Pierre Corneille (1606–1684). Polyeucte.
The Harvard Classics. 1909–14.
Act III
P
In changeful forms, my eye, my heart, my mind:
My soul finds room for every guest save one;
Fair hope has flown,—no star can pierce my night:
Each tyrant rages ’gainst opposing foe
In deadly fight—yet brings to light no friend:
In travail sore hope comes not to the birth—
Fear hydra-headed terror still begets;—
All fancies grim I see, and straight embrace,
At hope I clutch, who still eludes my grasp;
Her rainbow hues adored are but a frame
That serve by contrast to make fear more dark.
Severus haunts me—oh, I know his love,
Yet hopeless love must mate with jealousy,—
While Polyeucte, who has won what he has lost,
Can meet no rival with an equal eye.
The fruit of rivalry is ever hate
And envy; both must still engender strife:
One sees that rival hand has grasped his prize,
The other yearns for prize himself has missed.
Weak reason naught, when headlong passion reigns,
For valour seeks a sword, and love—revenge.
One fears to see the prize he gained impaired,
The other would that wrested prize regain;
While patience, duty, conscience, vail their heads
’Fore obstinate defence and fierce attack.
Such steeds no charioteer controls—for they
Mistake both curb and reign for maddening whip
Ah! what a base, unworthy fear is mine!
How ill I read these fair, these noble souls,
Whose virtue must all common snares o’erleap!
Their gold unstained by dross or mean alloy!
As generous foes so will they—must they meet!
Yet are they rivals—this the thought that kills!
Not even here—at home—is Polyeucte safe,
The eagle wings of Rome reach over all.
Oh, if my father bow to Roman might,
If he repent the choice that he hath made,—
At this one thought hope’s flame leaps up to die!
Or—if new-born—dies ere she see the light.
Hope but deceived,—my fear alone I trust,
Heaven grant such confidence be false—be vain!
Nay, let me know the worst! What, girl!—no word? The rites are o’er? What hast thou seen—what heard? They met in amity?—In peace they part? I would have comfort,—but this face of woe— A quarrel? The Christians—— Thy dream, Pauline, is true; Polyeucte is—— That courage once so high, that noble name Sunk in the mire of everlasting shame! As monster foul—his every breath a blight; The foe of Heaven, of Jove, of all our race, His kisses poison, and his love—disgrace! Wretch, coward, miscreant, steeped in infamy, O worse than every name!—a Christian he! But insult to my lord is insult unto me! Who mocks the Gods on high will his own wife betray! The ties that bind me I will ne’er undo: Let fate—Severus—passion—all combine Against him!—I am his, and he is mine. Yes, mine to guide, lead, win, forgive, and save! I seek his honour tho’ he court the grave. Let Polyeucte be Christ’s slave!—For woe, for weal, He is my lord; the bond I owe I seal; I fear my father,—all his vengeance, dread. Yet embers of old love still faintly glow, And through his wrath some weak compassion show; ’Gainst Polyeucte biting words alone he speaks— But on Nearchus fullest vengeance wreaks! Such friendship leads to death, or infamy. Oh, curséd friend, who, in dear love’s despite, Has torn him from thine arms—his neophyte! He dragged him to the front;—baptized, annealed— He fights for Christ!—The secret is revealed. Oh, let me gauge the worth of woman’s tears! For, if the daughter lose, the wife may gain,— Or Felix may relent, if Polyeucte mock my pain; If both are adamant unto my prayer, Then—then alone—take counsel from despair! How passed the temple sacrifice? Hide naught, my friend, tell all! To say the words, to think the thoughts, seems blasphemy and shame; Yet will I tell their infamy,—their deed without a name. To silence hushed, the people knelt, and turned them to the East; Then impious Polyeucte and his friend mock sacrifice and priest. They every holy name invoked jeer with unbridled tongue, To laughter vile the incense rose—’tis thus our hymn was sung; Both loud and deep the murmurs rang, and Felix’ face grew pale, Then Polyeucte mad defiance hurls, while all the people quail. ‘Vain are your gods of wood and stone!’ his voice was stern and high— ‘Vain every rite, prayer, sacrifice’ so ran his blasphemy. ‘Your Jupiter is parricide, adulterer, demon, knave, ‘He cannot listen to your cry, not his to bless or save. ‘One God—Jehovah—rules alone, supreme o’er earth and heaven, ‘And ye are His—yes, only His—to Him your prayers be given! ‘He is our source, our life, our end,—no other god adore, ‘To Him alone all prayer is due, then serve Him evermore! ‘Who kneels before a meaner shrine, by devil’s power enticed, ‘Denies his Maker and his King, denies the Saviour Christ. ‘He is our source, our guide, our end, our prophet, priest and King; ‘’Twas He that nerved Severus’ arm,—His praise let Decius sing. ‘Jehovah rules the battle-field ye call the field of Mars, ‘He only grants a glorious peace, ’tis He guides all our wars. ‘He casts the mighty from his seat, He doth the proud abase,— ‘They only peace and blessing know who love and seek His face. ‘His sword alone is strong to strike, His shield our only guard. ‘He will His bleeding saints avenge, He is their sure reward. ‘In vain to Jove and feeble Mars your full libations pour— ‘Oh, kneel before the might ye spurn, the God ye mock—adore!’ Then Polyeucte the shrine o’erthrows, the holy vessels breaks, Nor wrath of Jove, nor Felix’ ire, his fatal purpose shakes. Foredoomed by Fate, the Furies’ prey—they rush, they rend, they tear, The vessels all to fragments fly—all prone the offerings fair; And on the front of awful Jove they set their impious feet, And order fair to chaos turn, and thus their work complete. Our hallowed mysteries disturbed, our temple dear profaned, Mad flight and tumult dire let loose, proclaim a God disdained. Thus pallid fear broods over all, presaging wrath to come, While Felix—but I mark his step!—’tis he shall speak the doom. eye! Where wrath and grief, revenge and pain, do strive for mastery! Before the people’s gaze! It is too much!—he dies! Though all unworthy he to be my son, Yet still he bears the name that he hath won; Nor crime of his nor wrath of mine shall ever move Thy father’s heart to hate the man thou crown’st with love! To recount an act so fell my feeble words too weak, But thou has heard the tale my lips refuse to speak From her, thy maiden; she hath told thee all. Shall Polyeucte mark of guilt the certain end, When of the frenzied race he sees the goal, The dread of torture shall subdue his soul! Who mocked the thought of death, when death he views, Will choose an easier mate—and rightly choose. That shadowy guest, that doth his soul entice, Once master, glues all ardour into ice, And that proud heart, which never meekness, knew, When face to face with Death—will learn to sue! A Polyeucte changed—debased—forsworn I see! O, changeful Fortune! changeless Polyeucte move, And grant a boon denied by father’s love! Let him repent and he shall pardon find; Nearchus’ sin is his,—and yet the grace He shall not win, thy Polyeucte may embrace! My duty—to a father’s love betrayed— Hath of thy sire a fond accomplice made; A healing balm I bring for all thy fears, I look for thanks, and lo—thou giv’st me tears! I know the Christian temper—know their mind, They can blaspheme, but ah, they cannot lie! They know not how to yield—but they can die! Is ’t thus a father pleads for his own son? Who loves the darkness hateth still the light. Spurned—outraged—’tis the Gods demand his death. Against his foes—’gainst all who work him ill. For mine is thine; O father, save thine own— For treason is a crime without redress, ’Gainst which all else sinks into nothingness. With Polyeucte, I too—thy child—shall fall! But why anticipate a doom so sad? Shall this—his blindness—make thy Polyeucte mad? Fresh Christian zeal remains not always new, The sight of death compels a saner view. In one day can he two conversions make? Not this the Christians’ mould: they never change; His heart is fixed—past power of man to estrange. This is no poison quaffed all unawares, What martyrs do and dare—that Polyeucte dares; He saw the lure by which he was enticed, He thinks the universe well lost for Christ. I know the breed; I know their courage high, They love the cross,—so, for the cross, they die. We see two stakes of wood, the felon’s shame, They see a halo round one matchless Name. To powers of earth, and hell, and torture blind, In death, for Him they love, they rapture find. They joy in agony,—our gain their loss, To die for Christ they count the world but dross: Our rack their crown, our pain their highest pleasure, And in the world’s contempt they find their treasure. Their cherished heritage is—martyrdom! No more!