On translating Jean Giono’s “Possession des richesses”

Christopher J. Monier

The French writer Jean Giono, the great chronicler of France’s Provence region, occupies an understated but important place in world literature. Not only was Giono a close witness to the trauma of war (he both served in World War I and kept intimate journals through the occupation years), he was a modern writer who, across a long and diverse career, resisted the logic of industrial modernity and often did so by putting the physical world at the center of human meaning.

For many years, English-speaking readers knew Giono mainly through novels like Hill, the brief yet powerful fable The Man Who Planted Trees, and other works adapted into celebrated French films, such as The Horseman on the Roof. Much of his broader oeuvre, however, remained untranslated, though this has begun to change. Through publishers like New York Review Books and Archipelago, a number of book-length translations have appeared in the past decade, including Giono’s experimental, multi-genre Melville: A Novel and his acclaimed Occupation Journal.

Even with this renewed attention, many of Giono’s shorter works, especially those that appeared in periodicals or anthologies, some with no clear date of authorship, remain difficult to find and inaccessible to English-language readers. “Possession des richesses,” presented here for the first time in English translation, belongs to this category. Published in Vogue Paris in 1935, though possibly written much earlier, this affecting short story showcases Giono’s lyrical and narrative abilities while also giving us a microcosm of his major thematic concerns. As we will see, these are concerns that continue to resonate and evoke intensity in our contemporary period, especially as they involve humanity’s relationship with the surrounding world, and indeed the question of whether modern humanity, with its subject-object mindset, can still be present with the world at all.

The story begins as a traveler returns to a beloved homeland hoping for a kind of spiritual renewal or reintegration. The opening passages are marked by awe and admiration for the beauty of place, even by a kind of deferral or submission to it. Here, the divine is not in the transcendent or the ideal but in the physical world itself—Giono describes a stream as radiating joy, as “more powerful than angelic beauty.” Here, we are actually not in Giono’s native Manosque but a few hours north in the Trièves, a mountainous region, within earshot of Provence, that the author also loved and knew well; and it’s his personal connection to this landscape that courses through the traveler’s impressions.¹ These are descriptions not of imagination and invention but the responsive sketches of a writer on intimate, personal terms with a terrain, one that he sees as sacred, symbolic, communicative—not an object subordinate to man but a living and healing reality, a “maison” or “cloître” possessive of its own intelligence and intuition and agency.

A starkly different relationship to the world emerges in the second half of the story, when the traveler arrives at the threshold of the village of Prébois. There, in a series of events that Giono recounts with spare but sufficient detail, the place (its water, especially) has been objectified, its value and identity reduced to its status as resource. Soon, the inspired opening song for the Trièves, the venerating sketches of local biodiversity, give way to scenes of violence and chaos. In the story’s haunting final image, Giono evokes, unforgettably, how this objectifying relationship with the earth can only result in desperation.

As the traveler’s experience dramatizes, “Possession des richesses” tells about very different ways of relating to place. This is palpable in the modal shift described above, but it can also be felt in the character of the writing itself, and my translation humbly strives to preserve some of this. In the opening sketches, when we see the traveler in accord with the lieu, or in a more receptive or therapeutic relationship with the cloister-like refuge, the writing itself takes on diverse qualities in an attempt to celebrate or respond to nature, or to become more world-like. This occurs through various techniques, including ellipsis and repetition (which we can associate with the sacred) and also the technique of accumulation, through lists that create a sense of copia or abundance, helping to capture the force and beauty and inter-connectedness of the landscape while also reminding us that the essence of the world can never be fully captured in writing, or as Giono himself believed, and as Edmund White reminds us, that “the world exists without literature.”²

With the narrator’s arrival in Prébois, this poetic register fades and the story becomes plot-driven and even frenetic. Here, the prose is more staccato, the lyrical sense of release and surrender to place all but gone (if perhaps re-emerging only briefly in the closing image). As the focus becomes actual possession and ownership, we are reminded that in the modern world, the need to claim or seize often takes precedence over presence, or over the opportunity to know the world in a relational way. Here, as Giono shows us where this reductive orientation inevitably leads, as the characters fight on about possession, we can feel the story lose the world. The message is simple but resonant: if we do not pursue other ways of relating to place, to the lieu, if new (or repressed) ecological and cultural imaginaries are not allowed to proliferate, our only recourse will be chaos, even in idyllic places, like the tranquil mountain pastoral of Giono’s story, that would otherwise seem impervious to such entropy.

