!
NOTE
On September 8, 1944, two days after the last journal entry, Giono was arrested and imprisoned for collaborating with the enemy. Although no charges were ever brought, he was not released until February 1945.
archipelago books
is a not-for-profit literary press devoted to
promoting cross-cultural exchange through innovative
classic and contemporary international literature
www.archipelagobooks.org
