part in those long tales of summer nights. If all goes well, by next year, Iâll have untangled the mystery. I now have a friend among the true masters of the beasts. Itâs Vénérande, the head shepherd from the Saint-Trubat farm, and itâs agreed that next season, Iâll go up to spend the long months with him.
So, for me, and for the moment, I believe that itâs simply a game, a
pastime, but the pastime of the masters of beasts. All the rest, everything that Barberousse could say about it, whoâs getting old, whoâs a dreamer, and who, I know, is capable of falling under the simple spell of a fountain, all the rest lies under the shadow of clouds. There is, of course, the Sardinian . . .
But, as for the Sardinian, let me explain. The Sardinianâthat thin man in the red scarf from whom the whole game spatters like water shaken from a dogâthe Sardinian, heâs the author. Heâs the midwife of images. Moreover, he is, I know, a remarkable midwife for difficult ewes. He has long and nervous hands, as delicate as little fish, and if you had to give him all the lambs he brought to life in the furrow of his two hands, he would be richer than the richest proprietors. For the images, for the plays, itâs the same. They are all there around him, pregnant and heavy with dreams, with the beautiful coil of the serpent of stars, and, in the midst of them, heâs the midwife of the play. Heâs the one who delivers the play and who makes sure itâs born completely new each time, because each time, it is born completely new, and year after year, the same words are never repeated, nor the same roles, and each time, the play has that odor of the blood and salt of newborn lambs, because everyone makes it up. The Sardinian, who is the narrator, may keep a narrative thread in his hand, always the same, thatâs possible, but those around him, those shepherds who are like a seated shadow and whom you donât see until the moment they move forward between the fires, those shepherds are never the same. Maybe you would say what Barberousse said to me.
âThat one, itâs five years now that heâs been playing. That one, Iâve seen him twice. Those over there are new, but they help the Glaude master, and he speaks so well that he must have taught them their parts.â
No, Barberousse, the same shepherd never sits at the edge of the play twice. You tell me, âItâs five years for that one,â yes, but heâs five years older, five years richer. In that time, he has experienced things on the worldâs wide back, he isnât the same. He wonât say what he said five years ago, or what he said last year, but all that heâs learned in this new year. You know, Barberousse, dreams are the shepherdâs savings. And, very soon, he will spend this yearâs savings like a boy on holiday.
Do you want me to tell you?
One fine dayâone fine night, ratherâthe Sardinian will come again to raise his hand in greeting, and then maybe in the shadowâs wide circle there will be a young shepherd, yes, Barberousse, a young shepherd, full to bursting. And when someone calls, âthe Sea,â or âthe Riverâ or âthe Woods,â itâll be that young shepherd who comes forward to speak. And you will all listen, because you are masters and you know what is beautiful. Because you are masters of the beasts and you know first of all how to be masters of yourselves when your self-love or your spitefulness want to take over. And the young shepherd will speak so well that he will become the future master. The Sardinian will give him the red woolen scarf and the great herd of your dreams will flow behind him, toward other pastures.
Â
HOWEVER, seeing this Mallefougasse plateau, these black lands clawed by the rain, these rocks that a sand plane has worn to flat tables, these trees in their homespun cloaks turning their
So, for me, and for the moment, I believe that itâs simply a game, a
pastime, but the pastime of the masters of beasts. All the rest, everything that Barberousse could say about it, whoâs getting old, whoâs a dreamer, and who, I know, is capable of falling under the simple spell of a fountain, all the rest lies under the shadow of clouds. There is, of course, the Sardinian . . .
But, as for the Sardinian, let me explain. The Sardinianâthat thin man in the red scarf from whom the whole game spatters like water shaken from a dogâthe Sardinian, heâs the author. Heâs the midwife of images. Moreover, he is, I know, a remarkable midwife for difficult ewes. He has long and nervous hands, as delicate as little fish, and if you had to give him all the lambs he brought to life in the furrow of his two hands, he would be richer than the richest proprietors. For the images, for the plays, itâs the same. They are all there around him, pregnant and heavy with dreams, with the beautiful coil of the serpent of stars, and, in the midst of them, heâs the midwife of the play. Heâs the one who delivers the play and who makes sure itâs born completely new each time, because each time, it is born completely new, and year after year, the same words are never repeated, nor the same roles, and each time, the play has that odor of the blood and salt of newborn lambs, because everyone makes it up. The Sardinian, who is the narrator, may keep a narrative thread in his hand, always the same, thatâs possible, but those around him, those shepherds who are like a seated shadow and whom you donât see until the moment they move forward between the fires, those shepherds are never the same. Maybe you would say what Barberousse said to me.
âThat one, itâs five years now that heâs been playing. That one, Iâve seen him twice. Those over there are new, but they help the Glaude master, and he speaks so well that he must have taught them their parts.â
No, Barberousse, the same shepherd never sits at the edge of the play twice. You tell me, âItâs five years for that one,â yes, but heâs five years older, five years richer. In that time, he has experienced things on the worldâs wide back, he isnât the same. He wonât say what he said five years ago, or what he said last year, but all that heâs learned in this new year. You know, Barberousse, dreams are the shepherdâs savings. And, very soon, he will spend this yearâs savings like a boy on holiday.
Do you want me to tell you?
One fine dayâone fine night, ratherâthe Sardinian will come again to raise his hand in greeting, and then maybe in the shadowâs wide circle there will be a young shepherd, yes, Barberousse, a young shepherd, full to bursting. And when someone calls, âthe Sea,â or âthe Riverâ or âthe Woods,â itâll be that young shepherd who comes forward to speak. And you will all listen, because you are masters and you know what is beautiful. Because you are masters of the beasts and you know first of all how to be masters of yourselves when your self-love or your spitefulness want to take over. And the young shepherd will speak so well that he will become the future master. The Sardinian will give him the red woolen scarf and the great herd of your dreams will flow behind him, toward other pastures.
Â
HOWEVER, seeing this Mallefougasse plateau, these black lands clawed by the rain, these rocks that a sand plane has worn to flat tables, these trees in their homespun cloaks turning their
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