Translation · English

Possession of Riches

Jean Giono · translated from the French by Christopher Monier

I was going to Prébois.

The bus dropped me off at the crossroads. There were still three kilometers to go on foot, but I had finally made it back to the mountains.

All through the Trièves it was silent. A woodcutter was working down in the forest, barely making noise, no more than a bird tapping his beak against the bark of a tree.

I went down to the village. Finally, I was back in the mountain home I had been longing for. Finally, I was back in the cloister, alone inside great walls a thousand meters sheer, among the pillars of the forests. A serious house, a billion times greater than me but precisely scaled to my hopes and holding me with my peace, a peace made of shadows, echoes, the sound of fountains. The austere richness of all cloisters. Like purchasing God’s company. He walks with me through the corridors. The lesson of silence.

The road followed along the edge of a narrow valley, at the bottom of which a stream was splashing. The arch of the rocks leant towards the shadow. This was the vaulting of a road intended for the meditation of solitary water. For so long, the muddy force of the glaciers had flowed through the springs and summers. All that remained was a light, very pure water, filtered by the high meadows, cold, slightly acidic, patient, unhurried, almost colorless—and yet it had left on the granite edges green tracings, streaks like mold on white bread, almost without force—and it had subdued an enormous block of porphyry, and it sang in the wounds of the stone. The way that life sings in the wounds of men.

For a long time, I had known this stream. I had used it to trace my way. I loved its asceticism, its ability to resolve even the most complex problems, the egality of its action spreading around it like the light around the sun. I loved its suggestions which were always suggestions of strength. It was the living example of purity sharp as granite. In other times I had gone all the way back to the source where it made its knowledge, sharp like steel, and the austere, white joy that radiated from it, more powerful than angelic beauty. That was in a darkened cell, between the high pillar of Jocond, its slopes flush with meadows, and the bare wall of Ferrand.

And so, this place, with its four enormous mountains where the sky rests; this high plain of Trièves, jolting, collapsed, tossed up into swells of earth; again, this high plain of Trièves, frothing with barley and oat, scree, fir forests, willow groves, with golden villages, pits of clay, orchards; its enfolding horizon where winds ring out on the icy walls of solitary massifs; its distraught stairways climbing into the sky, joined on vertiginous landings by lightning strikes and rings of light, a constant call of lines, sounds, colors, smells, all toward courage and ascent. This structure is the cloister, the material charterhouse where I come to find peace.

It has never asked of anything from me before: it has always welcomed me with the whole apparatus of my feeling.³

It has never imposed sacrifices, but it has made them necessary.

It has always taken me rough, full of knots and anger, and always, like a weaver’s shuttle, let me slip back into the smooth and quick world.

My mountains, I have arrived! Close the door behind me!

Finally, I was nearing the village. There was hardly any noise now. Much less than normal and the silence surprised me. At the entrance, there are two barns. On one side of the road, Emery’s barn, on the other side, that of Giuseppe Gallo. The doors were closed. Between the buildings, the street was deserted.

I was just to the threshold of the village, and someone called to me. The voice came from the pasture. It was low and anxious. I looked: nobody!

— Here, on the ground, get down, quick!

It was the wheelwright. He motioned for me to do like him, to get flat on my stomach in the grass.

—Oh, Barthélémy! I said.

Mouth agape, he could not speak, he just gestured to me.

Suddenly, I was surrounded by iron wasps. I threw myself onto my belly. I listened after for the shot of the rifle. I stayed low, nose buried in the grass. When I looked up, a bit of white smoke was clearing near the closed shutters of Giuseppe Gallo.

