The Young Man.
My Lord!
The Duke.
Contempt for those who live content?
The Young Man.
My Lord!
The Duke.
And doubt?
The Young Man.
In what mysterious volume
Has one so young learnt all the human heart?
For that is what I feel.
The Duke.
Give me your hand!
For, as a sapling, friend, which is transplanted,
Feels all the forest in its ignorant veins,
And suffers when its distant mates are hurt,
So I, who knew you not, here, all alone,
Felt the distemper stirring in my blood
Which at this moment blights the youth of France.
The Young Man.
Rather I think our malady is yours,
For whence upon you falls this giant robe?
Child, whom beforehand they have robbed of glory,
Pale Prince, so pale against your sable suit,
Why are you pale, my Prince?
The Duke.
I am his son.
The Young Man.
Well! Feeble, feverish, dreaming of the past,
Like you rebellious, what is left to do?—
We're all, to some extent, your father's sons.
The Duke.
You are his soldiers' sons: that's just as glorious.
And 'tis no less redoubtable a burden;
But it emboldens me, for I can say
They're but the sons of heroes of the empire:
They'll be content to take the Emperor's son!
The Countess Camerata.
[Coming out of Maria Louisa's apartments.]
The scarf!—Oh, hush! I'm doing such a trade!
The Duke.
Thank you!
The Countess.
I only wish 'twere selling swords!
That silly baby-talk will be my death.
The Duke.
Warlike, I know.
A Voice.
[Within.]
The scarf!
The Countess.
I'm looking for it!
The Duke.
It seems this little hand can tame—
The Countess.
I love
A fiery horse.
The Duke.
You're mistress of the foils?
The Countess.
And of the sword!
The Duke.
Ready for anything?
The Countess.
[Speaking toward the room.]
Indeed, I'm looking for it everywhere.
[To the Duke.]
Ready for anything for your Imperial Highness.
The Duke.
You're lion-hearted, Cousin!
The Countess.
And my name
Is glorious.
The Duke.
Which name?
The Countess.
Napoleone!
Scarampi's Voice.
[Within.]
Well? Can't you find it?
The Countess.
No.
A Voice.
Look on the piano.
The Countess.
I must be off. Discuss our great design.
[With a cry, as if she had found what she was
looking for.]
Ah! here it is!
The Voice.
You've found it?
The Countess.
On the harp.
You understand, it's gathered up in folds—
[She goes into Maria Louisa's room.]
The Young Man.
Well? You accept?
The Duke.
I don't quite understand
Zealous Imperialism from a liberal—
The Young Man.
True: a republican—
The Duke.
You come to me
Rather a long way round—
The Young Man.
All roads to-day
Lead to the King of Rome. My scarlet badge
I thought unfading—
The Duke.
Faded in the sun?
The Young Man.
Of Austerlitz! Yes! History makes us drunk.
The battles which no more are fought, are told.
The blood is vanished, but the glory gleams.
So that to-day there is no he but HE!
He never won such victories as now:
His soldiers perished, but his poets live.
The Duke.
In short—
The Young Man.
In short the huckstering times; the god
They exiled; you, your touching fate, our weariness,
And everything—I said—
The Duke.
You said as artist
'Twould be effective to be Bonapartist!
The Young Man.
So you accept?
The Duke.
No.
The Young Man.
What?
The Duke.
I listened well.
And you were charming as you spoke, but nothing.
No quiver of your voice, told me of France;
You voiced a craze, a form of literature.
The Young Man.
I've carried out my mission clumsily;
Could but the Countess yonder speak!
The Duke.
No use.
I love the bravery glowing in her eyes,
But that's not France: that is my Family!
When next you seek me, later, by and by,
Let the call come through some untutored voice,
Wherein rough accents of the people throb;
Your Byronism is much too like myself.
You could not have persuaded me to-night—
I feel myself unready for the crown.
The Countess.
[Coming out of Maria Louisa's apartment.]
Unready? You?
[She turns toward the room.]
Don't trouble; I'm just going.
And for the ball the white one, not the mauve.
[Coming hastily toward the Duke.]
Unready? What do you want?
The Duke.
A year of dreams,
Of study.
The Countess.
Come and reign.
The Duke.
My brain's not ripe.
The Countess.
The crown's enough to ripen any brain.
The Duke.
The crown of light, shed by the midnight lamp.
The Young Man.
It's such a chance!
The Duke.
I beg your pardon? "Chance"?
Is this the tailor reappearing?
The Countess.
Yet—
The Duke.
I will be honest in default of genius.
I only ask three hundred wakeful nights.
The Young Man.
But this refusal will confirm the rumors.
The Countess.
They say you've never really been of us.
