The Fifth Act
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.