The Man Who Planted Trees

“He thought it must be common land, or perhaps it belonged to people who weren’t interested in it. He wasn’t interested in who they were. And so, with great care, he planted his hundred acorns.”

Bouffier expresses the notion that land and natural resources are common goods that belong to all. Although this idea has found some support in recent years thanks to urgent concerns over climate change and resource depletion, in 1913 and for most of the 20th century land was viewed through the prism of private property rights in the Western world. In addition, the environmental stewardship that Bouffier practices with such focus and vigor was still in its infancy in the early 20th century, making him a pioneer in the field.

“He’d been planting trees in this wilderness for three years. He’d planted a hundred thousand of them. Out of those, twenty thousand had come up. Of the twenty thousand he expected to lose half, because of rodents or the unpredictable ways of Providence. That still meant ten thousand oaks would grow where before there had been nothing.” 

The narrator indicates the immense odds against which Bouffier endeavors to reforest the valley. Yet these odds only render his efforts even more inspiring, as Bouffier continues his work despite the risk of mathematically colossal failure. This observation further underscores the necessity and power of hope, an enormously salient theme whether the work is viewed in an antiwar or an environmental context.

“Because I was young I naturally thought of the future in terms of myself, and assumed everyone sought the same happiness. So I remarked how magnificent his ten thousand oak trees would be in thirty years’ time. He answered quite simply that, if God spared him, he’d have planted so many other trees in those thirty years, the ten thousand would be just a drop in the ocean.” 

This reflects one of the biggest challenges facing aggressive environmental movements: Individuals generally think only so far into the future as they expect their own lives to last. This is particularly challenging in the early 21st century, as such a large proportion of the politicians and industry leaders with the power to address environmental damage struggle to conceptualize a future they will never see. The fact that Bouffier continues his reforestation efforts well into his 80s is yet another testament to the man’s vision and generosity.

“When the 1914 war was over I found myself with a small amount of demob money and a great desire to breathe some fresh air. So with no other purpose but that I set out again for the same deserted landscapes as before.”

The narrator expends precious few words acknowledging World War I and his participation in it, yet the devastating conflict casts a dark shadow over the entire story. It is strongly suggested that the narrator suffers post-traumatic stress disorder as a result of the horrors he witnessed, mirroring the author’s own wartime experiences which led him to become a lifelong pacifist. It is with this shattered state of mind and spirit that the narrator revisits the barren valley, where Bouffier’s reforestation efforts have a profound healing effect.

“I’d seen so many people die in the last five years I could easily imagine that Elzéard Bouffier must be dead too.” 

Once again, an almost offhand reference to World War I intrudes on the narrative to remind readers of the psychic distress felt by the narrator upon revisiting Provence. He is so haunted by the war and by the specter of death that he ponders the question of whether Bouffier is alive or dead with inhuman detachment. At this moment, the narrator is as bereft of hope as the charcoal burners he pitied seven years earlier, which makes the sight of Bouffier’s successful reforestation efforts incredibly affecting.

“When you remembered that it had all emerged from the hands and spirit of this one man, without any technical aids, you saw that men could be as efficient as God in other things beside destruction.” 

World War I understandably shook many Westerners’ faith in God, humanity, and all the old traditions and ways of living that led to so deadly a global conflict. This disillusionment manifested itself in the art and literature of the postwar era, as modernists sought new ways to mirror the fractured social and spiritual bonds the war left in its wake. Yet like Bouffier himself, the author takes a different approach, telling a story that celebrates humanity’s enduring capacity to create and rebuild instead of wallowing in its capacity to destroy.

“Seeds were carried on the wind, too, so as the water reappeared, so did willows, reeds, meadows, gardens, flowers and some reason for living.” 

In depicting the chain reaction that occurs due to Bouffier’s reforestation efforts, the author shows the dynamism of ecosystems at a time when ecology as a hard science was still in its infancy. He reckons with the profound ecological effects of building a forest out of nothing while implying the equally profound effects of deforestation, as flora and fauna lose their habitat. Meanwhile, the narrator subtly hints at the extent to which Bouffier’s task heals his trauma by saying it gave him a “reason for living.”

