“They were the men and women of sand, of wind, of light, of night. They carried with them their giant shadows at sunset, the waves of untouched sand brushed by their splayed toes, the unreachable horizon…”
J. M. G. Le Clézio, Desert (Désert).
Where Don Carotte, still searching for a steed he can be proud of, and Sang Chaud, one perched in the hollow of the tree and the other remaining sensibly at its foot, engage in a battle of words beneath the astonished gaze of the tree-dwelling donkeys…
DON CAROTTE
(striking the branch with his heel, his gaze fixed, at the risk of frightening the inhabitants of the place, who nevertheless delight in his antics)
Tell me, Sang Chaud, what dark and secret law Makes faithful shadows fall from beasts of shade? You speak of an abyss, a final decree: Should the donkey leave the tree, his immortality must flee.
SANG CHAUD
(arms folded, his voice grave)
My lord, a shadow is no idle trace beneath our feet. It is our darker double, the soul's weight, following where we go,Behind each wandering creature, silently and slow, Guardian of the past, of vows, of nights long gone. It binds us to the paths upon this earth, As anchors bind the ship, or iron binds the soldier. Whoever, mad with pride, believes himself free and casts it away Becomes a mere appearance, condemned to drift astray.
DON CAROTTE
(stepping back, his eyes wide with astonishment)
What do I hear, O heavens deep and vast? A hero without his trace, a ghost with nothing left to bind him? Am I so frail, I, a knight-errant bold, That one mere vanishing could cast me into the void?
SANG CHAUD
(gently, but firmly)
Remember Schlemihl*, who, for accursed gold, Sold his shadow to the devil and was shunned wherever he went. And you, noble warrior, do you believe your figure Could still endure without that dark foretoken of your being? Your shadow is your anchor. Your memory. Your oath. He who loses it slowly fades away.
DON CAROTTE
(striking his chest)
Ah! Must I bear this burden as a pledge? No man without his shadow, no step without its wake? But if the shadow is a prison, a dungeon for what I may become, Would it not be better to lose it, and rush towards oblivion?
SANG CHAUD
(gazing into the distance, almost mystically)
Lose your shadow, my lord? But that is to lose the world. For he who loses his shadow no longer walks: he falls. Without root or weight, he becomes wind and dust, No more than a reflection, a fleeting absence. Some, it is true, pale monks of the desert, Have fled their dark doubles to become light. But you, my master, O wandering iron among the marshes, Your shadow is your sword. Your shadow is your curve.
DON CAROTTE
(looking down at the ground, suddenly trembling)
If the tree rejects me, if the earth slips from beneath my feet, If my shadow deserts me… am I still true to my honour?Where am I, Sang Chaud? Tell me what I am If I can no longer see, behind me, my well.
SANG CHAUD
(in a whisper, his gaze lost among the treetops)
Then, my lord… you will have to remember. For he who loses his shadow has nothing left but to build himself anew.
A long silence, within which the tree-dwelling donkey remains serene.
*Adelbert von Chamisso, The Wonderful Story of Peter Schlemihl (Histoire merveilleuse de Pierre Schlémihl).
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