The Young Man.
You are Young France: you're called Old Austria.
The Countess.
They say your mind is being weakened.
The Young Man.
Yes!
They say you're cheated, even in your studies.
The Countess.
They say you do not know your father's history.
The Duke.
Do they say that?
The Young Man.
What shall we answer them?
The Duke.
Answer them thus—
[Enter Dietrichstein.]
Dear Count!
Dietrichstein.
'Tis Obenaus.
The Duke.
Ah! for my history lesson! Let him come.
[Dietrichstein goes out. The Duke points to
the clothes scattered about.]
Spend as much time as possible in packing,
And try to get forgotten in your corner.
[Seeing Dietrichstein come in with Baron von
Obenaus.]
Good-day, dear Baron.
[Carelessly to the Young Man and the Countess,
pointing to the screen.]
Finish over there.
[To Obenaus.]
My tailor.
Obenaus.
Ah?
The Duke.
My mother's fitter.
Obenaus.
Yes?
The Duke.
Will they disturb you?
Obenaus.
[Who has seated himself behind the table with Dietrichstein.]
Not at all, my Lord.
The Duke.
[Who sits facing them, sharpening a pencil.]
I'm all attention. Let me sharpen this
To note a date, or jot down an idea.
Obenaus.
We'll take our work up where we last left off.
Eighteen hundred and five, I think?
The Duke.
[Busy with his pencil.] Exactly.
Obenaus.
In eighteen hundred and six—
The Duke.
Did no event
Make that year memorable?
Obenaus.
Which, my Lord?
The Duke.
[Blowing the dust off the pencil.]
Why, eighteen hundred and five.
Obenaus.
I beg your pardon,
I thought you meant—h'm—Destiny
Was cruel to the righteous cause. We'll cast
Only a fleeting glance at hapless hours.
When the philosopher with pensive gaze—
The Duke.
And so in eighteen five, sir, nothing happened?
Obenaus.
A great event, my Lord! I had forgotten.
The restoration of the Calendar.
A little later, having challenged England,
Spain—
The Duke.
[Demurely.]
And the Emperor?
Obenaus.
Which Emp—?
The Duke.
My father.
Obenaus.
He—he—
The Duke.
Had he not left Boulogne?
Obenaus.
Oh, yes.
The Duke.
Where was he, then?
Obenaus.
Well, as it happened, here.
The Duke.
[With mock amazement.]
Indeed?
Dietrichstein.
[Hastily.]
He took great interest in Bavaria!
Obenaus.
Your father's wishes in the Pressburg Treaty,
As far as that went, chimed with those of Austria.
The Duke.
What was the Pressburg Treaty?
Obenaus.
The agreement
Which closed an era.
The Duke.
There! I've smashed my point!
Obenaus.
In eighteen hundred and seven—
The Duke.
So soon? How quick!
Strange epoch! Nothing happened in it!
Obenaus.
Yes.
For instance, take the House of the Braganzas:
The King—
The Duke.
The Emperor, sir?
Obenaus.
Which Emp—?
The Duke.
Of France.
Obenaus.
Nothing of any consequence till eighteen-eight.
Yet let us note the Treaty of Tilsit.
The Duke.
Was nothing done but making treaties?
Obenaus.
Europe—
The Duke.
I see. A general survey?
Obenaus.
I'll come to details
When we've—
The Duke.
Did nothing happen?
Obenaus.
Well—
The Duke.
Well, what?
Obenaus.
I—
The Duke.
What? What happened? Won't you tell me?
Obenaus.
Well—
I hardly know—you're in a merry humor—
The Duke.
You hardly know? Then, gentlemen, I'll tell you!
The sixth October, eighteen-five—
Obenaus and Dietrichstein.
[Leaping to their feet.]
Eh? What?
The Duke.
When he was least expected, when Vienna,
Watching the Eagle hover ere he swooped,
Sighed with relief, The blow is aimed at London!
Having left Strassburg, crossed the Rhine at Kehl,
The Emperor—
Obenaus.
Emperor!
The Duke.
Yes! and you know which!
Marches through Würtemberg, marches through Baden—
Dietrichstein.
Great Heavens!
The Duke.
Gives Austria a morning song,
With drums by Soult, and trumpets by Murat!
At Wertingen and Augsburg leaves his Marshals
With here and there a victory to play with—
Obenaus.
My Lord!
The Duke.
Pursues with wonderful manœuvres.
Arrives at Ulm before he's changed his boots.
Bids Ney take Elchingen, sits down and writes
A joyous, terrible, and calm despatch.
Prepares the assault:—the seventeenth October
Sees seven thousand Austrians disarmed,
And eighteen generals at the hero's feet;
And then he starts again!
