Great Fear on the Mountain
238
Great Fear on the Mountain
238eBook
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Overview
Teeming with tension, this immersive, rhapsodic story transports readers to the Swiss mountainside, bringing to mind the writing of Thomas Mann while offering character studies as vivid and bracing as Eudora Welty’s.
Feed is running low in a rural village in Switzerland. The town council meets to decide whether or not to ascend a chimerical mountain in order to access the open pastures that have enough grass to “feed seventy animals all summer long.” The elders of the town protest, warning of the dangers and the dreadful lore that enfolds the mountain passageways like thick fog.
They’ve seen it all before, reckoning with the loss of animals and men who have tried to reach the pastures nearly twenty years ago. The younger men don’t listen, making plans to set off on their journey despite all warnings. Strange things happen. Spirits wrestle with headstrong young men. As the terror of life on the mountain builds, Ramuz’s writing captures the rural dialog and mindsets of the men.
One of the most talented translators working today, Bill Johnston captures the careful and sublime twists and turns of the original in his breathtaking translation.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781953861832 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Steerforth Press |
| Publication date: | 08/06/2024 |
| Sold by: | Penguin Random House Publisher Services |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 238 |
About the Author
Bill Johnston is Professor of Comparative Literature at Indiana University. His translations include Witold Gombrowicz’s Bacacay; Magdalena Tulli’s Dreams and Stones, Moving Parts, Flaw, and In Red; and Ennemonde by Jean Giono. In 2008 he won the inaugural Found in Translation Award for Tadeusz Rozewicz’s new poems, and in 2012 he was awarded the PEN Translation Prize and Three Percent’s Best Translated Book Award for Myśliwski's Stone Upon Stone.
Read an Excerpt
I
The Chairman was still talking.
The meeting of the Village Council, which had begun at seven that evening, at ten o’clock was not yet over.
The Chairman was saying:
“Those are just stories. No one ever really found out what happened up there. It’s been twenty years since then, all that’s in the past. To my mind, the long and the short of it is that for twenty years now we’ve been making no use of that fine grass, which could feed seventy animals all summer long; if you think the village can afford to be so extravagant, then say it; myself, I don’t think so, and I’m the one who’s responsible. . .”
Our Chairman, Maurice Prâlong, had been the candidate of the young folks, so the young folks supported him; but he had the older folks against him.
“That’s the point,” Munier was saying, “you’re too young. Twenty years, you don’t remember it. Us, though—we remember.”
So one more time he told the story of what had happened, twenty years ago, on the high pasture called Sasseneire:
“We’re as attached to our grass as you are, we’re as concerned about the finances of the village; but does money still matter when it’s our lives that are at stake?”
Which brought laughter; but he went on:
“Yes indeed, it’s as I say, I’m right to say it, and I’ll say it again.”
“Come on now!” the Chairman said.
The young folks were still on his side, but the old folks protested again; and Munier:
“Lives, I say: the lives of the animals, the lives of the people. . .”
“Come on now,” the Chairman began again, “those are just stories. . . Whereas my cousin Crittin is a reliable man, with him the matter would be guaranteed. And as I say, seventy animals at least would be provided all summer long, when it’s no longer clear how we’d feed them down here, with all that grass up there going to waste, turning green, growing, ripening, drying, and no one to take advantage of it. . . The outlay wouldn’t be more than a few hundred francs at most. . . You only have to say yes. . .”
Munier shook his head.
“I say no.”
Several of the older men also said no.
Munier had risen to his feet again:
“Listen: if this brought in five thousand francs a year, ten thousand, fifteen thousand, if it brought in fifty thousand francs a year, I’d still say no, again no, always no. Because it’s the lives of men, and not just their lives in this world, but their lives in the next, and that’s worth more than any pile of gold, even if it were heaped higher than the roofs of the houses. . .”
Yet the young folks interrupted him, saying: “Enough of that.”
They were saying: “We’re done here, all that’s left is to vote!”
Some of them were taking out their watches:
“Three hours we’ve been talking about this! Who’s for? Who’s against?”
First they voted to see if the vote should take place, by raising their hands; then they voted for yes and for no.
