16. Autopsy Song (Leopold’s Dream)
[?]
[LEOPOLD rises to discover his observatory has been transformed into an operating theatre, DOCTOR VYSARIUS presiding silently, brooding at the head of an operating table on which the broken body of some fallen seraph is displayed. The rest proceeds as in a mime: The VALET stands with pointer, counting off the distinct limbs: the wings, the wheels, the eyes. In the semi-circular gallery, that extends up and up, MAXIMILIAN stands with his COURTIERS, all dressed in academic robes—they look on, rapt, taking notes on all they see. The VALET makes an incision across the chest. The emperor, aghast, averts his pristine, powdered face from the revolting scene. The VALET instructs his ATTENDANTS to tie ropes, run them through a pulley and round the angel’s jaw, thence to heave—heave up so that it dangles in the air—the angelic corpse.
They do.]
VALET.
I pass a stout rope
Beneath the jaw.
A pulley fixed, I raise him up.
ALL.
Take care! Take care! Take care!
[The VALET reaches into the angel’s chest and plucks out a golden heart.]
VALET.
Observe, the heart!
Four chambered,
Like a man’s, unlike a man’s!
[The VALET hands the heart to one of the COURTIERS, who studies it dutifully, and passes it back to the others who do the same, one by one.]
ALL.
Take care! Take care! Take care!
[The VALET reaches deeper into the sagging maw of that divine thorax, pulling away a set of gilded lungs, now suppurating with tar and all celestial mucosa; the air is flush with the aroma of frankincense.]
VALET.
Observe, the lungs,
From sucking holy smoke,
Are rotted like a man’s, unlike a man’s!
Exempt from, untainted,
By any earthly thing,
The sinner or the saint,
Has no part in the lowest
But dwells in fullest power,
Immovably and perfectly divine!
How then, attentive creatures,
Should divine participators,
Come crashing down?
Down?
[He gives away the lungs, too, and holds up his hands, now slick with streaks of black and gold fluid.]
ALL.
From what cold heights?
VALET.
His body tangled up
In curl of air and clouds,
His wings all torn with wind,
Weighted down by light and sound,
His fingers, clutchless, claw
The color of the moon,
His limbs flung out before,
And gliding in the gloom,
His foot all dashed by stone
From temple-toe to top,
When angels do not lift
But, rather, let him drop,
By God, by God, forgot!
By God!
I pass a stout rope
Beneath the jaw.
A pulley fixed, I raise him up again.
ALL.
Take care! Take care! Take care!
[All stop and, as of one mind, turn their eyes on LEOPOLD. Blackout.]