The Man Who Planted Trees

Contents

Cover

About the Book

About the Author

Title Page

The Man Who Planted Trees

The Story of Elzeard Bouffier

Copyright

In 1910, while hiking through the wild lavender in a wind-swept, desolate valley in Provence, a man comes across a shepherd called Elzéard Bouffier. Staying with him, he watches Elzéard sorting and then planting hundreds of acorns as he walks through the wilderness.

Ten years later, after the war, he visits the shepherd again and sees the young forest he has created spreading slowly over the valley. Elzéard's solitary, silent work continues and the narrator returns year after year to see the miracle he is gradually creating: a verdant, green landscape that is a testament to one man's creative instinct.

Jean Giono was born in 1895 in Manosque, Provence, and lived there most of his life. He supported his family working as a bank clerk for eighteen years before his first two novels were published, thanks to the generosity of André Gide, to critical acclaim. He went on to write thirty novels, including
The Horseman on the Roof
, and numerous essays and stories. In 1953, the year in which he wrote
The Man who Planted Trees,
he was awarded the Prix Monégasque for his collective work. Jean Giono died in October 1970.

To see a human being reveal really exceptional qualities one must be able to observe his activities over many years. If these activities are completely unselfish; if the idea motivating them is unique in its magnanimity; if it is quite certain they have never looked for any reward; and if in addition they have left visible traces on the world — then one may say, without fear of error, that one is in the presence of an unforgettable character.

ABOUT FORTY YEARS
ago I went on a long journey, on foot, through the uplands, utterly unknown to tourists, of the ancient region where the Alps extend into Provence.

The area is bounded in the south-east and the south by the middle reaches of the river Durance, between Sisteron and Mirabeau; in the north by the upper course of the Drôme, from its source down as far as Die; and in the west by the plains of the Comtat Venaissin and the foothills of Mont Ventoux. It includes all the northern part of the department of the Basses-Alpes, the south of the Drôme, and a small enclave of the Vaucluse.

When I went on my long tramp through that deserted region, between 1200 and 1300 metres above sea level, it was an expanse of bare and monotonous moorland. All that grew there was wild lavender.

I set out to cross the area at its widest point, and after walking for three days found myself in a landscape of unparalleled desolation. I camped near the skeleton of a deserted village. I hadn't had any water since the previous day, and I had to find some. Although the houses, huddled together there like an old wasps' nest, were in ruins, they made me think there must once have been a spring or a well nearby. And indeed there was a spring, but it had dried up. The five or six roofless houses weathered away by the wind and the rain, and the little chapel with its fallen tower, were arranged like the houses and churches in living villages. But in them no life remained.

It was a fine day in June, very sunny, but on those bare heights, open to the sky, the wind blew cruelly. The sound of it raging through the carcasses of the houses was like the snarl of a wild beast disturbed over its prey.

I had to move on. But after walking for five hours I still hadn't found water, and there was nothing to suggest I was going to. Everywhere the same dry land, the same tough grass. Then I thought I could see a little black figure standing upright in the distance. I took it for the trunk of a solitary tree. But on the off chance I set out towards it. It was a shepherd. Thirty or so sheep lay resting on the baking earth nearby. He gave me a drink from his flask, and then, a little while later, took me to his fold, which was hidden in a hollow. He got his water, which was delicious, from a very deep natural well, over which he had rigged up a rudimentary windlass.

He said very little. This is common in people who live alone, but you could tell he was sure of himself and confident in his self-possession, which was surprising in such a dismal spot. The place he lived in was not just a hut but a real house built of stone: you could see where he'd patched up the ruin it must have been before. The roof was strong and kept out the rain. The wind in the tiles made a sound like the sea on the shore.

Inside, the house was tidy, the washing-up done, the floor swept, the shepherd's gun cleaned and oiled. His soup was cooking over the fire. I noticed now that he was freshly shaved, that all his buttons were sewn on firmly, and that his clothes were mended with such minute care the repairs were almost invisible.

He insisted I should share his soup, and afterwards, when I offered him my tobacco pouch, he said he didn't smoke. His dog, as silent as he, was friendly without fawning.

It had been agreed from the outset that I'd spend the night there: the nearest village was still more than a day and a half's walk away. Moreover, I knew what they were like, the rare villages one did come across in that part of the world. There were four or five of them sparsely scattered over these slopes, buried in thickets of holm oak where usable roads petered out.

The villages are inhabited by charcoal burners. Life is hard there. Families, crowded together in a climate as harsh in summer as in winter, seethe with conflicting egoisms. Ambitions swell to wild proportions among them, so desperate and unrelenting is the desire to escape.

The men drive their vans into town with their charcoal, and then drive back again. Even the stoutest character goes to pieces under the continual contrast. The women stay at home and nurse grudges. Everything is a subject of unrelenting contention and rivalry, from the selling of charcoal to a pew in church, from separate and competing vices to the general mixture of vice and virtue. Never any rest. And on top of all that, the equally unrelenting wind frays everyone's nerves. There are epidemics of suicide and many cases of madness, usually homicidal.

The shepherd who didn't smoke went and fetched a little bag and emptied a pile of acorns on to the table. Then he began to inspect them closely, separating the good from the bad. I smoked my pipe. I offered to help. He said he had to do it himself. And seeing how carefully he worked I didn't insist. That was all the conversation we had. And when he'd collected a large enough heap of good acorns he divided them up into groups of ten. As he did so he discarded those that were too small or had a tiny split; he examined them minutely. Once he had sorted out one hundred perfect acorns, he stopped and we went to bed.

It was peaceful to be in his company, and next morning I asked if I might stay all day and rest. He found this quite natural; or rather he gave me the impression that nothing disturbed him. I didn't absolutely need to rest, but I was intrigued and wanted to know more. He let his flock out of the fold and led them to pasture. Before leaving home he took the little bag in which he'd put his carefully chosen and counted acorns, and dipped it in a bucket of water.

I noticed that instead of a stick he carried a steel rod as thick as a man's thumb and about a metre and a half long. I followed a path parallel to his, strolling along like someone taking it easy. He took his sheep to a hollow and left them there to graze, guarded by his dog. Then he came up to where I was standing. I was afraid he was going to object to my intrusion, but not at all. He had to come this way anyhow, and he invited me to go with him if I hadn't anything better to do.