Jean-Luc Persecuted

By C.F. Ramuz

Jean-Luc Persecuted follows the ill-fated life of an unhappily married man. When Jean-Luc’s wife pursues an affair and leaves him with their child, Jean-Luc’s behavior becomes more and more erratic. He falls to drinking, behaving recklessly, and squandering his money. The narrative follows the explosive downfall of a lone man and his unstoppable mental collapse, surrounded by villagers unable to effect real change. This novel, never before translated, exemplifies the earthy, realistic, often allegorical style of iconic Swiss writer Ramuz.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Deep Vellum Publishing
• Release date: Aug 11, 2020
• ISBN: 9781646050178

Book preview

CHAPTER I

SEEING AS IT HAD BEEN AGREED he would go, that Sunday, to see a goat in Sasseneire, Jean-Luc Robille, after eating, grabbed hold of his hat and baton. He then went to kiss his wife (for he liked her and they’d only been married two years). She asked him:

—When will you be back?

He answered:

—Around six o’clock.

He continued:

—I’ve got to hurry because Simon’s waiting for me, and he doesn’t like to be kept waiting.

However, before leaving the house, walking on tiptoe, he went into the bedroom and up to the cradle where the little one, whom they’d had together the year before, slept. Be careful! cried Christine. And he, bending over, did not kiss him as he’d intended to, but only watched him sleep. He was a big boy, eleven months and two weeks old (for you count the weeks and days in the start), with cheeks that looked varnished, and a big round head, deep in the crease of the pillow. The cradle had been made with beautiful larch by Jean-Luc himself, who had done carpenter’s work (as they say) and learned the ropes, before taking on his mother’s property, when his father was still alive. So he remained perched there a moment, watching the little one sleep. Then, he crossed the kitchen once more and opened the door: Adieu, wife! he said again, and again he kissed Christine.

He found Simon in bed.

—Listen, said Simon, my pains have gotten hold of me again; so, never mind today!

—We’ll go next Sunday, said Jean-Luc.

He had taken a seat near the bed; he chatted with Simon for some time, and with his daughter who had come; the three of them chatted as to pass the time; one o’clock sounded, then two o’clock. Upon which, Jean-Luc headed back. At the inn, he came across a crowd, which made him lose another fifteen minutes. However, when he was invited to come in for a drink, he refused. And the others began to laugh: Are you still drinking? Is it allowed or not? Oh! it’s allowed! said Jean-Luc. He laughed too, then quickly went home.

He went up the stairs, pushed against the latch, the door was locked. He thought: She went to Marie’s (Marie was the blacksmith’s wife), and, bending down, took the key from under the woodpile where they hid it. Then thought: I’ll go have a look at Marie’s. He didn’t find her there, and Marie hadn’t seen Christine, nor Marie’s husband, who was reading the newspaper, who looked up and said to Jean-Luc, because he liked to tease: Wives should never be left on their own. Jean-Luc didn’t answer, he was worried.

Worry had come to him all of a sudden, he did not know why, and it followed him into the empty kitchen, to the dying fire, and into the bedroom, where he sat near the cradle and listened to Sunday. The sound of voices, and a trickle of water, nothing more; everyone rested.

It had snowed a little the night before, a trifle again, a sprinkle, only marking that winter was there, and in the morning broad daylight had entered the bedroom, where all seemed wholly restored. He sat with his elbows on his knees, he asked himself: Where could she have gone? He didn’t have the answer.

And so, seized by boredom, he stood up, he looked out the window. There was the tip of the meadow’s slope, then came willows and aspens, and the large pond appeared, round and not yet frozen; but, usually beautiful as it glistened and reflected the whole of the mountain, the snow had melted on the pond and seemed to have tarnished it. In the back, beneath the blue sky, the mountain zones ascended, all white, stained with black.

Suddenly, Jean-Luc’s eyes reached the ground and lingered there. It was because of the footprints. Footprints in the snow, small, pronounced. And they didn’t head toward the village, where the path was already open, but to the other side, by the pond. He thought: Where did she go?

In a flash, he was decided. He took the little one who woke, wrapped him in a warm shawl, then, returning to Marie’s: Will you look after him while I’m gone? Marie asked: Christine hasn’t come home? He said no, returned to the house, but didn’t enter it; he began to follow the tracks. They started right in front of the door; he followed them without seeming to, his hands in his pockets, because of the people who could see him, but his heart beat hard in his chest; and he hoped again that once on the path that followed the bank at the back of the pond, the footprints would turn toward the village; no, not at all: they did turn, but in the other direction, in the direction of the