L'Aiglon

by Edmond Rostand

The battle-field of Wagram. Night. A small hill running off toward the left. A sign-post stands on the hill.

The Duke is standing on the summit of the hill gazing across the battle-field. Prokesch and Flambeau are talking together in undertones near the front.

Flambeau.
WAGRAM!
The Duke.
[Dreaming.]
"My son shall reign—a mighty sovereign—"
Flambeau.
Capital bit of country for the harvest.
The Duke.
"His task to foster whatsoe'er is good."
Flambeau.
What solemn prayer is he reciting?
Prokesch.
Hush!
The Duke.
"Complete my work, and not avenge my death—
All patriots—"
[To Prokesch.]
The horses?
Prokesch.
No, not yet.
The Duke.
"He would but ape me, if he made great wars—"
Prokesch.
He is rehearsing all his Father's counsels.
Flambeau.
Hush!
The Duke.
"He shall scorn all parties—"
[To Prokesch.]
Well? The horses.
Prokesch.
Too soon, my Lord.
The Duke.
Like an impatient lover
I've come too early to my tryst with France.
[He takes a few strides and finds himself in front
of a sign-post.]
Their sign-post! Is it true that I shall move
Unhindered by their hideous black and yellow?
How good to read upon the gleaming white
"Road to Saint Cloud" instead of "Grosshofen."
Grosshofen? Now I think of it, I ordered
My regiment to Grosshofen at dawn.
Flambeau.
What!
The Duke.
Yes; I gave the order yesterday,
Before I knew.
Flambeau.
We shall be far away.
[An old man comes out of the cottage.]
The Duke.
Who's that?
Flambeau.
He's ours. His hut our meeting-place.
Old soldier. Shows the battle-field to strangers.
The Old Man.
There—on the left—
Flambeau.
No, thanks. I know it.
The Duke.
Why
Does he serve us?
The Old Man.
I was dying yonder;
The great Napoleon passed—
The Duke.
He always rode
Over a battle-field.
The Old Man.
The Emperor stopped
And had me cared for by his leach—
The Duke.
Ivan.
The Old Man.
So, if his son is weary of Vienna,
I'll help him go.—My arm—before his eyes!
Flambeau.
It isn't everybody has the honor
Of having limbs off in Napoleon's presence.
The Old Man.
'Twas war-time; so we fought.
Flambeau.
We died.
The Old Man.
We died.
Flambeau.
We marched.
The Old Man.
We marched.
Flambeau.
We fired into the haze.
The Old Man.
We fired.
Flambeau.
Some grimy officer rode up.
And roared, "We've conquered!"
The Old Man.
So he roared to us.
Flambeau.
What?—So he did.
[Pointing to the Duke.]
Suppose he heard!
The Duke.
I hear.
The Old Man.
Bah! My geraniums flourish.
Flambeau.
Shouldn't wonder.
For on this spot eleven drummer-boys—
The Duke.
Eleven drummer-boys—?
Flambeau.
I see them now!
Eleven bullet-heads, as like as peas,
Between the flapping of their foolish ears,
Who marched, they knew not whence, nor why, nor whither,
But gayly marched and rolled their rataplan!
We used to chaff them, for their funny ways
Made them the darlings of the sutler's wife.
But when they beat the charge like little rabbits—
Eleven drums with two-and-twenty sticks—
They set our bayonets thrilling with their thunder;
The quivering zigzags seemed to cry aloud,
"Our lightning's not in vain!"—Well, on this spot,
A brazen devil hiccoughed fire and steel
And took them in the flank; yes! all the eleven!
But, by the Lord! you should have seen the woman!
She gathered up her apron like a gleaner,
And madly gleaned the little ebony drumsticks.
[He clears his throat.]
Only to speak of it gives me a cold—!
[He picks a red geranium.]
Here's how to make a mere geranium
A ribbon of the Legion: keep one petal.
What? You look well upon my velvet lining?
[To the Duke.]
Is this what you bestowed upon me, Sire?
The Duke.
I gave a phantom—
Flambeau.
And I wear a flower!
The Duke.
[Seeing the conspirators enter.]
Those shadows—?
Marmont.
Friends.
The Duke.
[Turning.]
Marmont?
Marmont.
Good luck, my Lord!
The Duke.
Why do the others stand so far away?
Marmont.
Because they fear they may disturb your Highness,
And, Sire, you are already Emperor!
The Duke.
The word strikes strangely on my wondering ear—
The Emperor! What Emperor is here?
This youth of twenty on the throne?
As through a casement now myself I see
Pass down the shouting street; 'tis good to be
Young, and the first Napoleon's son!
All Notre Dame invades my dreaming soul,
I see the incense, hear the organ roll,
A nation offers up a prayer!
God! what great causes may be served by kings!
How they can love! Achieve what righteous things!
Prokesch, the Future shows too fair!
O France, who with thy blood didst write our name,
With happy days I will repay the fame;
I come, triumphant in my pride.
Sun on my flags; the air with shouts is rent.
The Champs Elysées, with their chestnut scent,
Waft me fair welcome as I ride.
Flambeau.
The women stand on chairs to see your face,
Each the fair symbol of Parisian grace,
The guns in wreaths of flowers are dressed;
Fierce Paris madly hails your sovereignship.
The Duke.
It were like kissing France upon the lip
If Paris took me to her breast.
Flambeau.
And you will hear the sufferer's complaint;
Do you not feel your hand already faint
Signing so many an amnesty?
The Duke.
