by Edgar Quinet
ELIA
The priests give me the incense-burner, and it’s always me who carries the pigeons to the sacrifice. Is it necessary to be the eldest to be the Messiah?
NATHAN
No, age doesn’t count; it has always been predicted that an eternal child would emerge from my house. Only tell me what you see in your dreams; is it, perchance, a golden crown and a miter decked with diamonds?
JOEL
I never see anything in dreams but birds singing in silver hawthorn bushes.
ELIA
I see better than Joel; only yesterday, a lovely golden tower from which ivory horsemen were riding.
NATHAN
Do you remember whether you have ever thought that you were holding a trenchant sword such as kings wear?
JOEL AND ELIA
Father, what could we do at present with a trenchant sword, such as kings wear? Look, our hands are still too small to be able to carry one.
NATHAN
On the night of the sabbath, the fortune-tellers stop you at the crossroads; what do they say?
JOEL AND ELIA
They give us dates and blessed palms; it’s always to our elder brother Ahasuerus that they speak in whispers.
NATHAN
Ahasuerus! Yes, he will be your master after me; I shall leave my field of barley, my cedar-wood stool and my place at table to him; it was him that the prophets meant. Once again, this evening, when I opened my book, I saw his name written in gold in the verses of Ezekiel; the letters sparkled like a vine-branch flame. Yes, the sixty weeks have passed; I have counted the days on my fingers; the days have also passed; my beard has grow to touch the ground, the oil in my lamp is used up, my eyes have been hollowed out by looking through the window to see whether the prince’s messengers might be coming; and the towers of the city have watched with me, and their steps are worn down, and they are slippery when one climbs them. And the desert draws nearer like a horseman asking for the keys in order to enter; but the Messiah hasn’t yet come, and every man seeks him in looking at his child. Will he wait, before coming, until the brambles are growing over our heads and the dogs are gnawing our bones?
No, no! The Messiah’s star has risen this evening. Look at it, shining like a painted arrow launched by its archer; his messenger has already departed on a good Arabian horse; he’s crossing the desert now; he’s bringing, on his saddle-bow, a king’s scepter and cloak. Perhaps he will enter the city tonight; I can’t sleep anymore; I want to stay up this time, in order to hear him from afar. If he stops at our door, I’ll be ready all the sooner to summon Ahasuerus; he’s late again, and I might die tomorrow.
VI.
Enter Ahasuerus
AHASUERUS
Greetings, Father; greetings, my brothers.
JOEL
Come, my brother, and rejoice with us, since the evil king of the Jews is dead.
ELIA
Oh. my brother, tell me who attached that crown of darkness to your head? Jesus of Nazareth wore one of gold; are you the true Messiah?
JOEL
And who has given you that beautiful chalice in your hand? Our father has never had one like it at his table.
AHASUERUS
The foggy night has attached my dark crown to my hair, and I found this beautiful chalice on the road.
NATHAN
(To himself.) The signs don’t lie; he has taken on the appearance of the son of a king tonight. If the messenger arrives, he will recognize his master. (Aloud.) Supper is ready; the tablecloth is set out; the stools are at the table. Come and sit down beside me, Ahasuerus, and your brothers will follow in order of their ages.
JOEL
Look! The lamp doesn’t want to shine, nor the oil to light.
ELIA
And the moon’s rays don’t want to come into the house.
NATHAN
What does it matter? Drink from my cup, Ahasuerus
AHASUERUS
(To himself.) In his cup, his wine has become freshly-shed blood. (Aloud.) Thank you, Father, but I’m not thirsty; I drank at the spring of Calvary when I arrived.
NATHAN
I picked these figs from the branch; take them for your hunger on this painted clay plate.
AHASUERUS
(To himself.) It’s hyssop that I see mixed with bile; is that the fruit of his fig-tree? (Aloud.) Thank you, but I’m not hungry; I’ve already eaten my bread in the Garden of Olives.
NATHAN
Your face is sad; your eyes are staring; your lips are trembling; tell your brothers what is needed to drive away your cares.
AHASUERUS
If my sister Martha were to sing me a song, I’d be as cheerful a guest as you.
MARTHA
Which one would you like, Brother? I’ll sing it to you as I wash your feet.
AHASUERUS
One about a guest.
MARTHA
There is one that begins:
“Where have you come from, my guest? Is it from the lake-land or the forest of Carmel?”
“I have not come from the lake; I have not come from the forest; my homeland is far away.”
“Who has made your cloak so blue? Who has put that hood over you to cover you in the rain?”
“It is not a woolen cloak; it is not a silken hood; they are azure wings with which to fly, when I wish, above the clouds.”
“Who has put that beautiful hat on your head, which reflects the sunlight?”
“It is not a hat; it is an aureole, which is never extinguished in the wind or the rain.”
“Handsome guest, show me what you’re carrying in the fold of your robe.”
“Look, it is a Messiah’s crown, with a massive golden scepter; I have brought it for your eldest son, if his head can put it on.”
AHASUERUS
No, I no longer like that song; never sing it to me again.
