Jean Giono - The Serpent of Stars

Thus, I was conceived in the belly of the sky, and you, sea, you were that side of me that rested against the sky at that place in its flank where it keeps its bile and its bitterness.

And you became the bile and the bitterness of the world. 4 But look again and tell me. .

GLODION. What?

Why should I tell you and what should I tell you. .?

All this bitterness is exactly what I feel, and I would like to scatter it into the whole universe, and for the sky, that other ocean that is above me, to become bitter waves to its very depths and to go off tossing salt on the beaches of the stars.

Earth, do you remember the time of your youth, when you ran, water squash, in the great prairie of the night, and how, with my depths, I soaked the wide route?

In those quarters of the sky where, alone, we could live: me, the sea, them, the mountains, our immense life which goes from one side of life to the other, without stopping, slowly, slowly, slowly.

And you desired to carry more rapid lives, and you rolled over the blue slopes, and you crossed the quarter of fruits, and you were in the sky like a ball of sugar, like a ripe melon.

I heard you laughing.

But the slope threw you into the great region of beasts and there you are all covered with that mildew of blood, and there you are getting nervous over a new animal, and there you are like a girl who’s rolled in the hay with men and who’s looking at her belly.

THE SARDINIAN. There!

Calm down, Sea!

Let that high tongue of water that you raise to the sky come down. Make yourself flat.

Who knows what life the god has imagined for me?

Who can know in advance all the forms 5 which are still only air waiting ready in the darkness?

This course of mine, it was written in the stars. I was delighted with the fruits; I listened to the lowing of the beasts and now, there before me, opening wide, is this region of man, and my course can’t avoid it.

Because the god has bound into my flesh this curse: the capacity to produce. 6

Make yourself flat, Sea, make yourself smooth and sleep.

I am going to ask the Mountain.

Mountain!

As before, silence. But this time, someone is ready, stands up, and waits. He respects the order of the play. You have to leave time for the aeolian harp players above to understand by the whistle that the sea’s scene is over.

Besides, that sound of the sea which continues to diminish, and then falls still, coincides with the gestures of Glodion the shepherd. He parts with the Sardinian, takes two steps backwards, and remains there.

One gargoulette, just one, very slowly plays the song of “O bellos montagnos.” It makes it into a kind of formidable monster, full of waterfalls, ice collapsing, the sound of the north wind, grinding, spitting, and it all ends in silence into which pipes a little tune from the tympon, only the scale notes, the little streamer of music that floats on the lips of the shepherd walking ahead of the sheep.

THE MOUNTAIN (The man moves forward, salutes, stands facing the Sardinian as if for a contredanse). Earth!

Are you worried?

Because someone came to look in at the gate and then, when you turned around to see, you saw only quick movements as they hid.

And now, in the great afternoon, you sense a presence over there behind the pillars, and everything is turning cloudy around you as in a stream when a big fish dies at the bottom, disturbing the mud.

And you call out, and you ask. .

Earth, I don’t know!

I don’t know, but I can feel your anxiety moving under my feet.

I expected it.

For a long time, I had my pasture of solitude and silence and already I was bound by the weight of all the grasses, the weight of trees, this mud of big, rotten fruits.

I learned to know the sound of the life of the plants. One day, a shadow came over me, a cold shadow that crossed me slowly.

It was the shadow of a bird.

And under it, I was colder than under the shadow of the night.

It was then that I felt your anxiety moving.

It was then I understood from the taste of the sky that we had passed the threshold that opens onto the region of men.

Listen to me.

I can no longer move and I am too high to see below.

But I have sent someone to explore it.

He already left a good while ago; he won’t be long in coming back.

Without another call, a man stood up, not very far from the spot where I am and where I’m scribbling this down. Césaire let out an “Eh, look!” and I felt Barberousse against me turn to look. Césaire’s girl leans the whole weight of her hand on my knee and stands up. I remain seated; I don’t want to upset my writing board and my papers and, in the movement of the girl’s head, in her gaze, I follow, from below, the one who moves forward into the play. I hear what someone says to him: “You, who are you?” He answers, “You’ll see.” He has entered the stage area; I can see him. He is tall and thin, all shaven. He has a slight limp.

THE MAN. Here I am. I’m back. I am the River. 7

GLODION — THE SEA(who until then remained motionless, moves forward in greeting). Ah! The one I was waiting for!

For a long time I’ve been hearing you rolling in the fields and the marshes.

Finally, here you are with your dead trees, your dead beasts.

You have crushed a lot of things to get here!

Ah! Earth! If you believe that one, we’re not done laughing yet.

He drags himself along beating his head everywhere he goes like a blind snake. He has knocked down hills, he has slashed the great skin of grass. He’s a carrier of dead things.

He only knows reflections.

THE SARDINIAN (He raises his hand. There is no more music except the sound of the harps). Don’t say anything bad about reflections!

Or about death!

The universe is a globe of reflections.

GLODION — THE SEA. Yes!

But this river that’s before you and that comes to tell you: “I’m the one who knows!”

I’m telling the truth, now: he doesn’t know the worth of reflections, and he takes them and leaves them. He doesn’t carry them.

THE SARDINIAN. He carries them.

In a thousand times a thousand years they will find in his mud the reflection of that little willow leaf which is mirrored this day.

That reflection which is like a seal in wax, like a good or bad thought that leaves its mark.

THE RIVER. Why try to debate with the Sea?

Look at the beasts: they come forward, they sniff, they smell this odor of salt; then they turn tail and run off in the other direction.

You know what I call her?

The sweaty one.

There she is with her big breasts, leaping and sweating.

But me, the beasts come to me, and they drink.

GLODION — THE SEA They drink!

I know.

I heard the cries of those you forced to drink in the recesses of a high hill. And then, I heard the silence.

THE RIVER. We have ways that are written from eternity in the script of the stars.

And we have our work all laid out.

Do you want the world to shift places because the does and the stags are there in the cul-de-sac of the rocks?

Yes, they drank, and beyond their thirst.