“If they’d suspected what he was up to they’d have tried to stop him. But no one did suspect it. How could anyone, whether in the villages or in government offices, have imagined such perseverance, such magnificent generosity?” 

The narrator believes that Bouffier would have run afoul of the authorities had they learned of his endeavor. This reflects the attitude among many non-environmentalists who profess a belief that nature should run its course, even as they sanction its destruction to serve various industrial concerns. With this observation, the narrator also implies that government bodies cannot be trusted with humanity’s preservation or salvation, and that individual actors like Bouffier are best suited to enact remarkable and significant change—a position that makes sense given how world leaders brought the world to the brink of ruin with war.

“One cannot properly appreciate this rare character unless one remembers that he accomplished what he did in complete solitude. So complete was his isolation that towards the end of his life he got out of the habit of speaking. Or did he no longer see any need for speech?”

By the end of his life, Bouffier exists in a sort of permanent meditative state. The forest brings him so much comfort and calm that human communication would only sever his trance-like connection with the natural beauty around him. This echoes the second time the narrator visits the valley: Awestruck at the sight of six-foot oaks scattered across the previously barren landscape, the narrator walks beside Bouffier in absolute silence without really knowing why.

“This was the first time ever, replied the simple shepherd, that a forest had sprung up of its own accord.”

One of the vanishingly small pieces of dialogue spoken by Bouffier is an ironic joke at the expense of a government official. In addition to lying to the official about the forest’s genesis, he slyly professes a false ignorance as to how forests form—as if only humans are capable of growing them. Thus, Bouffier parodies individuals—like those who might work for the French forest service—who hold the deeply hubristic belief that humans have conquered nature and are now fully in control of it.

“He’s the wisest man in the world! He’s discovered a perfect recipe for happiness!” 

The narrator repeatedly gestures at the fact that Bouffier has no special training or expertise in the growth and maintenance of trees. He was a simple farmer who, through sheer determination and a tolerance for trial and error, taught himself how to reforest an entire valley. So while he lacks the “wisdom” prized by society and possessed by traditional scholars and statesmen, Bouffier has amassed through experience and character a far more valuable type of wisdom, in that he is able to transmute it into happiness for anyone who steps foot in his forest.

“The tree-planter’s work wasn’t really threatened until the 1939 war. In those days cars were run on machines that turned wood into gas, and there was never enough wood. People started cutting down the oaks that had been planted in 1910, but the trees were so far from main roads that the business didn’t pay and was abandoned. The shepherd didn’t even know about it. He was thirty kilometres away, going peacefully on with his task, ignoring the 1939 war just as he’d ignored the war of 1914.” 

The fact that Bouffier pays little mind to World War II may reflect the author’s own attitudes toward the war. Having turned toward ardent pacifism in the wake of World War I, Giono refused to cooperate with the French Resistance or the French government-in-exile against the Nazis. This brought him accusations of collaboration, even though Giono remained entirely neutral throughout the war. This passage is also significant in that it makes an explicit connection between the destruction of the environment and humanity’s military and industrial concerns.

“But the most astonishing thing of all was the sound of water actually flowing into a basin. I saw that the people in the village had built a fountain: it was gushing forth in abundance, and—this was what moved me most—beside it they had planted a lime tree which must have been about four years old. It was already quite sturdy—an indisputable symbol of resurrection.” 

The narrator is moved that the villagers have begun to grow their own trees, as if Bouffier’s ecological stewardship is contagious. It is also a testament to the extent of the region’s rebirth that the formerly bone-dry expanse now supports so much water that the villagers can build a fountain for purely aesthetic and symbolic reasons. As for the lime tree, although it is a sacred symbol in Slavic, Baltic, and Germanic mythology, to the narrator its symbolic importance may lie in the fact that lime trees thrive best in wet tropical climates, making its survival yet another testament to the region’s transformation.