mardi 17 février 2009


Pour le Gabian, qui vient d'évoquer une autre Errante Eternelle, et de réveiller en moi non seulement le souvenir de St John Perse, mais aussi, plus humblement, celui de ce texte.

In the last months of his reign, the King was walking through the gardens of the White City with his youngest daughter. Their walk was peaceful, for they knew each other very well and few words were needed between them.
The people of Minas Tirith bowed to them, and the shine of twilight falled on their heads. The head of the King was noble and white, but the head of his daughter was golden, for she never had the dark hair of her family.
And finally they came to the Fontain and sat under the White Tree of Gondor, and there in the last sunbeams they were an image of the peace and beauty of a fading world.
The King looked at his youngest child and found she was tall, golden and white, and her face seemed to be at both that of a lady from ancient world and of the anxious child he had rocked some years earlier.
And he smiled to her, but it wasn’t a joyful smile.
“We have always tried to find whom you were bearing resemblance with, and I only see it today — the King said. For you are not like Eowyn was, even if you are slim and blonde and share her love for swords and a free life. And you are not like your brother and sister, and not like me, even if we understand each other more than father and daughter usually do. But it is only today I see what is your inheritance. And what will be your fate.”
After that they kept silent for a while, until she stared at him and said :
“For one thing I am grateful. No untold words lie between us, so grief but no sorrow shall beget your loss.”
Then a shadow fell on the King and he muttered :
“Always your sight was deep, my child.”
And she still was a child, so she answered :
“World will be so dark a place, without you and Mother.”
And the King held her arm tightly and said :
“Your mother will be allowed to stay with you. Her fate is not mine, and she still can live on this Earth, or another.”
But she looked at him, and in her grey eyes he read understanding and sadness.
“No — she said— it isn’t time for this any more. There still can be ships to the West, but none for her. She has chosen to share your fate."
"She didn’t know what she was choosing."
"She chose love. This cannot be undone.”
And the King kept silent, for he knew in his heart she was right.
But she repeated softly : “So dark a place” and he saw tears in her eyes. Then he stood up again, and on his face a great power could be read, which was not only his own but that of all his ancestors. And he answered : “ So you’ll have to be the light.”
And his voice was like the voice of a Seer coming across many ages of the world.
“Eldarion is not my only heir, dear. The three of thou art. He has to be the King of Men, and thy sister is the Mother of a New World. But thou, my child, thou art the Light. Not only my heir, and the Kings of the West’s, but the heir of thy mother’s bloodline, of Elwë and Finwë, heir of the Eldar’s part in the world.
And unlike thy brother’s, this part of the story will not be told. For Men do not need to hear it, not yet. But a time will come when they will need thou, beyond all the stories.”
And as he finished, the sun set at West.

(A suivre)

2 commentaires:

Le Gabian a dit…

Quel beau texte. J'ai hâte d'en lire la suite.

Et il va me donner du grain à moudre ;-)

Alba a dit…

Tu risques d'être déçue : c'est un texte très court...
Suite et fin demain.