The Haitian Trilogy: Plays: Henri Christophe, Drums and Colours, and The Haytian Earth

by Derek Walcott

FIRST VOICE

  Then that should content him.

  (Laughter and jeering.)

  SOLDIER (Establishing quiet.)

  Is it for that in fear you sent him,

  To wear his wounds without reward,

  Mocked in the market, the pawn of peasants?

  I am a soldier and love his service,

  Dwell in his discipline without desertion.

  Hand him the crown in a revised assertion,

  Crown him with clemency, not in derision.

  I say all this, what is your decision?

  FIRST VOICE

  Why should a king’s name honour him further?

  SOLDIER

  You let Dessalines rule and he was despotic,

  You are helpless, and numb in the narcotic

  Of your superstitions. Only a king can rule;

  Give your government dignity. Must it look like a school

  Conducted by a foolish master?

  SECOND VOICE

  Oh, if the crown comfort him, let him have it.

  (They cheer.)

  SOLDIER

  He is born to be king; he will build

  A weather only of wealth. Call him.

  (Some go off.)

  FIRST VOICE

  Remember, Dessalines …

  SECOND VOICE

  How much are you getting

  For what you are repeating?

  SOLDIER

  Oh, shut up.

  FIRST VOICE

  Remember that power changes the powerful.

  Here is your King …

  (Re-enter CHRISTOPHE and VASTEY.)

  All smiles; like prisoners, they break

  The prison of restraint and modesty.

  SOLDIER

  Speak quickly, fool, or you speak anarchy after this.

  They cry for you, Your Majesty; fear made them hesitate

  To honour you with your natural estate.

  General, you are now King; they are fickle;

  Abuse the sickle, opportunity,

  In harvest. Look, he cannot speak; leave him.

  Let us leave.

  (The CROWD goes, bewildered. The SOLDIER hesitates, then is paid. Exiting.)

  Goodbye, Your Majesty.

  CHRISTOPHE

  Poor Brelle.

  I think they love me.

  VASTEY

  That soldier did it; we must fatten him.

  He never gives up, he would fight

  With a sword’s stub.

  CHRISTOPHE

  Their love goes further than the corporal.

  So, I am King.

  VASTEY

  Pétion is powerful still in the south,

  A king rules this country in the blue north;

  This is the richer side of Haiti; look at the hills

  Curled in the afternoon like mist.

  CHRISTOPHE

  On that blue smoking citadel

  That hides the sun until its zenith by its height,

  I will build a fort

  Made out of stone, as befits a soldier,

  Magnificent in marble, a king’s comfort.

  So high, so bleak,

  The sound of the sea will be only a weak wind, or to look

  Down on the summer sea, spreading sleep

  In wrinkles, will giddy.

  VASTEY

  At what cost will the general build these things?

  Bishoprics oppose the caprices of kings.

  CHRISTOPHE

  Caprices! Who talks of caprices?

  I will exhaust this country into riches. Have you seen

  The contagion of blight settling on the limes like apathy

  On our stalks? I will build my cathedral in a month,

  Then break or build this kingdom.

  Look, look up, that hill …

  VASTEY

  That one, where the gulls achieve halfway,

  Then slide back screaming to a muttering sea?

  I see; why?

  CHRISTOPHE

  The air is thin there, the balding rocks

  Where the last yellow grass clutch whitening in sun,

  And the steep pass below the sea, knocking

  Like a madman on the screaming sand,

  And the wind howling down the precipices like a lunatic

  Searching a letter he never wrote—against these rocks,

  Wind, sand, cold, where the sharp cry of gulls beats faintly on the ears,

  And in the green grove a milk of doves—what army

  Would bend its head against the wind to reach?

  We would, there, be safe.

  And strong, and pretty.

  The smell of roses which the sea wind dispels,

  Dispelling also the birds’ voice, the weaker oleander—

  Let us build white-pointed citadels,

  Crusted with white perfections over

  This epilogue of Eden, a prosperous Haiti,

  My kingdom where I, a king, rule.

  Mine, mine, Vastey! Once a slave,

  Then after that Napoleon can envy,

  With the Antilles mine, the whole archipelago overturning

  Cauldrons of history and violence on their masters’ heads,

  The slaves, the kings, the blacks, the brave.

  VASTEY

  A king only is strong,

  A king alone rules long,

  And a king’s children.

  CHRISTOPHE

  I shall build châteaux

  That shall obstruct the strongest season,

  So high the hawk shall giddy in its gyre

  Before it settles on the carved turrets.

  My floors shall reflect the face that passes over them,

  And foreign trees spread out the shade of government

  On emerald lawns; I will hold councils.

  I’ll pave a room with golden coins, so rich

  The old archbishop will smile indulgently at heaven from

  The authenticity of my châteaux.

  I will have Arabian horses, yellow-haired serving boys,

  And in the night the châteaux will be lit

  With lanterns bewildering as fireflies,

  Over the lawns at night, like mobile candelabra.