The lies they've told me make the truth more dear,
Oh, Freedom, Freedom, thou hast nought to fear
From one so late from bonds set free!
What can I do to foster noble aims?
Treviso, Montebello, these are names
Their sons inherit without fear,
But other names are glorious, and since
My Father would have made Corneille a Prince
I'll make our Victor Hugo Peer!
I'll do—I'll do—I'll be the poor man's shield!
The heroic savour, rising from this field,
Gives me a foretaste of my home;
Wagram! 'Twas well I hither came to drain
The stirrup-cup upon thy glorious plain!
Oh, my beloved France!—I come—!
Ah—!
Flambeau.
What is it?
The Duke.
Nothing.
Prokesch.
You are suffering!
The Duke.
Yes, to the marrow, but a gallop cures me.
Stars twinkle in the skies like golden rowels.
Here are the steeds, and we're to ride to France!
Embrace me, friend!
Prokesch.
Emotion strangles me.
The Duke.
Brother!
Prokesch.
My Lord!
The Duke.
Ah, hush!—The saddle-girth!—
Oh, it's delicious to escape on horseback
Through such a night, in dancing-pumps!
Prokesch.
[To Marmont, pointing to the Conspirators.]
Those youths—
Why have they come?
Marmont.
Why, that the world may know
They also were conspirators!
The Duke.
A whip!
A Conspirator.
[Introducing himself to the Duke.]
The Viscount of Otranto—
The Duke.
Fouché's son!
Flambeau.
[To the Duke.]
No matter now.
[Arranging the horse.]
The stirrup long?
The Duke.
No; short.
Second Conspirator.
[Bending low to the Duke.]
Goubeaux, the Countess Camerata's agent.
Your humble servant Goubeaux—
The Duke.
Very well.
Goubeaux.
[Bowing once more.]
The Countess's chief agent.
Third Conspirator.
[Advancing eagerly.]
Pionnet—
I'm Pionnet. I represent King Joseph;
On his behalf I brought the subsidies.
The Duke.
[To Flambeau, busy with the horse.]
Only the snaffle—
Fourth Conspirator.
I arranged the guides
And relays, and at yonder village, Sire,
Disguises—Morchain.
Flambeau.
All right, Whatsyourname.
Fourth Conspirator.
Morchain!
Fifth Conspirator.
I got the passports. Thankless task!
See how the seals are forged! Guibert.
All.
[Each mentioning his name.]
Goubeaux—
Morchain—Otranto—Pionnet—
Flambeau.
We know.
One of the Conspirators.
Your Father had a memory for names.
Sixth Conspirator.
[Hurrying up.]
Borowski, Sire! It was my glorious task
To hire the uniform the Countess wears!
The Duke.
Enough! Enough! I shall remember all,
And best of all the one who has not spoken!
Your name?
[The man spoken to turns, and the Duke recognises
the Attaché.]
What! You here!
The Attaché.
Not as partisan.
Only as friend. Indeed no slight occasion
Was needed—
Flambeau.
[To the Duke.]
Mount!
The Duke.
The dawn is in the east,
I seize the reins, and—Alea jacta est!
The Attaché.
My Lord, if I have sought this rendezvous,
'Twas to defend you—
The Duke.
To defend me, sir?
The Attaché.
I feared you were in danger—
The Duke.
Danger?—What?
The Attaché.
The rogue Tiburtius, whom I hope to pink,
Sneaked from the ball and never sent his seconds,
So I ran after him, and saw him meet
Another rogue, and heard the two conspire
To kill you at some rendezvous.
The Duke.
The Countess!
The Attaché.
The rendezvous was here, as you had told me.
I came. All's well. I go.
The Duke.
The rendezvous
Was in the hunting-lodge. They'll kill the Countess!
We must go back!
All.
No! No!
A Conspirator.
Oh, why?
Marmont.
The Countess—?
Prokesch.
She can unmask.
The Duke.
Alas, you little know her.
She'd die ten times to let me win ten minutes.
Come back!
Voices.
No!
The Duke.
But I cannot—Ah, come back!—
I cannot let them kill her in my absence!
Otranto.
Our efforts wasted!
Marmont.
If we re-conspire
They will not let you fly.
Another Conspirator.
And France?
Another.
The Empire?
The Duke.
Back!
Marmont.
Forward!
The Duke.
Back!
Marmont.
You cast away the crown!
The Duke.
To leave her were to cast my soul away!
Marmont.
One sometimes has to sacrifice—
The Duke.
A woman?
Marmont.
Risk—for a woman—all the chance of triumph—!
Flambeau.
He's a French Prince! That's certain, anyhow!
Otranto.
We must abduct him!
Flambeau.
Back!
Otranto.
My coach is here.
Flambeau.
I'll run you through the body if you touch him!
The Duke.
Back! or with whip uplifted I will charge
After the fashion of Murat, my uncle!
Prokesch.
Stand back!
The Duke.
Help, Prokesch!
Voices.
We shall have to force him.
The Duke.
[To the Attaché.]
And you, who say you came in my defence,
It is by robbing me of faith and scruple,
They would assassinate me truly! Now, defend me!
The Attaché.
No, Sire! begone!
The Duke.
What, you! this base advice?
The Attaché.
Go, Sire, I will defend the woman.
The Duke.
You?
You cannot.
The Attaché.
Not as partisan; as friend.
The Duke.
It would ensure my flight.
The Attaché.
Begone, my Lord.
Whate'er I do is for the Countess.
The Duke.
Yes,
But I—
Prokesch.
I'll lead him.
