As creative writers go, Giono is still a comparatively young man. There will be more ups and downs, from the standpoint of carping critics. He will be dated and re-dated, pigeonholed and re-pigeonholed, resurrected and re-resurrected—until the final dead line. And those who enjoy this game, who identify it with the art of interpretation, will of course undergo many changes themselves—in themselves. The diehards will make sport of him until the very end. The tender idealists will be disillusioned time and again, and will also find their beloved again and again. The skeptics will always be on the fence, if not the old one another one, but on the fence.
Whatever is written about a man like Giono tells you more about the critic or interpreter than about Giono. For, like the song of the world, Giono goes on and on and on. The critic perpetually pivots around his rooted, granulated self. Like the girouette, he tells which way the wind is blowing—but he is not of the wind nor of the airs. He is like an automobile without spark plugs.
A simple man who does not boast of his opinions but who is capable of being moved, a simple man who is devoted, loving and loyal is far better able to tell you about a writer like Giono than the learned critics. Trust the man whose heart is moved, the man whose withers can still be wrung. Such men are with the writer when he orders his creation. They do not desert the writer when he moves in ways beyond their understanding. Becoming is their silence and instructive. Like the very wise, they know how to hold themselves in abeyance.
“Each day,” says Miguel de Unamuno, “I believe less and less in the social question, and in the political question, and in the moral question, and in all the other questions that people have invented in order that they shall not have to face resolutely the only real question that exists—the human question. So long as we are not facing this question, all that we are now doing is simply making a noise so that we shall not hear it.”
Giono is one of the writers of our time who faces this human question squarely. It accounts for much of the disrepute in which he has found himself. Those who are active on the periphery regard him as a renegade. In their view he is not playing the game. Some refuse to take him seriously because he is “only a poet.” Some admit that he has a marvellous gift for narrative but no sense of reality. Some believe that he is writing a legend of his region and not the story of our time. Some wish us to believe that he is only a dreamer. He is all these things and more. He is a man who never detaches himself from the world, even when he is dreaming. Particularly the world of human beings. In his books he speaks as father, mother, brother, sister, son and daughter. He does not depict the human family against the background of nature, he makes the human family a part of nature. If there is suffering and punishment, it is because of the operation of divine law through nature. The cosmos which Giono’s figures inhabit is strictly ordered. There is room in it for all the irrational elements. It does not give, break or weaken because the fictive characters who compose it sometimes move in contradiction of or defiance to the laws which govern our everyday world. Giono’s world possesses a reality far more understandable, far more durable than the one we accept as world reality. Tolstoy expressed the nature of this other deeper reality in his last work:This then is everything that I would like to say: I would say to you that we are living in an age and under conditions that cannot last and that, come what may, we are obliged to choose a new path. And in order to follow it, it is not necessary for us to invent a new religion nor to discover new scientific theories in order to explain the meaning of life or art as a guide. Above all it is useless to turn back again to some special activity; it is necessary to adopt one course alone to free ourselves from the superstitions of false Christianity and of state rule.
Let each one realize that he has no right, nor even the possibility, to organize the life of others; that he should lead his own life according to the supreme religious law revealed to him, and as soon as he has done this, the present order will disappear; the order that now reigns among the so-called Christian nations, the order that has caused the whole world to suffer, that conforms so little to the voice of conscience and that renders humanity more miserable every day. Whatever you are: ruler, judge, landlord, worker, or tramp, reflect and have pity on your soul. No matter how clouded your brain has become through power, authority and riches, no matter how maltreated and harassed you are by poverty and humiliation, remember that you possess and manifest, as we all do, a divine spirit which now asks clearly: Why do you martyrize yourself and cause suffering to everyone with whom you come in contact? Understand, rather, who you really are, how truly insignificant and vulnerable is the being you call you, and which you recognize in your own shape, and to what extent, on the contrary, the real you is immeasurably your spiritual self—and having understood this, begin to live each moment to accomplish your true mission in life revealed to you by a universal wisdom, the teachings of Christ, and your own conscience. Put the best of yourself into increasing the emancipation of your spirit from the illusions of the flesh and into love of your neighbor, which is one and the same thing. As soon as you begin to live this way you will experience the joyous feeling of liberty and well-being. You will be surprised to find that the same exterior objectives which preoccupied you and which were far from realization, will no longer stand in the way of your greatest possible happiness. And if you are unhappy—I know you are unhappy—ponder upon what I have stated here. It is not merely imagined by me but is the result of the reflections and beliefs of the most enlightened human hearts and spirits; therefore, realize that this is the one and only way to free yourself from your unhappiness and to discover the greatest possible good that life can offer. This then is what I would like to say to my brothers, before I die.5
Notice that Tolstoy speaks of “the greatest possible happiness” and “the greatest possible good.” I feel certain that these are the two goals which Giono would have humanity attain. Happiness! Who, since Maeterlinck has dwelt at any length on this state of being? Who talks nowadays of “the greatest good”? To talk of happiness and of the good is now suspect. They have no place in our scheme of reality. Yes, there is endless talk of the political question, the social question, the moral question. There is much agitation, but nothing of moment is being accomplished. Nothing will be accomplished until the human being is regarded as a whole, until he is first looked upon as a human being and not a political, social or moral animal.
