"Kill him!" the mob yelled. "Kill him!" as they surged
In fury round their prisoner. Unmoved
And unafraid he stood: a constable
Of Paris, captured by the Communards.
His hands were black with gunpowder; his clothes
Were red with blood. A simple, fearless man,
Charged with the task of carrying out the law,
He gave no quarter, and he asked for none.
All the day he had fought against the mob
That swept with sword and flame along the streets
Of Paris, while the German conqueror
Battened on France. A woman sprang at him,
And shrieked, "You have been killing us!" "That's true,"
The man replied. "Come, shoot him here!" she screamed.
"No! Farther on! At the Bastille!" "No! Here!"
And while the crowd disputed, the man said:
"Kill me just where you like; but kill me quick."
"Yes!" cried the woman, "shoot him where he stands.
He is a wolf!" "A wolf that has been caught,"
The prisoner said, "by a vile pack of curs!"
"The wretch insults us!" yelled the furious mob.
"Down with him! Death! Death! Death!" And with clenched fists
They struck him on the face. An angry flame
Gleamed in his eyes, but, silent and superb,
He marched along the street amid the howls
Of the ferocious, maddened multitude!
God! How they hated him! To shoot him seemed
Too light a sentence, as he calmly strode
Over the corpses of their comrades strewn
Along the street. "How many did you kill?"
They shrieked at him. "Murderer! Traitor! Spy!"
He did not answer; but the waiting mob
Heard a small voice cry: "Daddy!" and a child
Of six years' age ran from a house close by,
And struggled to remain and clasped his knees,
Saying, "He is my daddy. Don't hurt him!
He is my daddy—" "Down with the cursed spy!
Shoot him at once!" a hundred voices said;
"Then we can get on with our work!" Their yells,
The clangour of the tocsin, and the roar
Of cannon mingled. 'Mid the dreadful noise,
The child, still clinging to his father's knees,
Cried, "I tell you he's my daddy. Let him go!"
Pale, tearful, with one arm thrown out to shield
His father, and the other round his leg,
The child stood. "He is pretty!" said a girl.
"How old are you, my little one?" The child
Answered, "Don't kill my daddy!" Many men
Lowered their eyes, and the fierce hands that gripped
The prisoner began to loose their hold.
"Send the kid to its mother!" one man cried,
"And end this job!" "His mother died last month,"
The prisoner said. "Do you know Catherine?"
He asked his little boy. "Yes," said the child,
"She lives next door to us." "Then go to her,"
He said, in grave, calm, kindly tones. "No! No!
I cannot go without you!" cried his son.
"They're going to hurt you, daddy, all these men!"
The father whispered to the Communards
That held him. "Let me say good-bye to him,
And you can shoot me round the corner-house;
Or where you will!" They loosed their prisoner
A moment, and he said unto his child:
"You see, we're only playing. They are friends,
And I am going for a walk with them.
Be a good boy, my darling, and run home."
Raising his face up to be kissed, the child
Smiled through his tears, and skipped into the house.
"Now," said his father to the silent mob,
"Where would you like to shoot me; by this wall,
Or round the corner?" Through the crowd of men,
Mad with the lust for blood, a shudder passed,
And with one voice they cried: "Go home! Go home!"
FOOTNOTES:
[M] English poetry of the last eighty years is fine in quality and great in volume, but it would be difficult to maintain that it is the finest and greatest poetry of the period. It was France that produced the master-singer, and with rare generosity both Tennyson and Swinburne acknowledged that Victor Hugo was their superior. The range of power of the Frenchman was marvellous; he was a great novelist, a great playwright, a great political writer; but, above all, he was a poet. His immense force of imagination and narrative power is displayed at its best in "The Legend of the Ages" ("La Légende des Siécles"). The first part appeared in 1859, the second in 1877, and the last in 1883. It consists of a series of historical and philosophic poems, in which the story of the human race is depicted in the lightning flashes of a resplendent imagination. Some of the poems, given here for the first time in English, contain stories as fine as the masterpieces of the great novelists.
[HENRIK IBSEN][N]
[The Master Builder]
Persons in the Drama
Halvard Solness, the Master Builder
Aline Solness, his wife
Dr. Herdal, physician
Knut Brovik, formerly an architect, now in Solness's employment
Ragnar Brovik, his son
Kaia Fosli, his niece, book-keeper
Hilda Wangel