"Derborence, by C. F. Ramuz" - photograph by Pierre Sottas, used by permission.
More of M. Sottas' photos may be viewed here.
At a book sale last week
I picked up a novel on impulse, having never heard of its author, Charles-Ferdinand
Ramuz, and drawn by its curious title, When the Mountain Fell. Given
that title, a blurb on the jacket from French dramatist Paul Claudel calling the
book “one of the summits of French prose” both piqued my interest and caused
one of my irony receptors to flash for an irreverent moment. Having now read When
the Mountain Fell, and putting aside its being in translation rather than in
its original 1935 French incarnation, Derborence, I’m inclined to trust
that Claudel’s statement is no exaggeration. At home late that night, I opened
the book expecting to have a quick look; two hours later I emerged from this
exquisite novel as though from a trance. Ramuz’s captivating narrative style is
completely compelling; his descriptions of the Swiss Alps in which his story
unfolds are ravishing; his grasp of the ways people grapple with disaster
displays a profound sensitivity and understanding; the ending of the novel
still rings in my mind days later with a precise, poignant, crystalline beauty.
As a title, When the
Mountain Fell, even if it’s not Ramuz’s own, sums up the novel succinctly.
This is a simple story of catastrophe and human response to it, based on an actual
event, a colossal landslide in the early 18th century in Derborence,
in the French-speaking corner of Switzerland near the source of the Rhône,
which brought half of a mountain down onto the scattered seasonal cabins of herders
who had taken their livestock up to a mountain meadow to graze. The resulting
rock field dammed a stream and created a lake, spread debris for a distance of
five and half kilometers, and buried the area in rock to a depth estimated at
100 meters.
Ramuz focuses on the human
element of this catastrophe, the actions and reactions of the valley’s citizens
across a wide psychological spectrum, from resigned acceptance to abject grief
to madness, relating the landslide’s impact on individual lives as well as on
the community of the valley and beyond. His characters, simple country people, employ
a laconic, pared-down language that captures the essentiality of rural life, as
in the relationship between Antoine and Therese, the young newlyweds at the novel’s
center:
He
said, “hello”; she said, “hello.” He said “Well now…,” she said,” You see, it’s
like this.” They had to meet far from the village, because there were always
busybodies around.
This economy of language
that leaves a world of things unsaid remains unchanged even in the face of
disaster, as when men from neighboring villages and even from the
German-speaking side of the range converge on the site of the collapsed
mountain:
They
came. They said nothing at first. They came and said nothing. They looked at
the people from Zamperon who said nothing either. Then they nodded their heads
slowly.
And
they said, “Well?”
The
people from Zamperon said, “Yes,” and nodded their heads.
But the ostensible
simplicity of When the Mountain Fell masks far more complexity than
appears on its surface. Ramuz’s sentences are short. His paragraphs are short.
What he does within such constraints can be quietly dazzling. Frequently,
perspective shifts subtly between observer and observed, as when Therese, while
a storm rages outside, sits dazed within her home, grappling with a ghostly vision
she’s had of her husband, a scene we see from her eyes and, a split second
later, as though eyes have turned to look at her:
The
lightening flashed again. Suddenly there was a window opposite her in the
kitchen wall, then it was no longer there.
A
blinding white square, it sprang into being, vanished, flashed out again, and
with it Therese too was first brilliantly lighted, then swallowed up in
darkness , then lighted up again.
Ramuz’s sentences perform
similar acrobatics in delicately flipping perspective between interior thought
and exterior phenomena, or in juxtaposing elements that suggest, in the wake of
the calamity, consciousnesses struggling between extremes of belief and
disbelief, between profound anguish and the irreverent indifference of
particular material things latched onto in the mind’s desperate grasp for solidity
and succor. At times Ramuz replays, “Rashoman” style, an entire scene as viewed
first from one character’s perspective then from another’s, even aligning this
along a back and forth tension between the buried meadow up the mountain and
the women, children and elderly men left in the village below. Perspective
looks up the mountain then back down, as though strung along an invisible cord
binding the village to the disaster which has taken so many of the town’s most
vital men, as though to emphasize the empathic ways in which the living ache for
the dead, longing to identify, whether out of grief or hope, or out of both,
with those they love, with those they have lost.
The tremendous sense of
loss is amplified and thrown into sharp relief through Ramuz’s contrasting, rapturous
descriptions of the natural world. Beyond and above the sharp, cruel rocks,
everything seems divinely luminous and alive:
It
was as if they were standing at the bottom of a well, except that the steep
walls were fissured from top to bottom by narrow gorges, each with is tiny
waterfall hanging in a wavering white line. Their gaze swept evenly around the
rim, then halted where Serpahin’s forefinger still pointed at the sky.
It
was up there right on the edge of the parapet at its highest point. Just there
the rock jutted out into space, and towering along its whole width was the rim
of the glacier. Something up there was shining softly: a luminous fringe,
faintly transparent, with gleams of blue and green and a sheen like phosphorescence
– it was the broken edge of the ice, and in that enchanted hour of the night it
too was filled with infinite silence and infinite peace. Nothing stirred
anywhere under the impalpable white down of moonlight which seemed to drift
effortlessly on the night air and settle in thin sheets on every smooth
surface.