  I who was a slave am now a king; after my strength

  Not England, Jamaica, or Napoleon

  Shall send ships to disgorge invasions, but search for

  Trade and quiet. Haiti will flourish,

  When I am King.

  VASTEY (Yawning.)

  It is going to rain.

  Let us go in.

  It is beginning to get dark.

  (Fade-out.)

  Scene 2

  The throne room in the palace. It is dark, VASTEY and an ATTENDANT enter; there is the sound of church music from an adjacent room.

  VASTEY

  Strike a light.

  Where is this music? Oh, the château chapelle …

  Brelle is at prayer. Here it is so dark,

  But bowed at his altars in bowers of brightness,

  An archbishop praying with shortening wax,

  Rehearsing his death by muttering martyrdoms,

  Unravelling litanies of murdered saints—

  The fool.

  That lovely music! Mournful, meditative …

  ATTENDANT

  Shall I light a candle?

  VASTEY

  Wait. This music is appropriate to this dark,

  Spreading, like silken water, ripples of quiet.

  Strike a light? I told you, go on.

  ATTENDANT

  Yes, sir.

  VASTEY

  Strange how this glare reflects a dancing

  Of my will that will not be stilled.

  Light knocks and flickers on the wall …

  Are you sure the King’s not here?

  ATTENDANT

  Yes, sir. I thought it was the archbishop you wanted.

  VASTEY

  I will get the archbishop …

  Is it true the soldiers
are shedding

  Their duties shyly, like dirty suits?

  No, light no more chances; is it true

  The few that remain threaten faction?

  How much of this rebellion is rumour?

  ATTENDANT

  I don’t know, Baron.

  VASTEY

  I waited for that …

  And when will you desert us,

  And be pawned to Pétion for his promise of plenty?

  What do the people think of the King?

  Certainly the priest is better liked?

  Speak up, you can only be shot …

  ATTENDANT

  They like everybody, sir.

  We like the King …

  VASTEY

  Where is the chapel door?

  You say the King will not come here?

  ATTENDANT

  No, sir.

  The chapel door is two doors after.

  VASTEY

  Here are two letters. Can you read?

  No? Put these in slyness in the bishop’s vestments

  While he is whispering hypocrisies to heaven

  With penny candles humble in his eyes,

  Turning pages of meditation with dry rustling lips.

  He must not know about the letters.

  He will take time to pray, more than an hour …

  Hide them where you can find them, because you will take

  Them back, to show the King.

  Lock question on your lips, lackeys do not quarrel;

  It will do the priest no harm.

  You cannot read?

  ATTENDANT

  No … no, sir …

  VASTEY

  Do not be awkward; there are

  Several kings who cannot.

  When will the King come?

  ATTENDANT

  I think I hear him …

  VASTEY

  I know he likes to sprawl, wasting his energy walking in the dark,

  Thinking his power far into the dark,

  Or is it regret that thrusts him in the dark,

  Out of society?

  Look, hurry, be quiet, numb to suspicion; and efficient.

  I hear a step …

  (Exit ATTENDANT. VASTEY lights another candle as CHRISTOPHE enters.)

  CHRISTOPHE

  That chapelle music—

  The architectural arabesque halts, spreads, builds

  In vision; when I hear madrigals, requiems,

  It is so much like constructing citadels, châteaux,

  Or, sometimes, Vastey, in the labyrinth brain,

  The theme runs out its threads like—who was it—Theseus,

  That book you read me, descending down the spirals of the ear;

  Then, listen, a crash, crescendo comes, like urge, like knock of light

  Burst from the petal and the bud’s green prison,

  Like glare of sun, or like a minotaur;

  Then hear it dying, the thread lost, the light broken, the metal leaf

  Rusted with time; and who was it—Theseus

  Travelling out of light and knowledge like the bone,

  Complexions of the skeleton.

  My thoughts tease death, Vastey;

  I am getting old.

  VASTEY

  All of us, Henri.

  Even Brelle.

  CHRISTOPHE

  Poor Brelle.

  And Sylla—dead, eh?

  VASTEY

  You ask me often; he was an old man.

  CHRISTOPHE

  My friend, they say that old men die

  Mumbling a syntax of the probable;

  Truth breaks, refractory on their days of dark,

  Like chips of moon, lavish on their death edge …

  VASTEY

  He was always talking about the moon, and death,

  Also regret …

  His own white-haired regret

  Was the anatomy that he wore to the grave,

  Always regretting what his mad youth did,

  A spendthrift general spilling coins of blood

  Around the altars of the god of pity.

  Surely you are not regretting

  Taking Brelle’s advice?

  CHRISTOPHE (Flaring briefly.)

  No, damn it.

  Anyway, he died, broken, grey, and quiet,

  White-haired as the moon and stumbling just as lost

  Through peace-fleeced colonies of clouds, a foolish, mad old man.