The Attaché.
Prokesch knows the way.
The Duke.
[Still hesitating.]
I cannot—
Voices.
Yes!
Marmont.
The better way!
Voices.
Begone.
The Countess Camerata.
[Entering, still in her disguise.]
Unhappy boy! Not gone!
The Duke.
You!—but they told me—
How could I go?
The Countess.
On horseback.
The Duke.
But your life—!
The Countess.
A woman's life! What loss would that have been?
The Duke.
But—
The Countess.
You should have abandoned me.
The Duke.
But think!
The Countess.
Think of the time you've lost!
The Duke.
Your risks—?
The Countess.
What risks?
The Duke.
And all our fears on your behalf—
The Countess.
What fears?
Was not your Flambeau, there, my fencing-master?
The Duke.
The man—?
The Countess.
Begone!
The Duke.
What did you do?
The Countess.
Oh, nothing.
Of course he drew his sword, and I drew mine.
The Duke.
You fought for me!
The Countess.
"I did not know," he muttered,
"The Corsican's son had so much skill, I think
He knew it not himself"—But then my voice—
The Duke.
Oh! You are wounded!
The Countess.
Scratched across the fingers.
My voice betrayed me. Back he sprang! "A woman!"
"Defend yourself!" said I, "I should be laughed at,
For you are not the Chevalier d'Eon!"
"Defend yourself, I'm a Napoleon!"
Feeling my blade slip snake-like over his,
He lunges, and I make—
Flambeau.
Our secret stroke!
The Countess.
One! Two!
Flambeau.
That must have been a rough surprise!
The Countess.
'Twas a surprise from which he'll not recover.
The Duke.
Heavens! And the girl—!
The Countess.
What does she matter now?
The Duke.
But, did she come?
The Countess.
Well—No, then! When the door
Was broken open by a furious fist,
I was alone. She had not come.
The Duke.
That's well.
The Countess.
But servants came; and if I were arrested
All would be known too soon. I lost my head.
I stumbled out. I heard I know not whom
Sending to fetch the Prefect of Police;
And so I fled upon your saddle-horse.
I've killed it—I'm exhausted—
The Duke.
Look! She swoons!
The Countess.
After what I had done I hoped at least
To hear from witnesses that you were gone!
A Conspirator.
You were pursued—And in a moment—
The Duke.
Take care of her. Conceal her in the hut.
A Conspirator.
Yes.
The Countess.
Go!
The Duke.
But are you better?
The Countess.
Not yet gone?
For God's sake, go! Ah! could your Father see you
Waiting, enfeebled, tender, hesitating,
With what contempt he'd shrug his epaulettes!
The Duke.
Good-bye!
Flambeau.
We're caught! Too late!
Sedlinzky.
[Entering with police officers; he advances to the
Countess, whom he mistakes for the Duke.]
Too late, my Lord.
The Countess.
[Furiously, to the Duke.]
Ah, Temporizer! Dreamer! Cold Idealist!
Sedlinzky.
[Who has turned to the person addressed by the Countess
and recognized the Duke, starts, and, addressing
him.]
Your Highness—
[He turns to the Countess.]
Your High—
[To the Duke.]
Your High—
Flambeau.
He's puzzled!
Sedlinzky.
So that's it!
Flambeau.
You've been drinking. You see double.
Sedlinzky.
Count Prokesch, I must ask you to retire.
[Prokesch exit.]
Flambeau.
We shan't be crowned just yet by Uncle Fesch!
Sedlinzky.
[Indicating the Attaché.]
Lead off this gentleman. You, sir, in this?
Your Government shall hear of it.
The Duke.
I swear
He was not of the plot!
The Attaché.
Forgive me, Sire,
Since they're arresting us I take my share.
The Duke.
[To the Attaché, as he is led off.]
Good-bye, then.
[To Sedlinzky.]
Now, policeman, show your zeal.
Sedlinzky.
[To his men, pointing to the Countess.]
Take the false Prince wherever—she—belongs.
The Duke.
[Haughtily.]
With all the honors due to me!
The Countess.
That voice!
Ah, hapless child! You would have made a leader!
[She is led off.]
Sedlinzky.
As for the rest, we'll shut our eyes: Verb. sap.
A Conspirator.
I think—
Marmont.
To serve the cause—
Another Conspirator.
We'd better go.
Another.
Reserve our strength—
Another.
For later—
Another.
Bide our time.
[All disappear.]
Flambeau.
[To Sedlinzky.]
Open your eyes again. Here's one more left.
The Duke.
Oh, fly for my sake!
Flambeau.
Yours?
Sedlinzky.
[To a policeman.]
'Tis he!
Policeman.
Perhaps.
Wanted in Paris.
Sedlinzky.
How can we make sure!
[The Policeman hands him a paper, which he
reads.]
"Nose ordinary, eyes ordinary,
Mouth ordinary—" Extraordinary!
[Watching Flambeau.]
Two bullets in his—back.
Flambeau.
A lie!
Sedlinzky.
Of course.
Flambeau.
I'm lost. All right; I'll have my little joke,
And deck myself in flowers ere dropping out.
Sedlinzky.
You answer to the name of Seraph Flambeau.
Flambeau.
No, sir! That name's not good enough to die with.
I'll be drum-major in the Dance of Death;
Not merely Seraph, nor Flambeau, the torch.
I broaden! I'm Archangel Chandelier!
The Duke.
Will you deliver him to France?
Sedlinzky.
Yes.
The Duke.
Like a thief?
You have no right, sir—!