The wheelwright called out to me:

—Were you hit?

—I don’t think.

I felt myself over. I passed my hand around my neck: no blood. The heat of the moment was fading; if I had been injured, it would be hurting now. I kept low and moved my arms and legs upon the ground. Nothing.

—What was that? I asked.

The wheelwright crawled up next to me.

—Above all, do not move, he said. Or he’ll start firing on us again.

He did not have the look of a man. His head was like that of a rabbit. He was twitching the end of his nose like rabbits do. He surveyed the terror around him.

—It has just blown up.

—What?

—The whole Gallo thing.

I noticed now other villagers hidden in the meadow. On the side of the maple wood, three women were running, carrying their children. Everyone had abandoned work, stable, and home. An older woman, sitting far out under a willow, was shaking her fist at the village and making long dark curses of which we could hear but the sound.

— But what happened? I said.

— It all came to head! At noon, Gallo struck Turcan. Turcan’s son came. The women got involved. Gallo took one in the gut. Turcan’s son got an ear torn off. Marie Gallo has a crushed nose. Gallo took another one in the gut. Old Turcan is bleeding from the mouth, and he’s choking. The son jumps on Gallo, knocks him down. The women scream. Gallo jumps into his house, bars the door. And we thought that was it. But all of a sudden, he started firing on the whole village.

The house, on our side, was silent. On the other side, in the street, Gallo fired a shot.

—That’s it, said the wheelwright, keep on shooting, imbecile, now that everyone has gotten away, except the girl from the post office. She’s in the office now. She’s calling for the police in Saint-Maurice. She can’t stay in there.

—He’s a solid guy, though. I said this thinking of Gallo. His green eyes, his sturdy mouth, the wine he shared with us, his hands like tree roots. Now he was in there reloading his rifle.

— Who, Gallo? Yes, he’s a good guy. It’s because of the spring, said the wheelwright. Turcan said: “It’s mine.” Gallo said: “It is still mine.” Turcan says: “It always belonged to me alone.” Gallo says: “That’s not true.” Turcan says: “Mine.” This went on for two years. There is only one spring in all the pastures of Auvailles. We just can’t know who owns what. It was bound to go this way.

We heard the shot of a rifle then the noise of shutters closing. A woman started to weep. Again, the shot of the rifle, and again, the sound of windows. Gallo was firing into the post office.

At some point, we saw the post office girl fleeing through the prairies below. Usually, she was so well put together, she wore blouses from La Mure. But now, she was running like a wild woman. She fell into the mud of a draille,⁴ but got up and continued straight ahead, as if, in her mind, the horizon no longer corresponded to the roundness of the earth, but lifted high into the sky like a jagged ridge of rock—and from there, one could leap into the more definitive peace of the stars.

Original · Français

Possession des richesses

Jean Giono

J’allais à Prébois.

Le car me laisse à la croisée des chemins. Il me restait trois kilomètres à faire à pied, mais j’étais enfin revenu dans les montagnes.

Le silence était étendu dans tout le Trièves. Un bûcheron travaillait là-haut dans la forêt. Il ne faisait pas plus de bruit qu’un oiseau qui tape du bec contre l’écorce d’un arbre.

Je commençais à descendre vers le village. J’étais enfin dans la maison désirée des montagnes. J’étais enfin dans ce cloître des montagnes, seul dans ces grands murs de mille mètres d’à-pic, dans les piliers des forêts. Maison sévère, milliard de fois plus grande que moi, juste à la mesure de mes espoirs, me contenant avec ma paix, ayant une paix faite d’ombres, d’échos, de bruit de fontaines. Richesse austère de tous les cloîtres. Acheter la compagnie de dieu. Il marche avec moi le long des couloirs. L’enseignement du silence.

