Chapter 9
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.