Sedlinzky.
But we'll take it.
The Duke.
Heavens!
Flambeau.
'Twas getting past a joke that I should never
Be present when they wanted to behead me.
Sedlinzky.
Also his decoration is illegal.
Take off that ribbon!
Flambeau.
Take it. But it grows
As often as I choose on my old hide.
[Unseen by the others he stabs himself.]
Sedlinzky.
Take off his cloak!
[When the cloak is removed, the spot of blood
shows like the ribbon of the Legion of Honor
on Flambeau's shirt.]
What's that?
Flambeau.
Looks rather well!
Sedlinzky.
Come! Make an end!
Flambeau.
[To the Duke.]
My Lord, this leaves me not
Till death!
Sedlinzky.
What! He has pinned another on!
Flambeau.
You cannot make an end! I've pinned another;
And when that's gone, another, and another!
The Duke.
What will they do?
Flambeau.
What did they do to Ney?
The Duke.
Impossible—!
Flambeau.
A little firing-party—
Rrrrrr!
The Duke.
Ah!
Flambeau.
I always laughed at bullets;
But French ones? Never! None of that, Lisette!
The Duke.
You will not give him up?
Sedlinzky.
Without delay!
Flambeau.
Seraph, your wings are clipped; good-night, my friend!
Sedlinzky.
March!
The Duke.
Look! He staggers! Flambeau!—Look!
Policeman.
He's falling!
Flambeau.
[On his knees; knocking off the policeman's hat.]
The Duke is speaking! Take that stovepipe off!
The Duke.
Flambeau, you've killed yourself!
Flambeau.
No! I've pinned on
An everlasting ribbon of the Legion!
The Duke.
I'll not allow one of your men to touch him:
What! the clean soldier touched by soiled policemen!
Leave us alone together. Go!—Begone!
Flambeau.
My Lord—!
Sedlinzky.
[To a policeman, pointing to the old man of the hut.]
Lead off that peasant.
[The old man is led off.]
The Duke.
I'll await
My regiment. 'Tis summoned here at dawn.
The standards shall salute him, and the drums,
And my own soldiers shall uplift his body.
Sedlinzky.
[To a policeman.]
Where are the horses?
The Policeman.
[Aside to him.]
Gone.
Sedlinzky.
Then let him be.
[To the Duke.]
Highness, we cede.
The Duke.
Begone!
Sedlinzky.
I understand—
The Duke.
I turn you out.
Sedlinzky.
My Lord!
The Duke.
I turn you out!
For on the field of Wagram I'm at home!
[Sedlinzky and the policeman go.]
Flambeau.
It's funny, all the same, that on this field
Where I was wounded for the Father, now
I perish for the son.
The Duke.
No! not for me!
It is for him: I am not worth your death.
Flambeau.
For him?
The Duke.
For him! This is the field of Wagram.
Flambeau.
Ah, yes!—I die—
The Duke.
Do you not recognize
Wagram, the field, the hill, the pointed steeple?
Flambeau.
Yes!
The Duke.
Do you see the Austrian cannon yonder
All painted yellow, belching fire and smoke?
Flambeau.
The battle—!
The Duke.
Do you hear the noise of it?
Flambeau.
I die at Wagram! Ah! I die at Wagram!
The Duke.
Do you not see the wounded horse rush by,
Dragging his slaughtered rider by the stirrups?
We are at Wagram! 'Tis a solemn moment.
Davoust has come to turn Neusiedel's flank;
The Emperor has raised his little spy-glass;
You have been wounded by a bayonet,
And I have brought you to this little hill.
Flambeau.
But the light cavalry? Haven't they charged?
The Duke.
Yonder the blue, striped with white shoulder-belts:
Those are the Infantry.
Flambeau.
With General Reille!
The Duke.
The Emperor should send Oudinot to help!
He lets his left be crushed!
Flambeau.
Ah! that's his cunning!
The Duke.
They fight! They fight! Macdonald hastens up,
And wounded Massena drives slowly by.
Flambeau.
If the Archduke deploys his right he's lost.
The Duke.
All's well!
Flambeau.
They fight?
The Duke.
The Prince of Auersburg
Is taken by the Polish Lancers of the Guard.
Flambeau.
The Emperor? What's the Emperor doing?
The Duke.
Watching.
Flambeau.
Is the Archduke caught in the little 'un's trap?
The Duke.
The distant dust-cloud yonder is Nansouty.
Flambeau.
Has the Archduke not yet deployed his right?
The Duke.
The smoke is Lauriston—
Flambeau.
But the Archduke?
The Duke.
Now he deploys his right.
Flambeau.
His goose is cooked.
The Duke.
Here come the guns!
Flambeau.
I thirst!—I stifle—Drink!
What—is—the—Emperor doing?
The Duke.
With a smile
He shuts his little spy-glass.
Flambeau.
[Closing his eyes.]
Victory!
The Duke.
Flambeau!
[He looks at him, and moves away a little.]
This dying soldier frightens me.
Yet 'tis not strange a dying grenadier
Should fall asleep upon this field of glory.
The field is well acquainted with his likes.
[He bends over him and cries.]
Yes! Victory! The soldiers toss their shakos!
Flambeau.
[In his death-rattle.]
I thirst—!
Distant Voices.
I thirst!—I thirst!
The Duke.
[Shuddering.]
What are those echoes?
A Voice.
I thirst—!
The Duke.
O God!
The Same Voices.
[Very distant.]
I die—I die!
The Duke.
[With horror.]
His voice
Reverberates beneath the lurid sky.
