THE NIGHT WATCH.
François Coppêe.
(Illustrated by Tableaux Arranged Expressly for the Preston Library by the Author of “Preston Papers.”)
Characters and Costumes:--Irene in Nun’s dress, with silver cross, and ring, as suggested in the poem; she should be tall, slight, and pale, with black hair--which is covered by a white wig for the last tableau; the wounded officer, in regimentals for first tableau, on a cot after that (any soldier uniform with gilt lace and epaulettes will do;) the valet, an old man in servants’ livery; the doctor, in a business suit; the postman, in uniform, with mail-bag.
Soon as her lover to the war had gone,
Without tears[tears] or common-place despair,
Irene de Grandfief, a maiden pure
And noble-minded, reassumed the garb
That at the convent she had worn--black dress
With narrow pelerine--and the small cross
In silver at her breast; her piano closed.
Her jewels put away--all save one ring.
Gift of the Viscount Roger on that eve
In the past spring-time when he had left her,
Bidding farewell, and from Irene’s brow
Culling one silken tress, that he might wear it
In gold medallion close upon his heart.[1]
Without delay or hindrance, in the ranks
He took a private’s place. What that war was
Too well is known.
Impassible, and speaking
Seldom as might be of her absent lover,
Irene daily, at a certain hour,
Watched at her window till the postman came
Down o’er the hill along the public road,
His mail-bag at his back.[2] If he passed by,
Nor any letter left, she turned away
Stifling a long-drawn sigh; and that was all.
Then came the siege of Paris--hideous time!
Spreading through France as gangrene spreads, invasion
Drew near Irene’s chateau. In vain the priest
And the old doctor, in their evening talk,
Grouped with the family around the hearth,
Death for their constant theme before her took.
No sad foreboding could that young heart know.
Roger at Metz was, with his regiment, safe,
At the last date unwounded. He was living;
He must be living; she was sure of that.
Thus by her faith, in faithful love sustained,
Counting her beads, she waited, waited on.
Wakened one morning, with a start, she heard
In the far copses of the park shots fired
In quick succession. ’Twas the enemy!
She would be brave as Roger. So she blushed
At her own momentary fear; then calm
As though the incident a trifle were,
Her toilet made; and, having duly said
Her daily prayer, not leaving out one Ave,
Down to the drawing-room as usual went,
A smile upon her lips.
It had, indeed,
Been a mere skirmish---that, and nothing more.
Thrown out as scouts, a few Bavarian soldiers
Had been abruptly, by our Franc-Tireurs,
Surprised and driven off. They had picked up
Just at that moment, where the fight had been,
A wounded officer--Bavarian was he--
Shot through the neck. And when they brought him in,
That tall young man, all pale, eyes closed, and bleeding,
Stretched on a mattress--without sigh or shudder
Irene had him carefully borne up
Into the room by Roger occupied
When he came wooing there,[3] Then, while they put
The wounded man to bed, she carried out
Herself his vest and cloak all black with blood;
Bade the old valet wear an air less glum,
And stir himself with more alacrity;
And, when the wound was dressed, lent aid,
As of the Sisterhood of Charity,
With her own hands.[4]
Evening came on apace
Bringing the doctor. When he saw the man
A strange expression flitted o’er his face,
As to himself he muttered: “Yes, flushed cheek;
Pulse beating much too high. If possible
I must arrest the fever. This prescription
Very oft succeeds. But some one must take note
Of the oncoming fits; must watch till morn,
And tend him closely.”
“Doctor, I am here.”
“Not you, young lady! Service such as this
One of your valets can”----
“No, doctor, No!
Roger perchance may be a prisoner yonder,--
Hurt, ill. If he such tending should require
As does this officer, I would he had
A German woman for his nurse.”
“So be it,”
Answered the doctor, offering her his hand.
“Give him the potion four times every hour
I will return to judge of its effects
At daylight.”[5] Then he went his way, and left
Irene to her office self-imposed.
Scarcely a minute had she been in charge,
When the Bavarian, to Irene turning,
With eye half-opened looked at her and spoke.
“This doctor,” said he “thought I was asleep,
But I heard every word. I thank you, lady;
I thank you from my very inmost heart--
Less for myself than for her sake, to whom
You would restore me, and who there at home
Awaits me.”
“Hush,” she said, “Sleep if you can
Do not excite yourself. Your life depends
On perfect quiet.”
“No,” he answered, “No!
I must at once unload me of a secret
That weighs upon me. I a promise made,
And I would keep it. Death may be at hand.”[6]
“Speak, then,” Irene said “and ease your soul.”
“The war,---- oh, what an infamy is war!