  VASTEY

  But quiet, safe. Dead.

  CHRISTOPHE

  Yes, archbishops live.

  They whom the gods love die young …

  He is at chapel now, isn’t he?

  VASTEY

  Or perhaps plotting piety with Pétion.

  Or receiving letters from the south …

  CHRISTOPHE (Anger mounting.)

  What insanity are you talking?

  You do not like Brelle. Why?

  VASTEY

  Do you, Your Majesty?

  Sixty years of conscience on a mangy martyr

  White and superior as his Paris statues?

  His obvious love for clear complexions,

  His pride in Pétion, his dislike

  Of being repeatedly contradicted?

  Oh, certainly I like him, equally,

  As you or Dessalines.

  CHRISTOPHE

  Do not mention Dessalines

  And I in the same breath.

  How do you know?

  VASTEY

  Search his vestments, he kneels in the chapel,

  Break at his pride while he mumbles mercies

  To black baboons who wear king’s clothes …

  CHRISTOPHE

  Whom are you referring to?

  VASTEY

  That is how

  He feels, I have heard him …

  CHRISTOPHE

  But those letters …

  His vestments … It is below me to search …

  Pétion?

  VASTEY

  I have not eaten yet …

  CHRISTOPHE

  What?

  VASTEY

  My supper. May I leave?

  CHRISTOPHE

  Of course, of course … Letters …

  As you go, send in a soldier or a servingman.

  I will find out …

  VASTEY

  Yes … You know the postmark of the south,

  I need not be here to read it.

  (He exits.)

  CHRISTOPHE

  Archbishop, if this is true,

  I will kill you with these hands that have known

  To forget vocabulary of blood …

  Your life, Brelle, is nothing more

  Than candle stubs, or incense dying with a sign in censers,

  And you already a tired, weak old fool,

  Too keen and political

  And overfat with conscience …

  You will see how I value lives … then talk to angels

  When I draw out a dagger;

  Then call your God.

  We men are helpless, accident our religion,

  Birth, death, and life are accident …

  After the mathematics of casualty

  We are still children guessing after dark,

  Waiting for dim collisions of spectrum-splintered stars;

  Birth breaks around the lips, children learning language of error.

  Your death, Archbishop, would

  Be accident.

  Ah, Brelle, our God is no more than a guess,

  A hoax of heaven, a nun’s nicety;

  Time is the god that breaks us on his knees, learning

  Our ruin and repeating epitaphs

  Like a dull pupil; it is that one that flings

  That moon, a wild white spinning coin in grooves of time;

  But death returns as the bright thrown dust falls, and walks

  Into the memory, the death, the dark.

  (Enter the ATTENDANT.)

  Good, you are here.

&nb
sp; Do you know the chapel?

  Good. Search the archbishop’s clothes, then bring

  Me letters, paper. Look well,

  And bring it quietly; keep

  This business dark.

  (The ATTENDANT exits.)

  The time is full of poison—

  Cunning in the cup and lies in the linen;

  So this is kingship, vermin among the vows,

  Traitors in surplices and swords in tongues …

  This rule is only to the violent man.

  (Re-enter ATTENDANT with the letters.)

  Ah.

  They want to plot against my monarch’s love.

  Can you read?

  ATTENDANT

  No, Your Majesty.

  CHRISTOPHE

  This letter is from the south, isn’t it?

  ATTENDANT

  The stamp looks so; it has the seal.

  CHRISTOPHE (Angrily)

  I cannot read it. But what if it is

  A trick of Vastey’s?

  The archbishop treacherous! Who would believe it?

  Send him to me, I’ll find out.

  (As the ATTENDANT goes, BRELLE enters.)

  Welcome, Your Grace.

  I wanted to see you.

  BRELLE

  You mock the Church that warmed your head with oil.

  Your attendant preceded my own intentions;

  I wanted to talk with you.

  Henri, you must stop these insolences to decency,

  Frame a just constitution or face calamity.

  Pétion is massing his military in the south,

  And generals desert you slyly every dusk;

  The peasants have made small active agitations

  Which by sheer brutality your forces split,

  But you have scattered sparks from the hard anvil,

  And the country waits to pull down

  Narrow castles, citadels, and make a passage of war.

  You drive the peasants without mercy. Do you consider mercy?

  Have you no bitter memory to depose

  Your cruelty from its holiday at the blood’s bright money?

  And now you force your poison to my clergy,

  Corrupting with gold, corroding with silver.

  God, what a waste of blood, these cathedrals, castles, built;

  Bones in the masonry, skulls in the architrave,

  Tired masons falling from the chilly turrets.

  Henri, you must stop.

  I prayed for you,

  Only a humble old man.

  CHRISTOPHE

  Is this what you

  Have come here to threaten?

  BRELLE

  The King’s law is the Church’s care;