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.