Dietrichstein.
My Lord!
The Duke.
November
Finds him at Schönbrunn, sleeping in my bedroom.
Obenaus.
But—!
The Duke.
He pursues! his foes are in his hand!
One night he says "To-morrow!" and to-morrow
Says, galloping along the bannered front—
A spot of grey among his brilliant staff—
"Soldiers, we'll finish with a thunderbolt!"
The army is an ocean. He awaits
The rising sun, and places with a smile
This risen sun athwart his history!
Obenaus.
Oh, Dietrichstein!
The Duke.
So there!
Dietrichstein.
Oh, Obenaus!
The Duke.
Terror and death! Two Emperors beaten by one!
And twenty thousand prisoners!
Obenaus.
I beseech you!
People might hear!
The Duke.
When the campaign was over—
The corpses floating on the freezing lake—
My Grandsire seeks my Father in his camp!
Obenaus.
My Lord!
The Duke.
His camp!
Obenaus.
Will nothing keep you quiet?
The Duke.
And so my Father grants my Grandsire peace!
Dietrichstein.
If any heard you!
The Duke.
And the conquered banners
Distributed! Eight to the town of Paris—
[The Countess and the Young Man have gradually
come out, pale and excited, from behind the
screen. They listen to the Duke with increasing
emotion, and suddenly the boxes they are
carrying slip from their hands.]
Obenaus.
[Turning and seeing them.]
Oh!
The Duke.
The Senate fifty!
Obenaus.
Look! The man and woman!
Dietrichstein.
Be off with you!
The Duke.
Fifty to Notre Dame!
Obenaus.
Oh, Lord! Oh, Lord!
The Duke.
And banners!
Dietrichstein.
Take your things!
[He pushes them out.]
Be off! Be off!
The Duke.
And banners! And still banners!
[The Countess and The Young Man go.]
Dietrichstein.
They heard it all!
The Duke.
And banners!
Dietrichstein.
What a business!
My Lord!
The Duke.
I'm dumb!
Dietrichstein.
A little late, my Lord!
What will Prince Metternich—? These people here!
The Duke.
Moreover, that's as far as I have got.
My dear professor—
[He coughs.]
Dietrichstein.
Oh, you're coughing! Water!
The Duke.
I've made good progress with my history?
Dietrichstein.
And yet no books come near you! That I'm sure of!
Obenaus.
When Metternich discovers—
The Duke.
You won't tell him!
The blame would fall on you.
Dietrichstein.
We'd best keep still,
And ask his mother to expostulate.
[He knocks at Maria Louisa's door.]
The Duchess—?
Scarampi.
[Appearing.]
She is ready. You may come.
[Dietrichstein goes in.]
The Duke.
[Mockingly to Obenaus.]
Your course, Ad usum, sir, Delphini, sir,
Is finished, sir!
Obenaus.
I can't think how you learnt—!
[Maria Louisa comes in in great agitation, in a
superb ball-dress, and with her cloak on. Obenaus
and Dietrichstein go out quietly.]
Maria Louisa.
Oh Heavens! what is't again? What must I hear?
Perhaps you will explain—
The Duke.
[Showing her the open window.]
My mother, look,
The day is hushed, but for belated birds.
Oh, with what tenderness the gloaming fades!
The trees—
Maria Louisa.
What, you! Can you feel nature's beauty?
The Duke.
Perhaps.
Maria Louisa.
Perhaps you will explain—
The Duke.
Oh, mother,
Inhale the perfume. All the forest floats
Into the chamber on its breath!
Maria Louisa.
Explain!
The Duke.
With every gust a branch is wafted in!
A fairer miracle than that which scared
Macbeth; the forest is not walking only,
Not like a mad thing walking; lo! on wings
The scented evening sets the forest flying!
Maria Louisa.
What! You can be poetical!
The Duke.
At times.
[Distant music is heard.]
Listen! A waltz. An ordinary waltz;
Yet distance gives it dignity. Who knows?
Journeying through the woods the master haunted.
Under the cyclamen, among the bracken,
It may have chanced upon Beethoven's soul!
Maria Louisa.
What! Musical as well!
The Duke.
Yes; when I choose.
I do not choose! I hate the mystery
Of sounds! And in a lovely sunset, feel
With dread some fair thing growing soft within me!
Maria Louisa.
That fair thing in your heart, my son, is I!
The Duke.
You said it.
Maria Louisa.
Do you hate it?
The Duke.
I love you.
Maria Louisa.
Then think a little ere you do me harm.
My father and Prince Metternich are so good!
When the decree, for instance, made you Count,
I said, Not Count; Duke at the least; for Duke
Is something. And you're Duke of Reichstadt.
