Le Chanson de Jean Prouvaire
Here is the piece, reworked. Estella: Yes, you were right. AmZ: Not quite what I had in mind... but with rereading, I realize how such a conclusion could be reached. So here it is again. Criticize away.
Victor Hugo's masterpiece belongs to himself, and the ages.
Like a last ray, like a last zephyre
Animates the end of a beautiful day
At the foot of the scaffold, I try once more my lyre
Perhaps it will soon be my turn
Perhaps before the hour's course has run
Posed on brilliant enamel
At the sixty steps where the road is narrow
Its foot is sound and vigilant.
-from The Final Piece, Andre Chenier.
I. Aria
At the breach of the barricade, the others have fallen back. Nothing is done to succor the wounded. The balls still fly, musket fire, grape- dust and whirling black powder- torn cartridges littering the flagstones everywhere beneath the eye.
Jean Prouvaire is still. His cravat itches mightily, and he cannot see. A light! ...Terrible flashing over the pallor of the dead. A youth of twenty, blond- how he looks like our own beloved leader, says Jehan in the night-silence. He is breathing, still; mewling his agony out in the street.
An enemy, yet. One of those sent to put down the rebellion. Jehan kneels, crawls, climbs. His cravat is loosened and he stanches the welling blood. The boy's face is tranquil now, but the blood still comes, now in jagged spurts, now in rivulets of gore.
A voice is calling, somewhere in the maelstrom.
"Prouvaire! Fool! Do you think your errand of mercy makes a damned difference to them?"
He rises, the gentle poet. The firing has stopped.
II. Recitative
"Sir, we've captured one of the insurgents, sir."
Fannicot steps forward, their Captain. Boyish, rash, not yet a father of men. He smiles, and it is a terrible thing to see.
"You may do with this one what you like."
Well? The Captain has spoken.
Fingers grab Jehan and hurl him, dash him to the ground. A rifle stock is lowered, cudgel like, and the blood-salt burns his tongue.
Say nothing, Jean Prouvaire. Silence is a better mistress even than verse.
Fannicot watches as they bludgeon the prisoner. Men must have their amusement, in emeute as in war. He would join them, but he is an officer of the king, above the little cruelties of the rabble.
The guard is falling back. It is time to shoot this wretch. Fannicot gives the command laconically, one arm raised as if to declaim antique philosophy.
The words come tearing forth. There is no recourse. There is no moment next to come. To die alone, without a hand of comfort or a word of love...
"Vive la France! Long live the future!"
They shoot him kneeling since he cannot stand.
III. Hymn
Ah, too brief are the songs of the gentle...
Since nothing can be done, the friends busy themselves about the barricade. There is still lint to be scraped, bandages to be rolled. Lead must be poured into round molds so there is no waste- hands must not tremble.
Combeferre will not think of his friend tonight. Not as stern as Enjolras, still he must consider the metal, cloth, wood beneath his hands. Pragmatism is a sister to philosophy.
Jehan spoke of the future. If man is one day to walk in the garden of paix, can any sacrifice be too much to bear? As darkness is vanquished by sunrise, that day will come. Savez la paix, beloved friend.