As I pick up Giono’s last book—Les Ames Fortes—to scan once again the complete list of his published works, I am reminded of the visit I made to his home during his absence. Entering the house I was instantly aware of the profusion of books and records. The place seemed to be overflowing with spiritual provender. In a bookcase, high up near the ceiling, were the books he had written. Even then, eleven years ago, an astounding number for a man of his age. I look again, now, at the list as it is given opposite the title page of his last work, published by Gallimard. How many I have still to read! And how eloquent are the titles alone! Solitude de la Pitié, Le Poids du Ciel, Naissance de l’Odyssée, Le Serpent d’Etoiles, Les Vraies Richesses, Fragments d’un Déluge, Fragments d’un Paradis, Présentation de Pan… A secret understanding links me to these unknown works. Often, at night, when I go into the garden for a quiet smoke, when I look up at Orion and the other constellations, all so intimate a part of Giono’s world, I wonder about the contents of these books I have not read, which I promise myself I will read in moments of utter peace and serenity, for to “crowd them in” would be an injustice to Giono. I imagine him also walking about in his garden, stealing a look at the stars, meditating on the work in hand, bracing himself for renewed conflicts with editors, critics and public. In such moments it does not seem to me that he is far away, in a country called France. He is in Manosque, and between Manosque and Big Sur there is an affinity which abolishes time and space. He is in that garden where the spirit of his mother still reigns, not far from the manger in which he was born and where his father who taught him so much worked at th
e bench as a cobbler. His garden has a wall around it; here there is none. That is one of the differences between the Old World and the New. But there is no wall between Giono’s spirit and my own. That is what draws me to him—the openness of his spirit. One feels it the moment one opens his books. One tumbles in drugged, intoxicated, rapt.
Giono gives us the world he lives in, a world of dream, passion and reality. It is French, yes but that would hardly suffice to describe it. It is of a certain region of France, yes, but that does not define it. It is distinctly Jean Giono’s world and none other. If you are are a kindred spirit you recognize it immediately, no matter where you were born or raised, what language you speak, what customs you have adopted, what tradition you follow. A man does not have to be Chinese, nor even a poet, to recognize immediately such spirits as Lao Tsu and Li Po. In Giono’s work what every sensitive, full-blooded individual ought to be able to recognize at once is “the song of the world.” For me this song, of which each new book gives endless refrains and variations, is far more precious, far more stirring, far more poetic, than the “Song of Songs.” It is intimate, personal, cosmic, untrammeled—and ceaseless. It contains the notes of the lark, the nightingale, the thrush; it contains the whir of the planets and the almost inaudible wheeling of the constellations; it contains the sobs, cries, shrieks and wails of wounded mortal souls as well as the laughter and ululations of the blessed; it contains the seraphic music of the angelic hosts and the howls of the damned. In addition to this pandemic music Giono gives the whole gamut of color, taste, smell and feel. The most inanimate objects yield their mysterious vibrations. The philosophy behind this symphonic production has no name: its function is to liberate, to keep open all the sluices of the soul, to encourage speculation, adventure and passionate worship.
“Be what thou art, only be it to the utmost!” That is what it whispers.
Is this French?
NOTES
1 Politics of the Unpolitical, by Herbert Read, Routledge, London, 1946.
2 From Democratic Vistas.
3 The Reading of Books, Scribner’s, New York, 1947.
4 Et bien mieux qu’ Ossendoivski!
5 The Law of Love and the Law of Violence.
The Solitude of Compassion
They were sitting against the gate at the station. Looking at the rattletrap coach and the rain-slick road, they did not know which way to go. The winter afternoon was right there in the white, flat mud like a piece of linen fallen from a drying rack.
The larger of the two got up. He searched on both sides of his big velour hussard pants; then he picked with the end of his fingers at the little carpenter’s pocket. The carriage driver climbed into the seat. He clicked his tongue and the horses perked up their ears. The man cried: “Wait.” Then he said to his companion: “Come,” and the other came. He floated, all thin in a threadbare shepherd’s greatcoat. His neck stuck out of the sackcloth, emaciated like a piece of iron.
“Where’s it going?” asked the larger man.
“To town.”
“How much is it?”
“Ten cents.”
“Get in,” said the large man.
He bent down, spread the folds of the greatcoat, lifted the leg of the other man up onto the step:
“Get in,” he told him; “Just try, old man.”
