The Continental Monthly, Vol 6, No 5, November 1864. VariousЧитать онлайн книгу.
(stopping immediately in front of Count Henry). Who are you with that haughty face, citizen, and why do you not join in the solemnities?
The Man. I hastened here when I heard of the revolution; I am a murderer of the Spanish league, and have only arrived to-day.
Leonard. Who is that man hiding himself in the folds of your mantle?
The Man. He is my younger brother. He has taken an oath to show his face to no one, until he has at least killed a baron.
Leonard. Of whose murder can you yourself boast?
The Man. My elder brothers consecrated me only two days before my departure, and....
Leonard. Whom do you think of killing?
The Man. You in the first place, if you should prove false to us!
Leonard. For this use, brother, take my dagger!
Hands it to him.
The Man. For such use my own will suffice me, brother!
Many Voices. Long live Leonard! Long live the Spanish murderer!
Leonard. Meet me to-morrow in the tent of Pancratius, our citizen general.
Chorus of Priests. We greet thee, stranger, in the name of the Spirit of Liberty: we intrust to thy hand a share of our emancipation!
To men who combat without cessation, who kill without pity or weakness, who work for freedom by day, and dream of it by night, will be at last the victory!
They pass on out of sight.
Chorus of Philosophers. We have wakened the human race, and torn them away from the days of childhood! We have found truth, and brought it to light from the womb of darkness! Combat, murder, and die for it, brethren!
The Son of the Philosopher (to the Man). Brother and friend, I drink your health out of the skull of an old saint! May we soon meet again!
A Maiden (dancing). Kill Prince John for me!
Second Maiden. Count Henry for me!
Children. Bring us back the head of a noble for a ball.
Other Voices. Good fortune guide your daggers home!
Chorus of Artists. On these sublime old ruins we build no temples more; we paint no pictures, mould no statues for forgotten shrines; our arches shall be formed of pointed pikes and naked blades; our pillars built of ghastly piles of human skulls; the capitals of human hair dyed in gushing streams of crimson blood; our altar shall be white as snow, our god will rest upon it, the cap of liberty: Hurrah! hurrah!
Other Voices. On! on! the morning dawn already breaks!
The Baptized. They will soon catch and hang us; we are but one step from the gallows.
The Man. Fear nothing, Jew, they follow Leonard, and observe us no longer. I see with my own eyes, I understand with my own mind, and for the last time before it engulfs me, the chaos now generating in the abyss of Time, in the womb of Darkness, for my own destruction, for the annihilation of my brethren!
Driven on by madness, stung by despair, my thoughts awake in all their strength....
O God! give me again the power which Thou didst not of old deny me, and I will condense this new and fearful world, which does not understand itself, into one burning word, but which one word will be the Poetry of the entire Past!
Voice in the Air. Poet, thou chant'st a drama!
The Man. Thanks for thy good counsel!
Revenge for the desecrated ashes of my fathers—malediction upon the new races! their whirlpool is around me, but it shall not draw me into the giddying and increasing circles of its abyss! Keep but thy promise, Eagle; Eagle of glory!
Jew, I am ready now for the vault of St. Ignatius!
The Baptized. The day dawns; I can go no farther.
The Man. Lead me on until we strike the right path; I will then release you!
The Baptized. Why do you drag me on through mist, through thorns and briers, through ashes and embers, over heaps of ruins? Let me go, I entreat!
The Man. Forward! forward! and descend with me!
The last songs of the people are dying away behind us; a few torches here and there just glimmer through the gloom!
Ha! under those hoary trees drooping with the night dew, and through this curdling, whitening vapor, see you not the giant shadow of the dead Past? Hark! hear you not that wailing chant?
The Baptized. Everything is shrouded in the thickening mist; at every step we descend, deeper, deeper!
Chorus of Wood Spirits. Let us weep for Christ, the persecuted, martyred Jesus!
Where is our God; where is His church?
The Man. Unsheathe the sword—to arms! to arms!
I will restore Him to you; upon thousands and thousands of crosses will I crucify His enemies!
Chorus of Spirits. We kept guard by day and night around the altar and the holy graves; upon untiring wings we bore the matin chime and vesper bell to the ear of the believer; our voices floated on the organ's peal! In the glitter of the stained and rainbow panes, the shadows of the vaulted domes, the light of the holy chalice, the blessed consecration of the Body of our Lord—was our whole life centred!
Woe! woe! what will become of us?
The Man. It is growing lighter; their dim forms fade and melt into the red of morn!
The Baptized. Here lies your way: this is the entrance to the Pass.
The Man. Hail! Christ Jesus and my sword! (He tears off the liberty cap, throws it upon the ground, and casts pieces of silver upon it.) Take together the Thing and the Image for a remembrance!
The Baptized. You pledge your word to me for the honorable treatment of him who will visit you at midnight?
The Man. An old noble never repeats or breaks a promise!
Hail! Christ Jesus and our swords!
Voices (from the depths of the Pass). Mary and our swords! Long live our lord, Count Henry!
The Man. My faithful followers, to me—to me!
Aid me, Mary, and Christ Jesus!
Night. Trees and shrubbery. Pancratius, Leonard, and attendants.
Pancratius (to his attendants). Lie upon this spot with your faces to the turf, remain perfectly still, kindle no fires, beat no signals, and, unless you hear the report of firearms, stir not until the dawn of day!
Leonard. I once more conjure you, citizen!
Pancratius. Lean against this tall pine, Leonard, and pass the night in reflection.
Leonard. I pray you, Pancratius, take me with you! Remember, you are about to intrust yourself alone with an aristocrat, a betrayer, an oppressor....
Pancratius (interrupting him, and impatiently gesturing to him to remain behind). The old nobles seldom broke a plighted promise!
A vast feudal hall in the castle of Count Henry. Pictures of knights and ladies hang upon the walls. A pillar is seen in the background bearing the arms and escutcheons of the family. The Count is seated at a marble table upon which are placed an antique lamp of wrought silver, a jewel-hilted sword, a pair of pistols, an hourglass, and clock. Another table stands on the opposite side, with silver pitchers, decanters, and massive goblets.
The Man. At the same hour, surrounded by appalling perils, agitated by foreboding thoughts, the last Brutus met his Evil Genius.
I await a like apparition. A man without a name, without ancestors, without a faith or guardian angel; a man who is destroying the Past, and who will, in all probability, establish a new era, though himself sprung from the very dust, if I cannot succeed in casting him back into his original nothingness—is now to appear before me!
Spirit of my forefathers! inspire me with that haughty energy