When the Mountain
Fell contains a few elements of
what in less adept hands I’d be tempted to call “Christian kitsch” – Bible
beams breaking through clefts in cliffs and clouds to illuminate polished
crosses, symbolic incarnations of good and evil, suggestions of Christian
allegory. But what Ramuz accomplishes, almost miraculously, is simply and
seamlessly to bring the reader inside the religiosity of the community he
describes, conveying how belief - or incredulity - can shape and constitute perception
of reality. Rather than imposing a theological vision, Ramuz simultaneously
keeps us outside as observers and inside as participants in the community’s
small, sincere rituals and gestures of faith, which have a particular poignancy
in the world he creates around his good people, a world actually at odds with a
reassuring God and where faith is, almost literally, teetering on an abyss. On
the surface When the Mountain Fell may appear an anachronism, out of
step literarily with a decade that gave birth to works of such striking
modernism as Celine’s Journey to the End of Night, Pessoa’s The Book
of Disquiet, Joyce’s Finnegan’s Wake. Yet Ramuz’s story contains, in
addition to its subtle, controlled experiments with syntax and perspective, a canny
questioning of perception itself – throughout his novel there’s a delicate
infusion of dreams, hallucinations, visions, and superstitions capable of
altering reality – but above all a deep sense of existential indeterminacy and
of the indefinite and indefinable. A simple description of a precipice along a
mountain path contains all the power of an existential void:
And
suddenly the ground falls away from beneath your feet.
All
at once the line of grass against the sky, which dips slightly in the middle,
is outlining its hollow curve over nothingness itself. You have arrived. A
chasm opens abruptly below you, like an immense oval basket with precipitous
sides over which you have to lean, because although you are yourself six
thousand feet up, the bottom is seventeen or eighteen hundred feet below you,
straight down.
You
bend over, you lean your head forward a little. Or else lie down flat, and look
over the edge into the depths.
A
breath of cold air blows into your face.
In like manner, even the
descriptions of the rock field - “stones, and more stones, and still more
stones” - come across as both literal and conceptual, a “waste land” at once
geological and as existential as the one that gave a title to T. S. Eliot's poem. Everything in When the Mountain Fell works to suggest a grandeur of
existence far beyond the intimacy of the place and time; Ramuz's story could take
place as easily in 1935 as in the early 18th century. This lends When
the Mountain Fell an eternal, allegorical quality, and, in the context of when
it was written, a deeply sensitive prescience. If the minimalist speech of the
mountain people carries within it a world of meaning and understanding, then so
does Ramuz’s ostensibly simple narrative. For such a small book, it seems vast
and echoing, radiating out from that instant of catastrophe as though touching
all the world’s catastrophes. And, though the calamitous events in a small,
peaceful, Swiss mountain village in the 18th century seem at first
far removed from the tumultuous period in which When the Mountain Fell
was written, no other novel I’ve read from the time has seemed to communicate so profoundly
an anticipation of the imminent catastrophe facing 1930's Europe, of the mountain about to fall on it.
That simplicity of language, rather than making it seem pedestrian, make the novel strangely enchanting. I never heard of this novelist before, but I'm adding him to my TBR list.
ReplyDeleteMiguel - Yes, that ostensible simplicity is anything but. I pretty much reread When the Mountain Fell while trying to write about it and was astonished at how much Ramuz manages to paint into a page. I'm just finishing a second of his novels (it turns out there are not one but two volumes of him in those thick Gallimard collections). He's definitely a writer I'll continue to read. I don't know that a book I've picked up on impulse has ever been so surprisingly rewarding.
ReplyDeleteGreat commentary on this novel.
ReplyDeleteSomething that you wrote has made me think. I have been reading some DH Lawrence lately. Though the Lawrence works that I am reading were written about twenty years earlier, there is also strong hints in these books regarding a coming European catastrophe building.
Thanks, Brian. I haven't read Lawrence in a long time - probably time to have another look.
DeleteMichelle at pieces has been translating and publishing Ramuz's short stories.
ReplyDeleteShe has some interesting posts championing him.
Tom - thanks for the link. I look forward to exploring. I just finished a second Ramuz novel, and am fairly certain I'll be championing him a bit more.
DeleteMy father's favourite author. He made me read this when I was maybe 16. I dont like mountains and find them scray. In this and another of his books, I think his most famous one, La grande peur dans la montagne, he evokes all that, how they loom and wait. The atmosphere is haunting and brooding. He is an impressive writer. I need to revisit him. Meinrad Inglin wrote similar stories but in German. He is Swiss as well. I'm not sure whether he has been transltaed.
ReplyDeleteCaroline - I've always loved the mountains, but by sheer (very sheer) coincidence, I followed up When the Mountain Fell with a camping trip that had us sleeping at the foot of a cliff so high and overhanging that it blocked the sky. I nicknamed it "Derborance," not without some nervousness. I'm not sure I'll look at mountains the same way again after reading Ramuz, but I'll be reading more of him nonetheless.
DeleteRamuz was very briefly mentioned in the 1st chapter of Sebald's The Rings of Saturn. From your review, I can see his possible affinities with Sebald on the themes of destruction and the natural world.
ReplyDeleteRise - Sebald's name pokes up on the Internet quite a bit when one starts looking into Ramuz. He really strikes me as a very powerful, singular writer with a remarkable style, and I wonder why he seems so relatively unknown now.
DeleteThis novel sounds very special indeed. Even just reading the quotes (especially the one about the rim of the glacier jutting out from the rockface) gives a sense of greater, more mysterious forces at play. I guess this is out of print right now? It strikes me as just the type of story that Peirene Press might publish (although it would have to be a novella to fit their format).
ReplyDeleteGoing off on a slight tangent, have you read The Ice Palace by Tarjei Vesaas? Your description of When the Mountain Fell reminds me a little of the Vesaas. It's a combination of things: the simplicity of the language; the sense of danger in the natural world; and the contrast between an intimate central focal point and something wider.
There's that note in Neversink editions about the books one picks up by chance being among "the most agreeable, grateful, and companionable," and this one fits that perfectly. I marveled at Ramuz' writing and have read another three or four of his novels since. But this one remains special. Yes, it is out of print, but copies abound. At 221 pages, it almost qualifies as a novella.
DeleteI don't know the Vesaas at all, but will look it up.