It took time for the young lady to gather up her boxes and move herself. She had a fine, white, wide-lined nose and she knew that her nose was visible under the rice powder, so she looked a little to the side with almost an angry expression, and it was for this reason that the large man said to her: “Excuse me, Mademoiselle.” Across from him there was a chubby, delicate lady in a coat with fur on the collar and the sleeves; a travelling salesman who pressed himself against the lady, and who, to better touch her with his elbow on her lower breast, put his thumb in the armhole of his vest.
“Just lean there,” said the large man while raising his shoulder.
The other lowered his head and set it on his shoulder.
He had beautiful blue eyes that were as immobile as stagnant water.
They went slowly because it was uphill. The blue of his eyes followed the passage of the trees, unceasingly, as if to count them. Then they crossed flat fields, and there was no longer anything in the window except the monotonous grey sky. His regard grew as fixed as a nail. He was going to tumble right onto the chubby woman; but he seemed to be looking through her, farther on, very sadly, it was like a sheep’s gaze.
The lady pulled her fur collar together. The salesman touched the front of his pants to see if they were well buttoned. The lady tugged at her skirt as if to lengthen it.
This gaze was always fixed on the same spot. He was going to pieces, he was causing pus to form like a thorn.
The lady wiped her lips with the skin of her glove; she dried her lips which shone with soft saliva. The travelling salesman touched the front of his pants again; then he unfolded his arm again like someone who has a cramp. He tried to make contact with the gaze resembling stagnant water; but he lowered his eyes, then he put his hand seemingly over his heart. His wallet was still there. At least he felt its shape and its thickness.
A shadow filled the carriage; the little town greeted the avenue to the station with two arms of houses that were covered with spots. On one side it presented the “Hotel of Commerce and Gardens” and on the other side three bitterly competing bakeries.
Monsieur le Curéa cleaned his pipe in the offertory basin; the ashtray was down below on the edge of the prie-dieu. He put the warm pipe in the box. Now he had to classify by roads and houses those volumes of the Religious Evenings which he was going to distribute to subscribers. He was missing three copies. He lifted up the books and an edition of The Cross that lay open. Eventually he found them there under the packet of pig tripe which his brother had just brought. “It is no longer necessary…” A cover was spotted. He tilted it to see if the spots were visible, if by slanting it…or, very well, he only had to give it to Madame Puret the lamplady: she can hardly see; she always has her fingers covered with oil; she will think that she did it.
There was also, there, on the floor, left by Adolphe, a spot of stable manure with the print of a heel in it. Monsieur le Curé stood up and with little flicks of the point of his shoe pushed the filth over to the hearth.
“Martha, someone rang.”
“What?” asked Martha opening the kitchen door.
“I said someone rang.”
The thin lace of the apron on the servant covered her large breasts and belly.
“Again. You, too, Monsieur, you can go see who it is. Always going up, always going down, me, with my legs…my emphysema… You will see in the end, in the end.”
Someone rang again.
“Go and see for yourself. If it is nothing much you can take care of it down there. In this weather the people who come up to see me get everything dirty.”
She had a face that was all moist with fat.
“I was setting sheets of fat,” she said. “The pantry is too high. One slipped and I caught it on my cheek.”
“Here I am,” called the Curé from the hallway. Then he turned the locks and opened the door.
“Hello Monsieur,” said the large man.
The thin man with the blue eyes stood in back shivering in his greatcoat.
“We don’t give handouts,” said the Curé looking at them.
The large man took off his hat. The thin man raised a hand into the air while staring at the Curé.
“Do you have some little job?” said the large man.
“A job?”
And the Curé looked like he was reflecting, but at the same time he gently pushed the door.
“A job.”
He opened the door completely.
“Enter,” he said.
The large man who had put on his hat removed it again quickly.
“Thank you very much, Monsieur le Curé, thank you very much.”
And he scraped his
shoes on the scraper, and he entered bending his back a little, despite the high frame of the door.
The other did not say anything, he came in standing straight in his dirty shoes; he followed the Curé’s gestures with the cold sadness of his blue eyes.
They entered the spacious hallway, because at one time the parish had been the home of some landowners. Then came a tiled courtyard, and to this courtyard stairways were attached which ascended in great tiled swoops.
“Wait for me here,” the Curé remembered while looking at their muddy shoes.
He went up.
The large man silently produced a little smile.
“You see, it is going to work,” he said. “The twenty cents that we spent…”
“Martha…” said the Curé, then immediately:
“What are you doing there?”
It was a hot plate set on the table of white wood and in it the tripe sizzled with bits of purple liver like flowers and rice on the stalk.
“It’s a picoche,” said Martha.
And she began to pour a thin stream of thick wine with the smell of wood root. The bubbling grease was silenced.
“Is that for tonight?” asked the Curé.
“Yes.”
“Tell me, Martha, can you guess what I have come up with? What if we used them to fix the end of the pump?”
“He would have to go down into the well,” said Martha as she measured the line of wine.
“But of course,” said the Curé.
She did not say a thing, then she raised the neck with a clean sweep; she carried the plate over to the fire.