by Edgar Quinet
4.
Rome has fallen. Let us celebrate; let us eat her crumbs around the round table. To the sound of the horn, in the forest, I have summoned the court of Arthus16 here. Twelve noblemen are armed and full armored. Among the many queens that are awake, Yseult is the most cheerful, the most beautiful and the most blonde. Of the many barons who will ride, her lover is the sturdiest, the most courteous and the most silvery. His horse is a bay, his lance rigid his fur mantle crimson. Dukes, pages and golden-haired maidens were sleeping in the forest of Broceliande. All of them said when I passed by: “Awaken to the sound of the horn.”
5.
To the sound of the horn, with the echo, awaken in Spain, where the figs are ripening, kings of the Moors, of Oriental Arabs and Galilee beyond the sea. Over our emerald surf the saber of the prophet is curved like a snake in the grass. On its blade, a negro, one of our relatives, has engraved magical words. In Grenada the beautiful, the sultana is sitting at her window, which our chisels carved. Our brush tints her lashes, our file polishes her bosom. Paler than the meadow-rose, she gazes from afar at the minarets with their stone turbans tied around their heads, the agas on their foaming mares, the leaping greyhounds, and the flash of yataghans springing from their sheaths, and the plumed tents that quiver to the call of clarions, and the forests that sparkle—oh, the beautiful fire!—and the battle that howls. Go on, citrus-trees of Spain, fade; I have dispensed more perfume on her lips than on your branches. Sea of Cadiz, dry up; I have put more azure, the color of the sky, in her eyes than in your waves, more than on your banks or the mules that bathe, more than in your bay, whose galleys and three-decked sailing ships are amorous, more than in your bottomless bed, where people fish for pearls, more than in your blue-tinted abyss, as far as the port of Macedonia.
6.
Come on, then, Charlemagne and his squire! His empire is ready, like a chick in its nest. To make it, we only need three strokes of the wand. Morgande has embroidered its banner, Fleur d’épine has laced its helm.17 Neither sabers nor sultan’ scimitars can undo it. Listen! Marjoram, daises and rosemary are trampled by the soldiers; the earth is trembling beneath the armored squadrons. So many noblemen, barons, coats of mail and crests! What a pleasure for the fays, to see before evening, that beautiful empire break like a giant lance on the shield of Roncevaux!
7.
On a pavis carried by four emperors, higher than everyone else, we raise the pope. His miter will be gold, the finest that was ever sold. Our best spinners will sow his chasuble. Truly his science is greater than ours. His old book is enchanted to the very last page. So, let everyone obey him, with neither delay nor demur. In all things, let him be the first. When he wants to mount his mule, King of Germany, you will hold his stirrup. Dukes will kiss his feet, noblemen his floor-tiles, and the chain of souls, like a blessed rosary, will hang from his belt.
8.
Above all, we want, we intend, we order, for it is our pleasure, that land and sea, babbling spring, silvery star, sea of Venice, of Brabant, untied scarves, and queens’ tresses, rings, stained-glass windows, embroidered, sculpted and ensorcelled arches, to murmur incessantly, without pausing by day or by night, the four letters that spell L-O-V-E. To all our genii and servants, let us prescribe the stammering of the same word under the pines, under the oaks, on balconies, under coats of mail, on the hilts of words, at the tips of lances, in the folds of banners, in the creases of the clouds, in order that heaven and earth shall have but one sound in our ears.
9.
Furthermore, we enjoin all the diviners that there are or will be, mages, dwarfs and negroes to add a pinch of venom to the bread of Ahasuerus, a pinch of hyssop to his cup. It is necessary that his penalty be redoubled. Do not spare the tears that freeze in his eyes, nor the sighs that suffocate people, nor the beating of the heart that bruises it without wearing it out. Tears cost us exactly the same as dew.
10.
Then, when the measure is full, when all the kingdoms have drunk all the gold on earth, when the bell-towers and bell-turrets mounted at their summits have placed their crowns of cloud upon their heads, when queens are clad in silver, we shall blow it all down. Kings, noblemen, cathedrals, fine empires of ash, fine empires of mud and fine nations of clay will crumble beneath the axle of our chariot. Who will laugh at their glory? The marjoram, their heir, which they trod down without crushing it, and the rosemary on the squares, on seeing our dances.
VIII.
Inside Rachel’s room. Rachel is asleep in her bed. Day is breaking.
THE CHORUS
1.
Shh! Shh! At this hour, Rachel is asleep. At a less sonorous pace, fays and aspioles,18 holding our breath, go into her room, without saying anything, with our fingers over our lips, the better to bewitch her. Let us hide, some in a curl of her hair, some in the bouquet of wallflowers, some in those nutcrackers, some in that prayer-book, some in the folds of her sewing. Above all, whisper. Let her mistake our voices for the sound of her thoughts in her resonant soul.
2.