The Voices.
I die—!
The Duke.
I understand! His cries of death
Are, for this vale which knows them all by heart,
As the first measures of a well-known song.
The plain takes up the moaning death has hushed.
The Plain.
Ah—! Ah—!
The Duke.
I understand! complaints and sobs!—
'Tis Wagram's field, remembering aloud!
The Plain.
Ah—! Ah—!
The Duke.
[Looking at Flambeau.]
How still he lies!—I must begone!
For 'tis as if he'd fallen in the battle!
[And bending over him he murmurs.]
Thus and no otherwise they must have looked!
The uniform—the blood—!
[He is about to go, but suddenly, with horror.]
Another! There!
There—! Everywhere—! The same accusing shapes!
They're dying thus as far as eye can reach!
The Plain.
Alas—!
The Duke.
I hear them speaking in the gloom!
Voices.
My brow bleeds—! My leg is dead—! My arm hangs loose!—
I'm crushed beneath this gun!
The Duke.
The battle-field!
I've willed it: it has risen.
Voices.
Water!—Water
Upon my gash! Ah! tell me what I've broken!
Ah! do not let me perish in this ditch!
The Duke.
Forests of arms are quivering in the plain;
I tread upon a field of epaulettes.
A Voice.
Help!
The Duke.
And I slip on leather shoulder-belts!
A Voice.
Dragoon, reach me your hands!
Another.
They're shot away!
The Duke.
Ah! whither turn?
Voices.
The ravens!
The Duke.
Horrible!
The wooden soldiers ranged upon my table!
The Voices.
Horses have trampled on me! Drink!—The ravens!
I'm dying!—How I suffer!—God forgive me!
The ravens!—Help!
The Duke.
Alas! Where are the Eagles?
The Voices.
Water!—This brook runs blood!—Yet let me drink!
I thirst!—I die!—God's curse!—I'm hurt!—Mother!
The Duke.
Ah!
A Voice.
For God's sake! put a bullet through my head!
The Duke.
Ah! Now I understand my wakeful nights—
A Voice.
Curse the Light Cavalry! They're base assassins!
The Duke.
The racking cough that wakes me in a sweat!
A Voice.
I cannot drag my leg! Oh, wrench it off!
The Duke.
The blood I spit! I know whose blood it is!
The Plain.
Ah!—Ah—!
The Duke.
And all the arms! And all the arms I see!
The handless wrists! The hands with shattered fingers!
The monstrous harvest which a mighty wind
Bends me-ward with a curse! Oh! Mercy! Mercy!
Old Cuirassier, groaning with outstretched hands—
Horrible agonized hands with bloody wrists!—
Mercy! Poor little Private of the Guards,
Who slowly raise your livid face to mine!
Look not upon me with those glazing eyes!
Why do you creep upon me through the gloom?
God! 'Tis as though you strove to utter cries!
Why do you all suck in a mighty breath?
Why do you open horror-sated lips?
What will you cry?—What?—What?
All the Voices.
Long live the Emperor!
The Duke.
Ah! Pardon, for the glory's sake!—I thank you.
I understand. I am the expiation.
All was not paid, and I complete the price.
'Twas fated I should seek his battle-field,
And here, above the multitudinous dead,
Be the white victim, growing daily whiter,
Renouncing, praying, asking but to suffer,
Yearning toward heaven, like sacrificial incense!
And while betwixt the heavens and this field
I am outstretched with all my soul and body,
Father, I feel the shuddering furrows rise,
I feel the hill upheaved beneath my feet
To lift me gently to the stooping heavens!
'Tis meet and right the battle-field should offer
This sacrifice, that henceforth it may bear
Pure and unstained its name of Victory.
Wagram, behold me! Ransom of old days,
Son, offered for, alas! how many sons!
Above the dreadful haze wherein thou stirrest,
Uplift me, Wagram, in thy scarlet hands!
It must be so! I know it! Feel it! Will it!
The breath of death has rustled through my hair!
The shudder of death has passed athwart my soul!
I am all white: a sacramental Host!
What more reproaches can they hurl, O Father,
Against our hapless fate?—Oh, hush! I add
In silence Schönbrunn to Saint Helena!—
'Tis done!—But if the Eaglet is resigned
To perish like the innocent, yielding swan,
Nailed in the gloom above some lofty gate,
He must become the high and holy signal
That scares the ravens and calls back the eagles.
There must be no more meanings in the field,
Nor dreadful writhings in the underwood.
Bear on thy wings, O whirlwind of the plain,
The shouts of conquerors and songs of triumph!
[A proud and joyous clamor arises in the distance.]
I've changed the meanings into trumpet blasts!
[The wind wafts vague sounds of trumpet-calls.]
I've earned the right to see what crawled and writhed,
Suddenly leap into a phantom charge!
[Noise as of a cavalcade. The Voices, which before
were lugubrious, now call to each other
with commands and signals.]
The Voices.
Forward!
[The drums of the wind beat the charge.]
The Duke.
The pomp and pageantry of battle,
The dust that's raised by charging cavalry!
Voices.
Charge!
The Duke.
The wild laughter of the fierce Hussars!
Voices.
[In a shout of epic laughter.]
Ha! Ha!
The Duke.
Now, Goddess of the hundred mouths,
Victory, from whose lips I've torn the gag,
Sing in the distance!
Voices.
[Far away.]
Form battalions!
The Duke.
[Upright in the first glow of dawn.]
Glory! O God, to battle in this blaze!
Voices.
Fire!—Half-columns, by your right, advance!
