The following is from Charles Ferdinand Ramuz’s Great Fear on the Mountain. Ramuz was a Swiss novelist and one of the most iconic French-Swiss writers of the 20th century. He pioneered a common Swiss literary identity, writing books about mountaineers, farmers, or villagers engaging in often tragic struggles against catastrophe.

The Chairman was still talking.

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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 said, “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; he was saying:

“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 for 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.

There were fifty-eight hands raised, and only thirty-three that were not.

*

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 a 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 said, “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.

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From Great Fear on the Mountain by Charles Ferdinand Ramuz, translated by Bill Johnston. Used with permission of the publisher, Archipelago Books. First published as La Grande Peur dans la montagne by Grasset in 1926. English translation copyright © 2024 by Bill Johnston.