It was last month, by Metz, ’twas my ill fate
To kill a Frenchman.” She turned pale, and lowered
The lamp-light to conceal it.[7] He continued:
“We were sent forward to surprise a cottage,
Strengthened and held by some of yours. We did
As hunters do when stalking game. The night
Was clouded. Silent, arms in hand, in force,
Along the poplar-bordered path we crept
Up to the French post. I, first, drove my saber
Into the soldiers’ back who sentry stood
Before the door. He fell, nor gave the alarm.
We took the cottage, putting to the sword
Every soul there.”
Irene with her hands
Covered her eyes.
“Disgusted with such carnage,
Loathing such scene, I stepped into the air.
Just then the moon broke through the clouds and showed me
There at my feet a soldier on the ground
Writhing, the rattle in his throat. ’Twas he,
The sentry whom my saber had transpierced.
Touched with compassion sudden and supreme,
I stopped, to offer him a helping hand--
But, with choked voice, ‘It is too late,’ he said,
I must needs die----you are an officer--
A gentleman, perchance’[perchance’], ‘Yes; tell me quick;
What can I do for you?’[you?’] ‘Promise--that you
Will forward this,’ he said, his fingers clutching
A gold medallion hanging at his breast,
Dabbled in blood, ‘to’--then his latest thoughts
Passed with his latest breath. The loved one’s name,
Mistress or bride affianced, was not told
By that poor Frenchman.
Seeing blazoned arms
On the medallion, I took charge of it,
Hoping to trace her at some future day
Among the nobility of France,
To whom reverts the dying soldier’s gift;
Here it is. Take it. But, I pray you, swear
That, if death spares me not, you will fulfill
This pious duty in my place.”
Therewith
He the medallion handed her; and on it
Irene saw the Viscount’s blazoned arms.
Then--her heart agonized with mortal woe--
“I swear it, sir!” she murmured. “Sleep in peace,”
Solaced by having this disclosure made,
The wounded man sank down in sleep. Irene,
Her bosom heaving, and with eyes aflame
Though tearless all, stood rooted by his side.[8]
Yes, he is dead, her lover! Those his arms;
His blazon that, no less renowned than ancient;
The very blood stains his! Nor was his death
Heroic, soldier-like. Struck from behind,
Without or cry or call for comrade’s help,
Roger was murdered. And there, sleeping, lies
The man who murdered him!
Yes; he has boasted
How in the back the traitorous blow was dealt.
And now he sleeps, with drowsiness oppressed,
Roger’s assassin; and ’twas she, Irene,
Who bade him sleep in peace! And then again,
With what cruel mockery, cruel and supreme,
She from this brow must wipe away the sweat!
She by this couch must watch till dawn of day,
As loving mother by a suffering child!
She must at briefest intervals to him
Administer the remedy prescribed,
So that he die not! And the man himself
Counting on this in quiet,--sheltered, housed
Under the roof of hospitality!
And there the flask upon the table stands
Charged with his life. He waits it: Is not this
Beyond imagination horrible?
What! While she feels creeping and growing on her
All that is awful in the one word “hate,”
While in her breast the ominous anger seethes
That nerved, in holy scripture, Jael’s arm
To drive the nail through Sisera’s head! She save
The accursed German! Oh, away! Such point
Forbearance reaches not.
What! While it glitters
There in the corner, the brass-pommeled sword,
Wherewith the murderer struck--and fell desire,
Fierce impulse bids it from the scabbard leap--
Shall she, in deference to vague prejudice,
To some fantastic notion that affects
Human respect and duty, shall she put
Repose and sleep, and antidote and life
Into the horrible hand by which all joy
Is ravished from her?
Never! She will break
The assuaging flask.
But no! ’Twere needless that.
She needs but leave Fate to work out its end.
Fate, to avenge her, seems to be at one
With her resolve. ’Twere but to let him die!
Yes, there the life preserving potion stands;
But for one hour might she not fall asleep?
Then, all in tears, she murmured “Infamy!”
And still the struggle lasted, till the German,
Roused by her deep groans from his wandering dreams,
Moved, ill at ease, and, feverish, begged for drink.
Up toward the antique Christ in ivory,
At the bed’s head suspended on the wall,
Irene raised the martyr’s look sublime;
Then, ashen pale, but ever with her eyes
Turned to the God of Calvary, poured out
The soothing draught, and with a delicate hand
Gave to the wounded man the drink he asked.
And when the doctor in the morning came,
And saw Irene beside the officer,
Tending him still and giving him his drink
With trembling fingers, he was much amazed,
That through the dreary watches of the night
The raven locks, which, at set of sun,
Had crowned her fair young brow, by morning’s dawn
Had changed to snowy white.[9]
TABLEAUX.
Scene only changes from reception room to chamber, and the poem suggests the characters for each, and the surroundings. Look out for the details mentioned in the poem.