The Duke.
Lord of Gross-Bohen, Buchtiehrad, Tirnowan,
Schwaden, Kron-Porsitschan—
Maria Louisa.
And then, the tact!
Your father's name was never mentioned once!
The Duke.
Why not have called me "Son of unknown Father"?
Maria Louisa.
With your estates and revenues you can be
The pleasantest and richest Prince of Austria.
The Duke.
The richest Prince?
Maria Louisa.
And pleasantest—
The Duke.
Of—Austria!
Maria Louisa.
Enjoy your happiness.
The Duke.
I drain its lees.
Maria Louisa.
First in precedence after the Archdukes,
Some day you'll marry with a fair Princess,
Or an Archduchess, or perhaps a—
The Duke.
Ever
I see what once my childish eyes caught sight of:
His little throne, whose back was like a drum,
And, made of gold, more splendid since Saint Helena.
Upon that back the simple little N,
The letter which cries No to time!
Maria Louisa.
But—
The Duke.
Yes!
The N with which he branded Kings!
Maria Louisa.
The Kings
Whose blood runs through your mother's veins and yours!
The Duke.
I do not need their blood! What use to me?
Maria Louisa.
A glorious heritage!
The Duke.
Oh, paltry!
Maria Louisa.
What!
Not proud to bear the blood of Charles the Fifth?
The Duke.
No! for it courses in the veins of others!
But when I tell myself I bear in mine
A Corsican Lieutenant's blood, I weep
To see the thin blue trickle at my wrist.
Maria Louisa.
Franz!
The Duke.
And the old blood can but harm the new.
If I bear blood of Kings, let me be bled.
Maria Louisa.
Silence!
The Duke.
What am I saying, after all?
If ever I had yours long since I've lost it.
His blood and yours have fought in me, and yours
Was put to flight, as usual, by the other.
Maria Louisa.
Peace, Duke of Reichstadt!
The Duke.
Metternich, the fool,
Thought to scrawl "Duke of Reichstadt" o'er my name.
But hold the paper up before the sun:
You'll see "Napoleon" in the watermark!
Maria Louisa.
My son!
The Duke.
You called me Duke of Reichstadt? No!
But would you have my veritable name?
'Tis what the people call me in the Prater
As they make way: The Little Bonaparte!
I am his son! and no one's son but his!
Maria Louisa.
You hurt me.
The Duke.
Ah, forgive me, mother, mother.
Go to the ball, forget my frenzied words.
You need not even trouble to repeat them
To Metternich, my mother.
Maria Louisa.
Do you think so?
The Duke.
Softly the waltz floats through the evening air;
No, tell him nothing; that will save you trouble.
Forget it all: you, who forget so quickly!
Maria Louisa.
Yet—
The Duke.
Think of Parma, of the Sala palace,
And of your happy life. Is this a brow
To bear the shadow of an eagle's wing?
Ah! but I love you more than you can think!
And take no heed of aught—not even—O gods!—
Of being faithful: I'll be that for both.
Come, let me thrust you gently toward the ball;
Good-night, The mosses must not wet your feet.
Your headdress is perfection.
Maria Louisa.
Do you think so?
The Duke.
The carriage waits. It's fine. The night is clear.
Good-night, Mamma; enjoy yourself.
[Maria Louisa goes out. The Duke sinks in a
chair before his table.]
Alas,
Poor mother!
[His manner changes, and he draws books and
papers toward him.]
Now! to work!
[The wheels of a departing carriage are heard.
The door at the back opens gently and Gentz
is seen introducing a woman wrapped in a
cloak.]
Gentz.
She's gone.
[He calls the Prince.]
Prince!
The Duke.
[Turning and seeing him.]
Fanny?
Fanny Elssler.
Franz!
Gentz.
[Aside.]
Farewell to dreams of Empire!
Fanny.
[In the Duke's arms.]
Franz!
Gentz.
[Going out.]
Capital!
Fanny.
[Lovingly.]
My Franz!
[The door closes on Gentz. Fanny quickly
leaves the Duke and speaks respectfully after
making a profound curtsey.]
My Lord!
The Duke.
[After looking round to assure himself Gentz is gone.]
To work!
Fanny.
[Swinging herself on to the table.]
I've learnt whole chapters for to-day!
The Duke.
Go on.
Fanny.
So, then, while Marshal Ney marched through the night,
The Generals Gazan—
The Duke.
[Learning the names by heart.]
Gazan—
Fanny.
Suchet—
The Duke.
Suchet—
Fanny.
Kept up a lively cannonade;
And at the earliest dawn the Imperial Guard—
Curtain.