“Those who say yes, raise your hand,” said the Chairman.
Fifty-eight hands were raised, and only thirty-three were not.
II
So negotiations began with Pierre Crittin, the leaser, who was from the valley.
In the valley people have their own ideas, which aren’t always the same as ours, because they live close to a railroad. Pierre Crittin was a relative of the Chairman, through the latter’s wife, and the whole matter had arisen from a conversation the Chairman had had during the winter with his relation, who was surprised to see that the mountain wasn’t being used. The Chairman had told him why. Crittin had laughed; and Crittin had laughed because he was from the valley. He’d said to the Chairman:
“Me, I’ll take that mountain whenever you like.”
“If it only depended on me. . .” the Chairman had said.
“Listen,” Crittin had said. “Next summer, I won’t have La Chenalette anymore; they’ve put the price up, and so I’m looking for something. . . Like I say: I’ll take Sasseneire the moment I can. . . You should propose it to the council; I’d be surprised if there were any resistance now, because that story of yours is an old story; you don’t believe it yourself, surely?”
“Goodness no!”
“Well then. . .”
Crittin lifted his glass of muscat:
“Your health. . .” He had gone on: “Naturally I wouldn’t be able to give you much the first year, because the place will need to be refurbished; but, when you know how to go about it, putting a mountain back in order is an interesting business,” he was saying, “I find it interesting. . . And it’d be to your advantage too, it would count in your favor if you could only improve the financial standing of the village, because it’s not in great shape, I gather. . .”
“Not exactly.”
“There you are then.”
So they emptied another glass together in the cellar, then another glass; and the Chairman said:
“As for me, I’m all for it; I’ve been thinking about it for a long time. It was only a question of finding a taker. Now though, of course, it’s a matter that can only be settled in the council and by the council; so first of all I’ll need to get an idea of what people think. . . Yes, you know, lay the groundwork. After that I’ll give you the nod. . .”
“Got it.”
They drank a glass.
“If you ask me,” Crittin was saying, “there isn’t the shadow of a doubt that the thing can be arranged, if only it’s gone about in the right way. Because no one actually believes any more in those stories, except a handful of old men. I reckon you just need to come straight out with it, it can only strengthen your position, you’ll see, because you have the young people on your side. . . Your health! . . .”
“Your health! . . .”
“And the only thing left to do will be to agree on terms, but I’m certain we’ll be able to: I’ll bring my nephew Modeste, I have the vat, I have all that’s needed. . . The repairs could be started in mid-May. . . By the end of June everything would be ready. . .”
The beginning of the affair had been that conversation the Chairman had had with his relative at Christmas; and in fact, resistance had not been as great as the Chairman, who was of a somewhat timid disposition, had feared. All those under forty years of age had said to him:
“Well, if you have someone. . . ! We’d have already been thinking like you, but the problem was precisely that we couldn’t see a taker. You know how it is, those stories. . . They got around. . . But if you have someone right now, and someone dependable, someone properly guaranteed, we agree, we’ll vote in favor. . .”
One month passed, two months; the Chairman continued to speak cautiously of his plan to people he ran into; some shook their heads, but most did not object greatly; it was clear that those old stories from twenty years ago were well and truly forgotten now; and in the end the Chairman only had a simple calculation to make: this man and this man for, that man against. It gave him a total on one side and another total on the other, two totals with little effort, first in his head, then on paper; so he called a meeting of the council.
There was a first meeting of the Village Council, a second meeting; and the Chairman’s calculations, as just seen, were not far off. Fifty-eight yeses, thirty-three no’s—a decent majority—though the older men had not been happy and several of them had left the meeting room after the vote. But the rest of us didn’t really care, since the vote had taken place, and the Chairman was thinking: “Either way I’m covered”—which was the essential thing for him. The very next morning he wrote to his relative, because there were still the terms to hash out, but that was the responsibility of the municipal officers, of whom there were only four (all of them men under fifty, since the last election, which had elevated Prâlong to the chairmanship).