The Duke.
To battle in this tumult you commanded!
O Father! Father!—
[Amid the noise of battle, which is dying away
in the distance, a haughty, metallic voice is
heard, preceded and followed by a roll of
drums.]
The Voice.
Officers—and—men!
The Duke.
[In wild delirium, drawing his sword.]
I come!—I fight!—Laugh, fife! and banners wave!
Fix bayonets! Fall on the whitecoats! Forward!
[And while the dream-sounds die away toward the
right, swept by the wind, all of a sudden, on the
left, a real military band bursts out; and abruptly,
like the awaking out of a dream, there
is the contrast between the furious battle-music
of the French, and a tame march of Schubert's
Austrian and dance-like, drawing near in the
rosy glow of the morning.]
The Duke.
[Who has turned with a shudder.]
What white thing marching through the dawning day?
The Austrian Infantry!
[Beside himself, and urging along imaginary
Grenadiers.]
Ha! Up! and at them!
The enemy!—Fall on them!—-Crush them!
Follow on! Follow on! We'll pass across their bodies!
[With his sword high he rushes at the first ranks
of an Austrian regiment which appears on the
road.]
An Officer.
[Throwing himself on the Duke and stopping him.]
For God's sake. Prince!—This is your regiment!
The Duke.
[As if awakening.]
Ah—? This is my—?
[He falls back; passes his hand across his forehead,
and gazes wildly at the white soldiers who
march past to the sound of the fife. He sees his
destiny, and accepts it. The arm he had raised
for the charge sinks slowly, his fist falls on his
hip; his sword falls into the regulation position,
and, stiff as an automaton, with a toneless
and mechanical voice, the voice of an Austrian
officer, he cries:]
Halt! Front turn! Eyes right!

The Curtain Falls as the Drill Begins.

THE SIXTH ACT

The Duke's bedroom at Schönbrunn. The walls are covered with Gobelin tapestry. Through folding-doors on the left there is a glimpse of the china-cabinet. There are also folding-doors on the right and in the centre. Empire furniture. A little camp-bedstead stands almost in the middle of the room. Many bunches of violets are scattered about.

The Duke is discovered buried in a deep arm-chair, his fingers idly toying with a large bunch of violets. The Archduchess is offering him a glass of milk. Doctor Malfatti is seated at the back of the room.

The Duke.
Again? Well, there, then.
The Archduchess.
No, you've left a little.
The Duke.
You?—Why, I thought you ill!
The Archduchess.
They've let me come.
Thank heaven!—And you?
The Duke.
Why, if you leave your sick-bed
I must be worse indeed.
The Archduchess.
Come, now, that's nonsense!
You know you're better.
[She examines the cup the Duke hands her.]
There, that's finished.
She calls the doctor, who has been seated at the
back of the room.]
His Highness drank his milk.
The Doctor.
I'm very glad.
The Archduchess.
How good it was of him!
The Doctor.
How good!
The Duke.
How hard—
When I had dreamed of history's reward,
And when ambition seared my soul—How hard,
To be content with praise for drinking milk!
[To the violets on his pillow.]
Oh, ball of freshness laid upon my fever.
Dear flowers that bring the Spring into my room—!
The Archduchess.
All bring you violets now?
The Duke.
Ah, yes! Already.
The Archduchess.
Hush! As an act of gratitude to God
For saving us—since both of us are better—
I am to take the Sacrament this morning,
I think—I hope—Franz, will you not come, too?
The Duke.
[After a long look at her.]
Ah, now I see the pious trick you'd play me!
This is the end!
[He rises.]
The Archduchess.
I knew you'd say so!
[With forced playfulness.]
Think!
The etiquette—!
The Duke.
The—etiquette?
The Archduchess.
You know
You cannot be deceived. When Austrian Princes
Receive the—
The Duke.
Last—?
The Archduchess.
Oh! not that mournful word!—
All the Imperial Family must be present.
The Duke.
That's true.
The Archduchess.
But we're alone! I've had an altar
Placed in that cabinet; and look about you:
No sign of an Archduke or an Archduchess.
The Prelate says the Mass for you and me;
'Tis but the ordinary Mass; you see
This Sacrament is not—
The Duke.
The last. 'Tis true.
The Archduchess.
Well? Are you coming? Hark! The Mass begins!
The Duke.
'Tis true, the illustrious audience should be present.
The Archduchess.
We've but the Prelate and the Acolyte.
The Duke.
So, then, I am to have a respite—?
[They go out.]
[As soon as they have disappeared, the opposite
door opens and General Hartmann ushers in
the Court.]
Hartmann.
Come!
Place yourselves here; and when, with humbled eyes
The Duke is prostrate to receive the Host—
One of the Princes.
We'll place ourselves—
A Princess.
[To a child.]
Hush!
Hartmann.
In that awful moment
When nothing can distract a Christian's thoughts
I'll softly ope the door. For one brief second
Your Highnesses will see his golden head;
Then I shall close the door, and thus he'll rise,
Not knowing he received, before the Court,
As usage dictates, the Viaticum.
Metternich.
Silence!
Prokesch.
[Who has just brought in the Countess and Theresa.]
They have permitted me to place you
Behind the Imperial Family, and thus,
Above the heads of Princes bent in prayer,
O'er whom mysterious fate is hovering,
And pallid children clasping pitiful hands,
For the last time you'll see the dying Duke.
Theresa.
Oh, thank you, thank you, sir!
Hartmann.
Let no one stir
When the door opens!