— That lures him, moth-like, to devouring flame. His heart is fixed, his mind is still the same. If thou hast ever loved me,—I implore! Let filial duty and obedience plead For his dear life! To my last prayer give heed! I gave both love and duty; what I give I take not back; oh, Polyeucte must live! For his dear sake I quenched another flame Most pure. Is he my lord alone in name? O, by my blind and swift obedience paid To thy command—be thy hard words unsaid! I gave thee all a daughter had to give, Grant, father, this one prayer—Let Polyeucte live! By thy stern power, which now I only fear, Make thou that power benignant, honoured, dear! Thou gav’st that gift unsought,—that gift restore! I claim it at the giver’s hand once more! It is not wax,—and these entreaties oft Repeated waste thy breath, and vex mine ear, For man is deaf to what he will not hear. I am the master! This let all men know, And if thou force that note thou’lt find ’tis so. Prepare to see thy curséd Christian fool, Do thou caress when I have scourged the mule,— Go! vex no more a loving father’s ear, From Polyeucte’s self win what thou hold’st so dear. Say more—my goaded heart will turn to stone; Vex me no more—I will not be denied! Go, save thy madman from his suicide![Exit P How met Nearchus death? He hailed,—embraced: ‘For Christ!’ his latest word; No sigh, no tear,—he passed without amaze Adown the narrow vale with upward gaze. He looks on death but as a friend beloved, He clasped the scaffold as a guide most sure, And, in his prison, he can still endure. Thought surges upon thought, and has its will, Care, gnawing upon care, my soul must kill; Love—hate—fear—pain: I am of each the prey, I grope for light, but never find the day!— Oh, what I suffer thou canst not conceive, Each passion rages, but can ne’er relieve; For I have noble thoughts that die still-born, And I have thoughts so base my soul I scorn. I love the foolish wretch who is my son, I hate the folly which hath all undone; I mourn his death,—yet, if I Polyeucte save, I see of all my hopes the cruel grave! ’Gainst Gods and Emperor too sore the strife, For my renown I fear,—fear for my life. I must myself undo to save my son, For, should I spare him, then am I undone! A father’s love—oh, he will not refuse! The higher be their rank the more the evil grows. If birth and state be high, their crime shows more notorious, If he who shield be great, his fall the more inglorious; And if I give Nearchus to the flame Yet stoop to shield my own—thrice damned my name! Implore of Decius’ grace the life thou canst not save. I fear his power, his wrath,—for might is right— If crime with punishment I do not mate. How high soe’er, worth what it may, I fear his hate, For he is man, and feels as man, and I Once spurned his suit with base indignity. Yes, he at Decius’ ear would work may woe, He loves Pauline, thus Polyeucte is his foe: All weapons possible to love and war, And those who let them rust but laggards are. I fear—and fear both give our vision scope— E’en now he cherisheth a tender hope; He sees his rival prostrate in the dust, So, as a man he hopes—because he must. Can dark despair to love and hope give place To save the guilty from deserved disgrace? And were his worth so matchless, so divine, As to forbear all ill to me and mine— Still I must own the base, the coward hope, ’Gainst which my strength is all too weak to cope, That hope whose phoenix ashes yet enthrall The wretch who rises but once more to fall; Ambition is my master, iron Fate, I feel, obey, adore thee, while I hate! Polyeucte was once my guard, my pride, my shield, Yet can I, by Severus, weapons wield, Should he my daughter wed, more tried, more true: What wills Severus—that will Decius do. Upheld by him, e’en Fortune I defy— And yet I shrink!—for them, thrice base were I! But wilt thou deal just meed to treachery? Should there be spent in vain to avert his death; Then, then my fated child her strength shall try. To thee alone I turn—resistless Fate!
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