NATHAN
What do you mean, Ahasuerus? When you were little, like your brothers, and I gave you a new tunic or a cedar-wood cup, you sang all day on my bench. Now, where is the cedar-wood cup hollowed out by the woodcutter deep enough to contain all your desires? I have two arpents of land adjacent to Golgotha. I have a wall near the summit where storks come to nest; I have a date-palm still in flower next to the potter’s field. The arpents of land, the wall and the flowering date-palm I shall give to you this evening if you shake off that black crown of cares from your head.
AHASUERUS
Thank you, Father, only let me make a short journey; I shall come back to the house more joyful.
NATHAN
Where do you want to go?
AHASUERUS
To my sister’s house in Lebanon.
NATHAN
She will be coming here tomorrow by camel, for the Passover.
AHASUERUS
Or to my brother’s house in Carmel.
NATHAN
When shall we expect you?
AHASUERUS
When the wheat is ripe.
NATHAN
Do you want to go right away?
AHASUERUS
This evening.
NATHAN
The night is too dark; wait until tomorrow.
AHASUERUS
I can’t.
NATHAN
What’s the hurry? Have you received a messenger?
AHASUERUS
Yes, Father; he’s at the door.
NATHAN
A messenger from the prince?
AHASUERUS
I believe so.
NATHAN
Christ, Messiah, second Adam, walk, walk.
JOEL
Take me with you, Brother.
ELIA
I walk better than Joel; I’m the one who should go with you.
JOEL
I’ve already been as far as Lebanon in two days.
ELIA
And I’ve already climbed up, without stopping, to the summit of Golgotha.
AHASUERUS
I’ll be walking
too quickly; you’d be lost on the road.
JOEL AND ELIA
We could ride on a camel.
AHASUERUS
I’m in a hurry; I wouldn’t even have time to take your camel to the drinking-trough.
JOEL
If you go without us, at least bring us back lovely gifts from your voyage when the wheat is ripe. For myself, I’d like a robe with silken gryphons embroidered round the belt. Don’t forget sea-shells, either, in which the sound of the sea when the wind blows can be heard, little amulets with a goat engraved on one side, and sandals on which the stars that enter the houses of the sun are painted in vermilion.
ELIA
For my part, bring me a linen sling, a little bronze Egyptian god with a hawk’s head, an ostrich-feather and a hunter’s quiver.
MARTHA
And me, a necklace of fine stones for my wedding.
AHASUERUS
When I come back, you’ll already be married.
NATHAN
Until the end of your voyage, I shall not drink wine, nor shall I eat meat. Bring your staff and your sandals so that I might bless them. Here is salt for your meals in the desert; here is my full water-skin for your thirst. Go by the shortest route without stopping. Be humane to the poor, so that the lions will spare you. Be just to your guide, so that the serpents will not devour you. Have pity on the sick, so that you will have a long life. Say to your host when you go through his door: “I am Ahasuerus, son of Nathan, who lives on Calvary; give me, in his name, food and shelter for the night,” and say as you leave: “Thank you my host, let me roll up the mat under the table; I shall pass this way again when the crops ripen; my father will invite you for the Passover.” When you meet a shepherd, help him to find a place to drink, so that he will give you a slice of lamb. When you see a rider with a good horse, help him to find pasturage, so that he will lend you his horse for a day. As you pass by, go to kiss the beards of old man of my age sitting at the gates of cities, and the hems of the cloaks of kings. If you meet a messenger, give him news; if you meet a weaver, or a shoemaker, or a potter, or a fisherman with his net, greet him by name: “Master, where are you going? You are my father by age.” If you ask a woman spinning cotton for directions, think to yourself: “Her hair is long but her wisdom short.” If a soldier overtakes you, approach him without far: “Handsome soldier of Judea, how your pike shines, how sharp your arrows are, how well-embroidered your shield is! Protect me, in the desert, from dragons and robbers. My father is waiting for me on his terrace; he will give you, in recompense, a silver goblet, two leather belts and a purse of five deniers.”
THE VOICE OF SAINT MICHAEL
Come out, Ahasuerus; David’s cart has risen.
JOEL AND ELIA
Is that your guide, Brother, we can see from the window? He is clothed like a king’s squire.
AHASUERUS
He’s waiting for me. Adieu, Father; adieu, my brothers; adieu, my sister.
JOEL AND ELIA
When you come back, attach a little silver bell to your mule, so that we can come to meet you as soon as we can hear you in the distance.
NATHAN
Everywhere you go, ask the sky for light, the earth for a short path, your mount for a rapid pace, and your mat for peaceful sleep.
AHASUERUS
Sleep more peaceful than on your cedar-wood bed I shall never find.
NATHAN
Go! If you are the Messiah and if you have a messenger from the prince, will you not come back a king to lie at your ease, until mid-day, on a golden couch?
AHASUERUS, going out
Yes, I shall come back the king of dolor to sleep in my tears, much later than the middle of the day.
VII.
SAINT MICHAEL
The sun is about to rise. Go. Take that stony path. I shall return to heaven.
AHASUERUS, alone
1.