Maria Louisa.
Ah! The sacring-bell!
A Princess.
It is the Elevation!
[All kneel.]
Hartmann.
Gently!
The Countess Camerata.
[To Metternich.]
Well,
Prince? Is there nothing you regret?
Metternich.
No, nothing.
I did my duty. Madam—often suffered
While doing it—for my country's weal, my master's,
And in defence of ancient privilege.
The Countess.
You've no regrets?
Metternich.
No. None.
Maria Louisa.
The Agnus Dei.
[To Hartmann, who very gently opens the door
a very little way and peers through.]
Let not the door creak as you open it!
Metternich.
None. But he was a noble Prince. I kneel
To-day not only to the Lamb of God!
Hartmann.
The Prelate has uncovered the Ciborium!
All.
Oh!
Hartmann.
Rigid silence! I'm about to open!
All.
[With emotion.]
Oh!
Hartmann.
I open!
[He silently thrusts the wings of the folding-doors
open. All the Court is prostrate. There is a
vague glimpse of candle light. A moment's
pause of profound emotion and silence. Theresa
slowly rises to look across the kneeling
forms; she looks and sees.]
Theresa.
[Amid the sobs which overmaster her.]
Oh! to behold him thus!
[Movement. General Hartmann has swiftly
closed the doors. Everybody has risen.]
Hartmann.
Retire! He heard the sobbing!
[All have hurried toward the door on the right,
but the door on the left opens quickly; the Duke
appears on the threshold and sees them all standing
before him. After a long look which takes
in the situation:]
The Duke.
Ah!—I see.
[He draws himself up, and comes toward them
with sudden majesty.]
I thank the breaking heart that broke the silence;
Let her who wept feel no remorse for weeping:
They had no right to rob me of my death.
[To the Archdukes and Archduchesses, who
withdraw respectfully.]
But leave me now, my Austrian family!
"My son was born a Frenchman; until death
Let him remember that." And I remember.
[To the Princes who are leaving.]
Farewell.
[To the others.]
Whose was the breaking heart?
Theresa.
[Who has remained humbly on her knees in a corner.]
My Lord—!
The Duke.
[Approaching her, and speaking with great tenderness.]
You are not very reasonable! Once
Over your book you wept to see me live
An Austrian Prince with flowers in my coat;
And now you weep because that life has killed me.
Theresa.
The tryst—
The Duke.
Well?
Theresa.
I was there.
The Duke.
Alas, poor soul!
Theresa.
Yes—
The Duke.
Why?
Theresa.
Because I love you.
The Duke.
[To the Countess.]
Madam,
You hid this from me. Why?
The Countess.
Because I love you.
The Duke.
[To Theresa and the Countess.]
Who brought you both to see me?
[Theresa and the Countess look at the Archduchess.]
The Duke.
[To the Archduchess.]
You?
The Archduchess.
Myself.
The Duke.
Why so much thoughtfulness?
The Archduchess.
Because I love you.
The Duke.
Women have loved me as they love a child—
[The Three Women make a gesture of protest.]
Ah, yes! The child they pity, spoil, and shelter—
And with maternal fingers, on my brow
Still sought the golden curls which Lawrence painted.
The Countess.
No, no! We knew the struggles of your soul!
The Duke.
And history itself will not record
The Prince whose soul was seared with all ambitions,
But see the solemn, rosy, fair-haired child
Tricked out in laces in his little goat-cart,
Holding the globe as 'twere an air-balloon.
Maria Louisa.
Speak to me! I am here! Give me a word
To soothe remorse, for through no fault of mine
I was too small beside your mighty dreams.
I have the thriftless conscience of a bird!
The tinkling bells that jangle in my brain
Have never ceased till now. Look at me now!
Speak to me now! Forgive me now!
The Duke.
O God!
Inspire me with the deep, yet tender word
With which a son forgives his mother.
Maria Louisa.
Franz,
The cradle which you asked them for last night—
A Lackey.
'Tis here.
[He goes out to fetch it.]
The Duke.
[Looking at Metternich.]
Ah, my Lord Chancellor, I die
Too soon for you; and you should weep.
Metternich.
My Lord—!
The Duke.
I was your weapon and my death disarms you!
Europe, which never dared to say you nay,
When you were he who could unchain the Eaglet,
Listening to-morrow, will take heart, and say
"I do not hear it stirring in its cage!"
Metternich.
My Lord! My Lord!
[The great enamelled cradle is brought in.]
The Duke.
The cradle Paris gave me!
My splendid cradle, Prudhon's masterpiece!
Amidst its gold and mother-o'-pearl I slept,
A babe, whose christening was a coronation.
Place it beside this little bed, whereon
My Father slept when victory fanned his slumbers.
Closer! until its laces graze the sheets.
Alas! how near my cradle to my death-bed!
[ He points to the gap between the cradle and the
bed.]
And all my life lies in that narrow space!
Theresa.
Oh!—
The Duke.
In that gap, too narrow and too dark,
Fate ne'er let fall a single pin of glory.
Lay me upon the bed.
Dietrichstein.
How pale he grows!
The Duke.
Ah, I was greater in my cradle, than
I am upon this bed; and women rocked me—
Yes, I had three to rock me, and they sang
Their strange old songs: dear songs of Mistress Marchand!
Oh, who will lull me now with cradle-songs?
Maria Louisa.
Is not your mother here to sing to you?
The Duke.
Do you know any songs of France?
Maria Louisa.
Why—no.
The Duke.
[To Theresa.]
And you?
Theresa.