Are you all right? Yes. Me too. Silence. In order to see her asleep, I’ve passed my head under the awning of her bed. Oh, how white, and straight, and soft her neck is. Her teeth, when she breathes, seem silvery and all the gold from beyond the sea, or the distant land of Syria, could not be as golden as her blonde hair. Peace! Now she’s sighing. Now she’s turning on her side, and back again. Now, here’s a dream passing over her forehead, and over her cheeks, and her lips; now it’s in her heart. Oh, no, it’s certain; never, in a tower, nor in a plenary palace have you ever seen an aristocratic girl, any sister of a king or a nobleman, as beautiful to be hold. With no lie, I could believe that she was an angel.
3.
Shut up, loquacious fay! One more word and I’ll discrown you. In her line-curtained bed, Rachel might hear you. By kissing her eyelids an hour too soon, a ray of sunlight has half-awakened her. The cock is crowing, the bee is beating its wing against the window, and the sun, emerging in the Orient, has already spilled three drops from its cup of light over the world.
RACHEL waking up
How long the night has been! My God! And always the same dream! What does it mean? Berthe will have to sleep with me tomorrow. Oh, my heart is hurting. It’s as if I’d been struck there. It seems to me that I have Syrian bile on my lips. No, since that stranger arrived, I’m no longer what I was. The suffering he seems to be enduring is too great, and I can no longer think about anything else. What a story that might be; there’s a great mystery there. The idea keeps coming back to me; all the way to church I think about it. It’s an entire week now since I said my prayers. That’s why I’m so anxious. I no longer know what I’m doing. May God forgive me. (She kneels down beside her bed and begins to pray aloud, her hands pressed together.) Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name, Thy will be done...
THE CHORUS
Tel me, Rachel, who is making that racket in the street? The cobblestones are resounding, the windows quivering. Is it your guest, going for an early morning ride? Lean over his reins, is it him making so many sparks fly from the hooves of his horse with the gleaming rump? His saddle is polished ivory, and its bow is wrought in fine gold. Don’t you want to see him passing under your window?
RACHEL
Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. Amen.
THE CHORUS
There he is, drawing away. Listen, listen! Another three strides and you’ll no longer be able to hear him. I’ve traversed many mounds and many great valleys, but I’ve never seen merlin or a rider fly so fast, nor one so proud or valiant. His turban is whiter than snow or frost in the sunlight. Could you roll and loosen one as well as him, without making a knot? A silver chalice is hanging from his saddle-bow. Wouldn’t you like to drink an enchanted beverage?
RACHEL
Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord be with you.
THE CHORUS
Do you remember the day when you saw him for the first time? H
e was leaning against a pillar in the cathedral, and you mistook him at a distance for an angel of hard stone. It was Christmas Day. All the bells were ringing. His forehead was pale, and his eyes had wept many tears in the night. When you went up the steps of the church, he looked at you dolorously; and you, without turning your head, saw him all that day, and the next day, and the day after, saying to yourself: Who is he?
RACHEL
Pray for us poor sinners, now and in the hour of our death.
THE CHORUS
Who is he? The one who made the sky and the dew knows him well. Of all men, there isn’t another like him: too young to be a hermit, too sad to be the son of a prince, too pale to be a Templar, too proud to be a loving pilgrim.
RACHEL
I confess to omnipotent God and the blessed Virgin Mary.
THE CHORUS
He’s not one of those young men who only think of deceiving you; he has never been seen with them. What he says, one senses that he believes; he takes everything seriously. I swear that there are a thousand resemblances between you; and without fear, you could confide to him, I’m sure, your heart and your thoughts: the thoughts of a young woman, which rise into her soul, circulate and murmur, after daybreak, before nightfall, like a sleeping spindle beginning to hum in her ear.
RACHEL, getting to her feet
Oh, it’s certain! I’m too distracted at the moment. It’s only my lips that are praying; my mind is elsewhere. My mouth pronounces words; my heart is saying others. Things can’t go on like this.
THE CHORUS
Go, over golden sand, pursue your dream. Without anxiety, go where your bright hope leads you. Can’t you see joyful days already, dancing around you in a circle? Can’t you feel your pain evaporating with the lilac flowers and the almond-blossom? If your soul has dipped its broken wing into the bitterness of that lake, it’s to soar into the sky with even greater agility. If your heart, swollen already, weighs upon your bosom, that dolor is honey; it does no harm. If a tremulous and involuntary tear moistens your lashes, it will disappear of its own accord in the warmth of the evening.
RACHEL
The odor of lilacs is going to my head, and the noise of that fountain is making me sad. A thousand ideas are tormenting me, which I can’t tell anyone about, and even if I wanted to, I don’t have the words to do it. My forehead is burning. I want to cry, without knowing why. Instead of staying here, I’d do better to go and get some air in Berthe’s garden.
(She goes out.)