Adieu, my father’s bench and door. Adieu, my mat and my childhood dreams. Adieu, my storks’ nests, my Arabian fig-tree and my sycamores that grows on top of walls. Adieu, companions who tend mares by the edge of the pond. When I see them again, the wind will open the door to me, the storks’ chicks will have left the nest, and the mares with their dismounted riders will be whitening beneath my feet like the stones of the road.
2.
I am not one of those travelers who go from Joppa to Galilee in a day to sell their linen cloth and their expensive jewels. They walk with their caravans; Ahasuerus has the desert for a companion; while they dress in silk and gold; Ahasuerus is clad in darkness; while they wear cloaks with silver clasps, Ahasuerus has the tempests for a roof; while they have a guide with iron-shod feet, Ahasuerus is led by the hand by the sirocco; while they go to their beds and well-furnished tables, Ahasuerus goes to an angry host; while they travel a day-long path, Ahasuerus travels a thousand-year path that is always uphill and never down.
3.
In truth, no, I’m no longer the son of Nathan. The sphinxes have sat down, the gryphons have gone to sleep; I have neither a seat nor leisure. Behind me, the cities that have served as shelter crumble to mark the border of my route. My tomb is always hollowed out beneath my path, in order that my feet should resound more loudly. My tent, if I set it up, is a pyramid of granite; my hut, if I build one for a night, is a temple of fine marble; my precious jewels, which I leave behind me wherever I go, are the debris of towers and sculpted sepulchers, the bones of peoples and forgotten kingdoms.
4.
How tedious the Orient is! I know its paths too well, and its sand is burning. Its cities kneel down, without their breath being audible, beneath their temples and incense, and beneath their terraces of porphyry, as a camel does beneath the cargo of nard and fragrances, calabashes and rolled-up carpets that it has been carrying since Aleppo. The Ocean, which forms its girdle, is too small a lake into which to throw my anchor. Its desert has not taken its boundary far enough in its furrow to sow all my desires there, one after another, and the vault of its firmament, embroidered with colored stars, is not profound enough to shelter all my dreams.
5.
The Orient, at present, is accursed, like me. Its highest summit is striped barer by the wind and thieves than my highest hopes. Its cities, devoid of forts and walls, are more ruined in their valleys than the plans I made yesterday. Its goats gnaw the battens of its door all day long, more corrosively than memories gnaw at my heart. The water of its desert wells is warmer than my tears, and the absinthe it has planted on its hillsides is more bitter than the breath of my lips.
6.
Is there no other land beyond the mountains of Asia? Is there not a valley where a simple grows that might cure the wound I my soul? Further away—much further away—are there not forests without woodcutters, tall grasses without reapers, and frost on the branches all year round, where the sun of Arabia will no longer drink my sweat? Let me tell the stories of Babel and the lands of Egypt, which the stones tell as one passes by. Let me tell the names of vanished kings, patriarchs and empires a thousand years older than me. To be rid more quickly of all my memories, I shall ask the little robins on my roof to tell me their stories of yesteryear.
7.
Is there not another God somewhere better than the God of Judea? I shall go to hide myself in his heather, all the way to the foot of his tower made of stars. Adieu, my heavy amulets. Adieu my beautiful bronze hawks. Adieu my porphyry serpents. Since they cannot follow me, let my gryphons remain without their shepherds, let me unicorns browse their obelisks, let my sphinxes sleep in the sand! The only relic I shall carry in my journey is the wound in my bosom, and I shall have no idol beneath my cloak but my dolor.
8.
Now, summits lost in the mist, paths made in advance or me by errant stags and hinds; valleys, forests, marshes where buffaloes and herons stroll; peaks, rocks and isles where sea-swallows nest, sharpen your thorns for my feet. Sow far in advance your fields of hyssop for my harvest. Mix your tears in the trunks of our old o
aks with the venom of serpents to answer my thirst. Night-birds, merlins with blazing eyes, vultures in search of prey, chamois that drink in brackish springs, centenarian crows, eagles that carry the crowns of kings not yet born, quit your nests at the sound of my footsteps in the foliage. Yield me by place for a night. Go before me to prepare my shelter.
VIII.
THE VALLEY OF JEHOSOPHAT
By my barest path, here, from afar, comes the traveler that my master has cursed. When all the dead sown within me call me by my name, they will not make as much noise as the nostrils of his horse. His shadow extends further over my sand than the shadow of an entire people passing. His feet, where they pause, hollow out my rock more than the feet of an empire. His soul, in my bosom, is heavier to bear than a city with heavy battlements, and the cares of his forehead sadden me more than a cloud of Taurus.
AHASUERUS
This strange valley extends beneath my feet. Its master has sown it with ashes everywhere to spare the feet of young mares. Is that the neck of a vulture piercing the clouds up there? No, it’s a bare summit. Is that a she-wolf with light brown fur licking her young over there? No, it’s the heather on its slope. Leaves fallen from an invisible oak-tree are pattering on the paths. Above the summit, a hawk with hundred-cubit wings is racing a circle in the sky. The silence is profound, more profound than a shadow in a ravine. I would gladly build my hut on this rock forever, if I found water here.