by Edgar Quinet
AHASUERUS
Get up! We have to go.
AHASUERUS’ HORSE
I’m too tired.
AHASUERUS
One more day.
AHASUERUS’ HORSE
If my feet were willing, I’d have heart enough for a thousand.
AHASUERUS
As far as the city; a few steps.
AHASUERUS’ HORSE, dying
Master, my hooves are worn away, and my breath exhausted.
AHASUERUS
Me too—like you, I’m going to die. At least carry me, without your hooves resounding, as far as the place where you went to your pale mare. Without whinnying, carry me there, where the bottomless spring is hollowed out for our thirst; where the trough without limits is full, for your hunger, with gilded barley; where the landlord and his groom will wipe away your sweat forever. Of your black litter, only give me half, that I might go to sleep beneath your feet in your stable, fully-dressed with dreams.
AHASUERUS’ HORSE
Look, Master, here comes my last sigh.
(He dies.)
AHASUERUS
And here come my death-throes. No, I’m not the trunk of a centenarian oak that the woodcutter has forgotten in the forest. This time my black cup is full; my eyes are vacillating; my heart is trembling with the fever of the dying. For me too the bells are going to ring; their beautiful bronze and shining silver voice will make the water tremble in the springs; and the hawthorn will shake its dew in the bushes in the words, and the flowers will drop their bloody crosses when they hear it. “Ahasuerus is dead! Ahasuerus is dead!” And the watchman, when he opens the city gate, will summon me with his bagpipe without waking me up.
CHORUS OF THE BURGERS OF THE CITY, on the walls
Master, what is stopping you? What are you waiting for, on that milestone? Come into our worthy city. We’ve never seen a traveler walking so slowly, nor one so weary, nor so handsome. Where have you come from? From the mount of Armenia, or Rome, the distant land? Who are you? Where is your home? We would gladly learn that, if it is not a mystery.
AHASUERUS
My journey has scarcely begun.
CHORUS OF BURGERS
1.
By that arched door, enter my house. The wine here will please you; the hop-beer in my pitcher is fresh, and verdant, and foamy. The bread here is made from new wheat, and cut on the table-cloth. Around the table, my wife will serve us in painted earthenware bowls, and my daughter, with the smooth hair, will bring more.
2.
Don’t weep, traveler. If you are a master image-maker or page-maker with no work, I want to have a belfry in the town center; you can sculpt it. If you’re a master tower-builder, I need a tower built on my church in order that the angels might dwell there; you can build it.
3.
Sit down here. You will certainly have news to tell us, about the countries your eyes have seen. Which, in your opinion, are the most abundant, and the best, and the most welcoming? Where does incense grow? Where does myrtle grow? Where does Syrian balm grow? We would like to know, in order to soothe your pain.
V.
RACHEL, alone in her room, feeding her caged starling
My head hurts. Since that stranger arrived, I can’t think about anything else. Come on, come on, my lovely starling, amuse me, cheer me up. You’re my entire joy; you have no sad secrets. I’ll give you and almond-branch to peck.
THE STARLING, in its cage
Beware of the stranger, Rachel. Since he has come, I’m no longer hungry for almond branches; I’m no longer thirsty for well-water.
RACHEL
Did you speak? Wretched bird. No, it wasn’t you, was it? It was me, sighing. Stay in your cage; I’ll amuse myself better with my wallflowers. Oh, how beautiful you are, my wallflowers! I’m going to give you a little sunlight and shake you dew from the window.
THE BOUQUET OF WALLFLOWERS
Run away, Rachel. Since the stranger has come, what good is the sun to me? The sun no longer warms me. What good is the dew? The dew no longer refreshes me.
RACHEL
My God, are my ears ringing? Science the rain has already watered my flowers. I’ll amuse myself better playing my mandora.
THE MANDORA
Run away, Rachel. Since the stranger has arrived I’ve forgotten the songs I knew. Let me be, my breath frightens me.
RACHEL
What’s the matter with me? I don’t know any more whether that voice came out of my mouth, or whether I really heard it.
THE STARLING
Go! Leave us. What can you do now with a starling? A starling’s wing doesn’t beat as fast as your poor heart beneath your dress. What can you do with a bouquet of wallflowers? A wallflower doesn’t lean over on its stem as far as your head on its neck. What can you do with a mandora? A mandora doesn’t moan was much as the breath in your bosom. Since your neighbor has come, I’m afraid in your house. Open the window for me, so that I can leave, to fly over the sea to build my spring nest on Christ’s tomb.
THE BOUQUET OF WALLFLOWERS
And me; I’m stifling here. Let the bird carry my spring perfume on its wings, to drop it in passing on the road to Bethlehem.
THE MANDORA
And me; let it take with it my evening sighs, to drop them far from here in the foliage of the fig-trees and the old walls of the Holy Land.
