  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, 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, 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, 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 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.” 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. 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-- 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.” 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 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! 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. |
|