La route tourna au bord d’un vallon étroit au fond duquel pataugeait le torrent. L’arceau des rochers se penchait vers l’ombre. C’était la voûte d’un chemin destiné à la méditation de l’eau solitaire. Depuis longtemps la force boueuse des glaciers avait coulé le long du printemps et de l’été. Il ne restait qu’une eau légère extrêmement pure, filtrée par les hautes prairies, froide, légèrement acide, patiente, ayant le temps, presque sans couleur, mais elle laissait sur les bords de granit une trace verte, jaspée comme de la moisissure dans du pain blanc, presque sans force, mais elle avait maté un énorme bloc de porphyre et elle chantait dans les blessures de la pierre. Comme la vie chante dans les blessures des hommes.

Depuis longtemps je connaissais ce torrent. Mon chemin était marqué à côté de lui. J’aimais son extraordinaire ascétisme, son adresse à résoudre les problèmes les plus difficiles, son égalité d’action exactement répandue autour de lui comme la lumière autour d’un soleil. J’aimais ses conseils qui sont toujours des conseils de force. Il était le vivant exemple d’une pureté tranchante comme le granit. En d’autres temps j’étais remonté jusqu’à la source où il préparait sa science tranchante comme l’acier et l’austère joie blanche qui rayonnait de lui, plus puissante que la beauté des anges. C’était dans une sombre cellule, entre le haut pilier du Jocond tout verduré de prairies verticales et la paroi nue du Ferrand.

Ainsi, cette construction-là, avec ses quatre énormes montagnes où s’appuie le ciel ; cette haute plaine du Trièves cahotante, effondrée, retroussée en houle de terre ; cette haute plaine du Trièves tout écumante d’orges, d’avoines, d’éboulis, de sapinières, de saulaies, de villages d’or, de glaisières et de vergers ; son tour d’horizon où les vents sonnent sur les parois glacées des hauts massifs solitaires ; ses escaliers éperdus qui montent dans le ciel accompagnés d’éclairs et d’arceaux de lumière jusqu’à de vertigineux paliers, ce constant appel de lignes, de sons, de couleurs, de parfums, vers l’héroïsme et l’ascension, cette construction : c’est le cloître, c’est la chartreuse matérielle où je viens chercher la paix.

Elle ne m’a jamais demandé d’efforts préalables : elle m’a toujours accueilli avec mon entier appareil passionnel.

Elle ne m’a jamais imposé de sacrifices, elle me les a rendus nécessaires.

Elle m’a toujours pris raboteux et plein de nœuds et de colère et elle m’a toujours laissé glisser de nouveau dans le monde lisse et vif comme une navette de tisserand.

J’arrive, mes montagnes ! Fermez la porte derrière moi !

J’arrivais près du village. Il n’y avait pas de bruit. Moins que d’habitude. Le silence me surprit. À l’entrée, il y a deux granges. D’un côté de la route, la grange d’Émery, de l’autre côté, celle de Guiseppe Gallo. Les portes étaient fermées. Entre les corps de bâtiments, je voyais la rue déserte.

J’étais au seuil du village. On m’appela. La voix venait de la prairie ; elle était basse et angoissée. Je regardais : personne !

— Ici, par terre, couchez-vous, vite !

C’était le charron. Il me faisait signe de faire comme lui, de me coucher à plat ventre dans l’herbe.

— Oh ! Barthélémy ! dis-je.

La bouche ronde, il ne pouvait pas parler. Il me fit signe...

Je fus soudain comme entouré par des guêpes de fer. Je me jetai à plat ventre. J’entendis le coup de fusil après. Je restai le nez dans la terre. Quand je regardai, un peu de fumée blanche se dissipait devant le volet fermé de Guiseppe Gallo.

Le charron m’appela :

— Vous en avez ?

— Je ne crois pas.

Je me tâtais. Je passais la main sur mon cou : pas de sang. Le temps de l’échauffement passait ; si j’avais été blessé, ça aurait fait mal. Je bougeais bras et jambes à ras de terre. Rien.

— Qu’est-ce que c’est ? demandai-je.