RACHEL
I’m going mad! I’m afraid of my own voice. It seems to me that everything I touch murmurs like me. Oh, it’s too long since I’ve had any fresh air; at this hour of the evening I’ve always been sadder than during the rest of the day.
VI.
The Esplanade of Heidelberg Castle
MOB, dressed as an old woman of the region
Everything promises us, for our share of pleasure, a magnificent day. At first I feared that cloud over the Heiligberg. (To Ahasuerus.) Permit me to entrust Rachel to you for a moment, while I collect a bouquet from the cemetery. Don’t leave her alone.
AHASUERUS
I promise.
MOB
I’ll be right back.
(She leaves.)
RACHEL
No, there’s no other place that pleases we as much as this arbor. The water murmurs under the electors’ balcony; the deer drink in the shade in the valley. Listen to the students’ hunting-horns in the towers, and the pilgrims singing, and the sound of the organ. Here, truly, the road of the Necker resembles a serpent that has shed its coast behind it. The cherry-trees flourish, the saint is asleep in his reliquary, the Rhine in the hollow of its bed. Tell me, my lord, whether your homeland is as beautiful as mine.
AHASUERUS
In my homeland, the sea rolls over golden sand. The stars are bees that suck the flowers of heaven. My city, when it was in celebration, resounded on the mountain like the quiver on the back of a horseman. The rivers curved like the saber at his side; the desert shone like a ring on his finger.
RACHEL
And now?
AHASUERUS
The ring is tarnished, the saber rusted, the quiver empty. In my homeland, the cypresses were verdant, the gazelles frolicked, the antelope with golden eyes grazed golden branches; stone lions dug in the sand with their claws and crowned unicorns waited for the last judgment to give them, when they awoke, the scepter and the miter.
RACHEL
And now?
AHASUERUS
The lions have shaken their manes and thrown sand at the summit of Calvary.
RACHEL
What is the name of your homeland, my lord?
AHASUERUS
You’ll never see it.
RACHEL
Is it a long time since you left it?
AHASUERUS
Time does nothing to me. It only leaves wrinkles in my heart.
RACHEL
If you wanted to, you could send a message.
AHASUERUS
The cranes, when they go there, serve as my messengers.
RACHEL
>
When you left, did you have no little brothers?
AHASUERUS
They’re grown up now.
RACHEL
And no one keeps your house?
AHASUERUS
The storks, when they are weary, and the swallows, if they perch on the roof.
RACHEL
Your sister must have wept at the window when you left. I’m sure of it.
AHASUERUS
The land wept, and the sky wailed, but it was not for me.
RACHEL
And who accompanied you?
AHASUERUS
My dog, while baying at the granite sphinxes and the stone dragons that came to crouch down by the roadside in order to watch me go past.
RACHEL
When you go home, everything will be changed. You won’t recognize anything.
AHASUERUS
On the contrary; nothing changes in my homeland. Everything there is awaiting my return, to hear the news I bring. Every morning, without changing foliage, the old palm trees stand up on their trunks, and the cedars on their mountain, and look out to sea to see whether my ship is coming in. Every summer, and every winter, the torrent dries out in the same place to give me passage. Motionless, the hawks hover in the sky; the old gates in the desert remain open; the same tent hangs on the same summit; the same ibis sleeps beneath its obelisk; and when evening comes, they say to one another: “Again, again, let’s wait for nightfall; let’s wait until morning. We don’t want to close our circles in the sky, nor rotate on our hinges, nor fold up our canvas, nor shake our wings, nor let our walls crumble before having seen him return.”
RACHEL
Are you a king’s son, then? I thought as much.
AHASUERUS
No, I’m not a king’s son. The crown that makes me bow my head is neither silver nor gold, and the rain and the wind assail me in my palace.
RACHEL
Perhaps you’re a baron coming back from the Holy Land?
AHASUERUS
Yes, child, that’s the land from which I come.
RACHEL
Why have you brought back no falcon on your wrist, nor any ivory relics, sea-shells, golden sand or dates?
AHASUERUS
I’ve brought more memories than I wished. My burden was heavy. I wasn’t able to add anything more to it.
RACHEL
Where is it, then?
AHASUERUS
In a fold of my heart.
RACHEL
Oh! You must have brought with you a piece of wood from the true cross. Memory isn’t sufficient.
AHASUERUS
None of my memories can be erased; for me there is neither age not antiquity.
RACHEL
What, my lord? Your eyes have seen the summit of Calvary?
AHASUERUS
By a sky in wrath, and beneath a bloody cloud.
RACHEL
And your feet have touched the stones of Carmel?
AHASUERUS
When they rumbled as they rolled, and when only the echoes spoke.
RACHEL
And you have picked flowers in the Garden of Olives?