THE CHORUS
Yes, get out of here; everywhere, your harmonious soul, always with you, will murmur in a low voice: “Do you remember the firmament? One breathes the same eternal flower there, without discomfort. Do you remember the edge of heaven? One hears the same sound of falling water there. Dreams of summer, drowsy in the dawn beneath diaphanous clouds, winged desires, sighs as great as the universe, gazes that plunge into shadow, thoughts that travel a thousand leagues an hour, all would return if only someone here would love you completely, without deceiving you.”
IX.
Berthe’s Garden. Rachel and Ahasuerus are walking there together.
THE CHORUS
Complete love? Is that what I said? Here’s the place where one finds it, when the nightingale calls in the woods in the morning, when the days are long in May, when the leaves thicken in the orchards, when the grass is green and the heather is in flower. It’s the evening hour, when the rainbow shining over the Vosges brings joy and peace to men of good will. It’s the even sweeter hour when the flower gets up to say to the Rhine, and the Rhine to its bank, and the bank to its boat, and the boat to the sky, and the sky to the day, and the day to the night: “Are you asleep or awake?” As for me, I’ll keep quiet.
RACHEL, collecting flowers
Yes, flowers know secrets that we don’t; I want to consult this daisy.
(She picks the petals off a daisy.)
THE DAISY
Are you asleep or awake? For myself, I’ll keep quiet.
RACHEL
It’s withered; the other, now.
THE DAISY
Personally, I can only say two words: earth, sky; earth, sky; earth...
RACHEL
And this one; it’s the biggest
THE DAISY
And me, I only know one syllable: Christ, Christ, Christ...
AHASUERUS
It’s you who’s speaking, Rachel, isn’t it? Oh, leave the flowers alone. They repeat anything that the wind makes them say. Come along. We’ll be able to talk better under this bower of honeysuckle.
RACHEL
My God, is this possible? Would you believe it? When I hear you speak, it always seems that I’ve heard your voice before, far away from here, in a place of which I no longer know the name.
AHASUERUS
And when I look into your eyes, I seem to remember days that are no more, and could no longer be. That’s what happens every time we’re together.
RACHEL
It’s a very distant memory. In that other place there was an odor of a flower that never fades, which I’ve never breathed in since.
AHASUERUS
The flowers I’ve seen have always faded.
RACHEL
There was a song audible there that I’ve never heard since. Do you remember?
AHASUERUS
I only remember the song of the desert.
RACHEL
The sun’s rays there illuminated without burning.
AHASUERUS
The light of day has burned my forehead everywhere.
RACHEL
The air was more delightful to breathe there; there were neither tears nor sighs.
AHASUERUS
Never, believe me, have I passed through that country. Was it an island, a plain, a mountain-top?
RACHEL
I no longer know the place, or the road.
AHASUERUS
It might be an illusion.
RACHEL
Oh, I’m sure that I’m not mistaken. You promised to tell me your story when the warbler fell silent. Now is the time.
AHASUERUS
No, when the cricket has withdrawn too.
RACHEL
Now the cricket has withdrawn.
AHASUERUS
A little while longer, when the star appears.
RACHEL
Here’s the star now.
AHASUERUS
One more day. Tomorrow, you shall know. Only show me that I’m no longer a stranger to you.
RACHEL
What do I have to do?
AHASUERUS
When we part, once, in saying farewell, when no one can hear us, angel of love, address me as thou.
RACHEL
Me! You’re mocking me.
AHASUERUS
More quietly, if you wish, than the star seeking its golden honey, more quietly than the warbler folding its neck to go to sleep, more quietly than the cricket closing its wing.
RACHEL
I would no longer be able to raise my eyes from the ground.
AHASUERUS
Just once: the first and last time.
RACHEL
No, I would never dare.
(She leaves.)
X.
AHASUERUS, alone
1.
Don’t walk any further, Ahasuerus. Your journey is over now. The hour that has just passed was an eternity. Beneath these fresh lilacs, behold your heaven. There something has said: “I love you.” Not the tempest overhead, not the hyssop in the undergrowth, not the dust of your road at noon, but the lips of a woman with a human voice, with human words that your own tongue might murmur if you wished.
2.
Oh, this is it; this is what they call love: when everything gazes at you sighing, when your breath refreshes your lips, when the hawthorn gives you a perfume for your route, when the star opens its smiling eyelid over you, and also when the source sends your shadow back to you more lightly, and when the painting breeze lic
ks your door without insults, like a bloodhound returning from the woods at dusk.
3.
In this valley shaded by walnuts, my feet will halt forever. Forever, I shall make the tour of the city without losing sight of it; without going more than a short distance away, I shall wander night and day on the summit of the mountain that shelters it. What can that swarm of suns that has cursed me bring down on my head now? A child has said to me, involuntarily: “I love you,” when everything else put together is not worth as much as one of the hairs on her head. And what are the centuries of centuries that are to be lived, compared with a single breath of her heart?
4.
Yes, everything for me is attached to the possession of that delightful being; the rest of the world is empty. I realize that, I know it; the seas, the lakes, the forests, I have visited them all; but I missed a place in that heart, and that is where the universe is.