Perhaps.
The Duke.
Oh, sing below your breath.
"The rain falls, Shepherdess" and "May is come,"
And sing "Upon the bridge that spans the Rhone,"
That I may sleep, rocked on the people's fancy.
There was a song I used to love; sing that:—
There was a little man,
And he was clad in gray—
Theresa.
Break, tender heart, as broke the heart of iron—
The Countess.
A crystal, shattered by a brazen echo—
The Archduchess.
A harp-string, shattered by a battle-song—
Theresa.
A lily sinking silently on laurels.
The Doctor.
My Lord is very ill. Stand more apart.
Theresa.
Farewell, François—!
The Archduchess.
Farewell, Franz!
The Countess.
Farewell, Bonaparte!
Maria Louisa.
Alas, his head grows heavy on my shoulder!
The Archduchess.
Duke of Reichstadt!
The Countess.
King of Rome!
Theresa.
Poor child!
The Duke.
[Deliriously.]
The horses! horses!
The Prelate [Wagner].
Let us fall to prayer!
The Duke.
Horses! that I may ride to meet my father!
Maria Louisa.
Will you not let me wipe away your tears?
The Duke.
No, for the Victories, my sisters—Lo!
I see them! see them! in a headlong flight
Draw nigh to lave their glory in my tears!
Maria Louisa.
What are you saying?
The Duke.
Nothing. Did I speak?
Hush! Father, that's our secret: yours and mine!—
My funeral will be ugly. Mumbling women;
Lackeys with torches; droning Capuchins;
And then they'll lock me in their crypt—and then—
Maria Louisa.
Tell me your sufferings, child!
The Duke.
Oh! Superhuman!—
And then, official mourning for six weeks.
The Countess.
He snatches at the cradle's lace, as if
To make a winding sheet—
The Duke.
It will be ugly—
I must remember how they christen better
In Paris than they bury in Vienna.
General Hartmann!
Hartmann.
Prince!
The Duke.
Yes—while I wait
For death, I'll rock my childhood—
[He hands General Hartmann a book from
under his pillow.]
Here—
[General Hartmann takes the book. The Duke
falls to rocking the cradle.]
I rock
My past—I rock my past—As though
The Duke of Reichstadt rocked the King of Rome.
General—I marked a place—
Hartmann.
I see it.
The Duke.
Good. While I'm dying, read aloud—
Maria Louisa.
No, no!
You shall not die!
The Duke.
You may begin to read.
Hartmann.
[Standing at the foot of the bed and reading.]
"Toward seven o'clock the Calvary appear,
Forming the head of the procession—"
Maria Louisa.
[Falling on her knees in a paroxysm of sobs.]
Franz!
Hartmann.
"The people, shaken with great sobs of joy,
Utter a shout:—'Long live the King of Rome!'—"
Maria Louisa.
Franz!
Hartmann.
"And the guns salute; the Cardinal
Receives their Majesties, and so the pageant
Moves up the aisle as ancient rules prescribe.
The Ushers, Kings-at-Arms, their chief, the pages,
The various officers of the staff, the—"
[Noticing that the Duke has closed his eyes, he
stops.]
The Duke.
[Opening his eyes.]
Yes?
Hartmann.
"The Chamberlains, the Prefects of the palace,
Ministers, Masters of the Horse—"
The Duke.
[With failing voice.]
Go on.
Hartmann.
"Marshals of France, Grand Eagles; and Princess
Aldobrandini holds the chrisom-cloth;
The Countesses Vilain and de Beauvau
Bring in the ewer and the salt-cellar—"
The Duke.
[Still paler and growing rigid.]
Read on, sir. Mother—mother—lift me up.
[Maria Louisa, assisted by the Prelate and
Doctor Malfatti, raises him on his pillows.]
Hartmann.
"Then the Grand Duke, who took on this occasion
The Austrian Emperor's place as Sponsor: then
Queen Hortense, and the Imperial Godmother;
Lastly, the King of Rome, borne by Her Grace,
The Duchess of Montesquieu. His Majesty,
Whose healthy mien the crowd observed with joy,
Wore a great silver mantle, lined with ermine,
Whose train His Grace the Duke of Valmy bore.
Princes—"
The Duke.
Omit the Princes.
Hartmann.
[Turning over a page.]
"Kings—"
The Duke.
Omit
The Kings. The end, sir; read the end—
Hartmann.
[Turning over several pages.]
"And when—"
The Duke.
I cannot hear you. Louder.
Doctor Malfatti.
[To Wagner.]
The last agony.
Hartmann.
[Raising his voice.]
"And when the Herald thrice within the choir
Had cried 'Long live the King of Rome!' before
They handed back the baby to its nurse,
The Emperor gently took it from—"
[He hesitates, with a glance at Maria Louisa.]
The Duke.
[With infinite nobility and placing his hand with tender
forgiveness on the head of Maria Louisa, who is kneeling
at his side.]
The Empress!
Hartmann.
"And raised it to receive the acclamation.
The loud—"
The Duke.
[Whose head drops.]
Mamma!
Maria Louisa.
[Throwing herself across his body.]
François!
The Duke.
[Opening his eyes.]
Napoleon!
[He sinks back.]
Hartmann.
"The loud Te Deum filled the sanctuary.
And all that night, throughout the realm of France,
With equal pomp, solemnity, and joy—"
Doctor Malfatti.
[Putting his hand on the General's arm.]
Dead!
[Silence. The General closes the book.]
Metternich.
Clothe him in his Austrian uniform.
Curtain.