AHASUERUS
When they were filled with the tears of stars, when they were soiled in their dust like a torn tunic.
RACHEL
Oh, fortunate lord who has seen everything, who has kissed, with his lips, the stone of the sepulcher. Tell me, what can one hear in the foliage of the trees in the evening?
AHASUERUS
A name, always the same: the name of an eternal traveler, which every leaf repeats on its branch while groaning.
RACHEL
And in the sands of the deserts thorough which you have passed?
AHASUERUS
The voice of a man uttering a curse.
RACHEL
It’s a lifelong good fortune to have seen what you have seen. Now you can die content, when the time comes. How many pilgrims would envy you!
AHASUERUS
I have left them all behind me on my road. The wind drives me; I go on without pausing.
RACHEL
At the foot of the olive-trees, were there angels on their knees, singing canticles over golden books.
AHASUERUS
No. There were vultures crying over my head and the wings of owls brushing my cheeks. (Aside.) Mercy! Mercy!
RACHEL
Were there not children with aureoles whose hands were joined together, and who were smiling as they said: “Father! Father!”
AHASUERUS
No. There were vipers hissing beneath my feet; they had voices that cried in the waves: “Accursed! Accursed!”
RACHEL
I understand. You’re a saintly man. Let me kiss your feet. Let me adore you.
AHASUERUS, aside
Christ, have pity on me!
RACHEL
Don’t refuse me your blessing, my lord; I’m at your knees.
AHASUERUS
Get up, Rachel! Mercy, my child!
RACHEL
Pray for me.
AHASUERUS
I can’t.
RACHEL
Save me!
AHASUERUS
My heaven is full.
RACHEL
Just one of your prayers!
AHASUERUS
Rather go say to the lepers: “Give me the holy water of your leprosy.”
RACHEL
Just one sign of the cross.
AHASUERUS
Rather go say to the king of the Saracens: “King, give me the salute of your hand.”
RACHEL
What have I done, then? Your eyes are flashing; there are tears in your eyes.
AHASUERUS
Can’t you see, when you speak to me on your knees, the violets that are filling up with blood?
RACHEL
My lord, that’s the evening dew that shines when the sun sets.
AHASUERUS
Can’t you see, when to tell me to pray, an eternal tear, which falls from the grotto.
RACHEL
My lord, that’s a raindrop that a passing hind has caused to fall from the vault.
AHASUERUS
Can you not hear the songs of the fays who repeat my name when they blow into their cheeks?
RACHEL
Be sure that it’s the sound the Necker makes against the fishermen’s dikes.
AHASUERUS
Further on, further on; I must hurry. Let’s go down the mountain.
VII.
CHORUS OF FAYS
1.
Turn, then, spinning-wheels around our ruby-shod feet. Turn, ensorcelled spindles of the Fates, twist in our hands. Needles of the fays, without breaking, run, jump, crawl and embed ourselves in your mesh. Yes, before midnight chimes, we shall have embroidered a hundred thousand silver stars for the realm of the evening. The snowflakes of Cornwall fall from our distaff. In Brittany, the moon’s rays, finer than our hair, our pieces of thread. We card before daybreak, for the isle of Thule, the frost that hangs from the trees. When the earth it sighs, it is our spinning-wheel murmuring; when the sky moans, it is out spindle going to sleep. When the Ocean of Aquitaine turns green, it is our finger that is moistened to draw it out.
2.
At present, compared with us, all the ancient gods have become dwarfs, scarcely big enough to carry the train of our dress. Jupiter is a dwarf; his father, Time, a fire-follet that dies as soon as it appears. Do you see that genius over there, at the crossroads, anointing his head with a drop of dew? That’s the old god of Chaldea, making himself small so as not to be seen by the God-Giant of the cathedrals. The one who’s trembling under a dry leaf was enthroned two thousand years ago in a granite temple. And that goblin, sniggering as he brings that old man a strand of thatch, is Memnon discrowned, driven mad by his ruination. Sylphs, ghouls, gnomes and all of Olympus could fit into a hollow tree today. Dust of gods, those colossi of the pagan gaze are trembling beneath the branches, under the alders, under the woodcu
tter’s roof, so long as our two-wheeled cart refrains from crushing them.
3.
Rome the much-lauded, where is your empire? I have broken your short sword with the back of my hand. By breathing on it, I have rusted your helmet. With my diamond hammer, I have demolished your walls, and I have carried away your dust in my silken apron. On their winged chariots, the fays climb around your triumphal column, over the gates of your chiseled cities, on your sculpted roads, through your legions of stone, with bucklers of nacre, with swords sheathed in a summer sunbeam; cutting and thrusting, they sweep away your armies. Can you hear the whips of spider-silk that they are cracking at your summit over your accumulated dwarfs.