Here the young people are coming out, bringing with them the men who share their ideas; and the ideas of the young people are that they alone can see clearly, because they’re educated, whereas the older folks barely know how to read and write. Youth, then, had carried the day, Pierre Crittin had put in another appearance; terms had been settled upon without too much difficulty; after that, it had been decided that a visit would be made to see how things looked, before making any definitive decisions.
They needed to wait till the snow began to melt; luckily the winter had been very cold but dry, and the first signs of spring came early. The Sasseneire pasture was at seven and a half thousand feet; it was by a long way the highest among those owned by the village, of which there were three more, but those were on the sides of the valley, while Sasseneire was at the end, beneath the glacier. It can happen that at that altitude, in June there are still two or three feet of snow in places out of the sun. The advantage this year for Crittin was that the covering of white up above was less thick than usual and so would be melted more quickly by the good warmth of the sun, which had begun to be felt since March. Even before mid-May they were able to go up. There were five of them: the Chairman, Crittin and his nephew, Compondu, and the village policeman. They set out at four in the morning with their lanterns and their provisions, which included a bottille or two of muscat (these being small flat larchwood casks, containing as much as a pitcher, or three pints). They wore hobnailed boots and the two Crittins were in leather leggings, while the others had woolen gaiters buttoned on the side. The path is level at first, following the left bank of the river, with its deep-set course and two sizeable verges of sand which appear the moment the water level begins to drop, but at this time the sand banks and the verges themselves were completely submerged. The river could just be made out where its white back, which looked as if it were shifting in place, rose all the way to the level of the meadows. It was good country here, the grass already tall and strewn with flowers; this was still the good country where the river was silent and calm amid grazing land, like a browsing animal. The men were walking in two groups: the Chairman and Crittin ahead. The Chairman had a lantern; the policeman had a lantern. They began to climb. They were gradually moving further away from the river, which they let drop away to their left as if on a rope, while they themselves climbed up to the right, among humps of terrain which came forward and blocked your path, so you had to drop back down, then start climbing once again. They passed in front of a small gathering of hay barns that watched you approach, staying quiet to watch you approach; after which, they went and huddled together, as if talking to one another. Here it was possible to see to some extent, because of the stars and because of the considerable breadth of the sky. But now the sides of the valley quickly closed in, and at the same time a sort of new, blacker night could be seen coming towards you, set in the depths of the other night, as if to prevent you from passing. The Chairman raised his lantern, which was a sort of lantern with square panes that sent out a beam of light to the front and to both sides; each of these beams of light was seen to stretch out—the one in front of you striking against the steep slope where the rocks acquired a shadow, the other two summoning left and right the red trunks of pine trees that looked as if they’d been broken by the wind not far from the ground. They began to weave among these truncated columns as if in a cellar hallway, which was made by the lantern, which the lantern was scooping out, which the lantern was piercing in front of you as you advanced; then the lantern took it away, so that all the blackness came tumbling down upon you. You were caught in it, it weighed on your shoulders, was on your head, on your thighs, around your hands, all along your arms, hindering your movements, entering into your mouth; it was chewed, it was spat out, it was chewed again, spat out again, like the earth of the forest. They struggled like this for a moment, like they’d been buried alive, then the light from the lantern brought you back to life again; in the meantime they walked, the five men walked, and from time to time a stone they’d kicked loose rolled down the slope that they themselves were ascending, the sound mingling with the sound of their boots. Some of them were smoking; but on a night like this, smoke did no good, it was as if you weren’t smoking at all.
However much you draw on the mouthpiece of the pipe and suck in all the smoke you can: if it can’t be seen, it’s as if it doesn’t exist. So they’d gradually let their pipes go out and had thrust them into their pockets; they had been without their pipes, they only made a little noise with their feet; then one or another of them said something, but when words can’t be seen, they’re like the pipes, the words have no taste either. In the end the men no longer talked at all; in that way they heard the river more clearly when it came back with its sound, it began to approach a little, then abruptly, at a turn of the path, it was there in all its power. They had entered into a gorge. It would’ve been no use shouting at the top of their voices; they would not have been heard. It would’ve been no use firing their guns: the shot would not even have been heard amid the vast thunder where they felt as if they were floating, lifted under the arms, and they did not stop even for a moment...