Le charron rampa jusque près de moi.

— Surtout, ne bougez pas, dit-il. Ou bien il va encore nous tirer dessus.

Il n’avait plus figure d’homme. Il avait maintenant une tête de lapin. Il bougeait le bout de son nez comme les lapins. Ses yeux cherchaient de la terreur autour de lui.

— Ça vient d’éclater.

— Quoi ?

— L’histoire du Gallo.

Je voyais maintenant d’autres villageois couchés dans le pré. Du côté du bois de l’érable, trois femmes couraient, entraînant des enfants. Tout le monde avait abandonné l’établi, l’écurie et la maison. Une vieille femme, assise loin là-bas sous un saule, montrait le poing au village et jurait de longs jurons sombres dont on n’entendait que le son.

— Mais quoi ? dis-je.

— Ça s’est déclenché ! À midi, le Gallo a tapé sur Turcan. Le fils Turcan est venu. Les femmes se sont mêlées. Le Gallo a reçu dans le ventre. Le fils Turcan a l’oreille arrachée. Marie Gallo a le nez écrasé. Le Gallo a encore reçu dans le ventre. Le vieux Turcan saigne de la bouche, et il s’étouffe. Le fils saute sur le Gallo, le renverse. Les femmes crient. Le Gallo saute dans sa maison, barre la porte ; et c’est fini, on dirait. Mais tout d’un coup, il s’est mis à tirer sur tout le village.

La maison, de notre côté, était silencieuse. De l’autre côté, dans la rue, Gallo tira un coup de fusil.

— Oh ! dit le charron, tire, imbécile, maintenant tout le monde s’est sauvé, sauf la demoiselle de la poste. Mais elle est dans son bureau. Elle téléphone à Saint-Maurice pour les gendarmes. On ne peut pas rester comme ça.

— C’est pourtant un brave type. Je disais ça en pensant à Gallo. Son œil vert, sa bonne bouche, le vin qu’il avait bu avec nous, ses mains en racine d’arbres. Il était là-bas dedans maintenant à recharger son fusil.

— Qui, Gallo ? Oui, c’est un brave type. C’est à cause de la source, dit le charron. Turcan dit : “Elle est à moi.” Gallo dit : “Elle a toujours été à moi.” Turcan dit : “Elle a toujours été à moi-même.” Gallo dit : “Ça n’est pas vrai.” Turcan dit : “Elle est à moi.” Ça dure depuis deux ans. Il n’y a qu’une source sur tous les pâturages d’Auvailles. Pour savoir à qui elle est, on n’en sait rien. Ça devait finir comme ça.

On entendit tirer un coup de fusil, puis un bruit de vitres cassées. Une femme se mit à crier. Encore un coup de fusil, encore un bruit de vitres. C’était Gallo qui tirait dans le bureau de poste.

Au bout d’un moment, nous vîmes la demoiselle des postes qui se sauvait en courant par les prairies d’en dessous. D’habitude, c’était une demoiselle bien ordonnée, et elle faisait venir ses corsages de La Mure. Là, elle courait comme une folle. Elle tomba dans la boue d’une draille, mais elle se releva tout de suite, et elle continua à courir droit devant elle comme si à son idée l’horizon n’était plus appliqué sur la rondeur de la terre mais relevé en plein ciel comme une arête de rocher et que, de là, on puisse s’élancer dans la paix définitive des étoiles.

Notes

Just as he is synonymous with Provence, Giono is also associated with the Trièves; he would vacation here often, and the region (a transitional area, geographically and culturally, between the Alpine world and Provence) now houses the Espace Giono museum. ↩ Return
See Edmund White, “The Great Jean Giono,” The New York Review of Books, 5 June 2014. ↩ Return
The use of the word “apparatus” has been carried over directly from the French. If the formulation seems odd, it possibly reflects psychological terminology of the time. ↩ Return
Local word for sheep road, or shepherd’s road. I leave the word in French to reflect Giono’s use of the Provençal idiom. ↩ Return