Of water—what?
[Listening.]
The Emperor stirred.
Metternich.
The Emperor?
Flambeau.
Oh, my stars!
Now you turn whiter than a bugler's horse!
Metternich.
It is the Duke of Reichstadt! I'm not scared!
It is the Duke! I'm sure of it!
Flambeau.
The Emperor!
[The Duke enters, with the reading lamp in his
hand.]
Metternich.
Aha! Tis you! 'Tis you! It is your Highness!
Ah, but how glad I am!
The Duke.
[Puzzled.]
Why are you glad?
Metternich.
The joke was played so well, I really thought
Another might come out!
Flambeau.
[As if waking from a dream.]
Faith, so did I!
The Duke.
[To Flambeau.]
What's this?
Flambeau.
My little joke.
Metternich.
[Ringing.]
Help!
The Duke.
Fly!
Flambeau.
The window!
The Duke.
The sentinel will shoot you!
Flambeau.
If he can.
The Duke.
Your livery!
Metternich.
[Putting his foot on it.]
No!
Flambeau.
Bah!
[Aside to the Duke, while Metternich rings
again.]
I will seek my cavern.
The Duke.
But I—
Flambeau.
The ball to-morrow!
The Duke.
Are you mad?
Flambeau.
You'll find me.
The Duke.
Quiet!
[Flambeau goes out by the window.]
Metternich.
If he'd only break
His neck—He's singing!
The Duke.
[On the balcony.]
Hush!
Flambeau's Voice.
My little joke!
[A shot is heard.]
The Duke.
Missed!
Metternich.
With what ease he finds his way about.
The Duke.
He knows it; he has been here once before.
Metternich.
[To the Lackeys who show themselves at the door.]
Too late. Begone. I do not need your help.
[The Lackeys disappear.]
The Duke.
And not a word of this to the police!
Metternich.
I never raise a laugh against myself.
What's the importance of a veteran's joke?
You're not Napoleon?
The Duke.
Who has settled that?
Metternich.
You have his hat, perhaps, but not his head!
The Duke.
Ah, yes, an epigram to damp my ardor.
'Tis not the pin-prick this time, 'tis the lash
That drives me headlong toward the wildest dreams.
I've not the head, you say? How do you know?
Metternich.
[Takes the candelabrum in his hand and leads the Duke to the cheval glass.]
How do I know? Just glance into this mirror.
Look at the sullen sadness of your face,
The grim betrayal of your fair complexion,
This crushing golden hair—I bid you look!
The Duke.
[Struggling to get out of his grasp.]
No!
Metternich.
You're environed with a fatal mist!
The Duke.
No!
Metternich.
Though you know it not, 'tis Germany,
'Tis Spain, for ages dormant in your blood,
Make you so haughty, sorrowful, and charming.
The Duke.
No! no!
Metternich.
Bethink you of your self-distrust!
You—reign? Come, come! You would be pale and wan;
One of those timid, introspective kings
Who are imprisoned lest they abdicate.
The Duke.
No, no!
Metternich.
Not yours the energetic brow!
Yours is the brow of languor and of yearning.
The Duke.
[Shaking, passes his left hand across his brow.]
My—brow?
Metternich.
And drearily your Highness passes
Over an Austrian brow a Spanish hand!
The Duke.
My—hand?
Metternich.
Observe the frail and tapering fingers
Seen fair and jewelled in long lines of portraits!
The Duke.
No!
Metternich.
And those eyes through which your ancestors
Look forth!
The Duke.
The eyes—?
Metternich.
Ay! note them well! The eyes
Wherein how many eyes we've seen before
Dream of the fagot, weep for perished squadrons!
Dare you, whose conscience is so sensitive,
Ascend the throne of France with eyes like those?
The Duke.
Ah! but my Father!—
Metternich.
Naught of him is in you!
Search! Search again! Come closer to the light!
He stole our ancient blood to mix with his,
That his might grow more ancient. But he stole
Only the racial melancholy, and
The feebleness, and—
The Duke.
I beseech you!
Metternich.
Look!
Look in the mirror! You turn pale?
The Duke.
Enough!
Metternich.
And on your lips you recognize the pout
As of a doll, of Marie Antoinette,
Her whom your France beheaded; for your Father,
While stealing glory, stole mishap as well!
Nay! raise the chandelier!
[He forces the chandelier into the Duke's right
hand, and holds him by that wrist.]
The Duke.
I am afraid.
Metternich.
You cannot gaze into this glass at night,
But all your race will gibber at your back!
Look—in the gloom—that shade is Mad Johanna,
And yonder Thing, that moves so deathly slow,
Is the pale sovereign in his crystal coffin.
The Duke.
No! 'Tis the radiant pallor of my Father!
Metternich.
Yonder, recoiling, Rudolph and his lions!
The Duke.
The clash of steeds and weapons! 'Tis the Consul!
Metternich.
Lo! in a noisome crypt one fashions gold.
The Duke.
He fashions glory on the sands of Egypt.
Metternich.
Aha! Here's Charles the Fifth, with hair cropped close,
Dying for having sought self-burial!
The Duke.
Help!
Father!
Metternich.
The Escurial! Grisly phantoms
And frowning walls!
The Duke.
Ah, hither! smiling visions:
Compiègne and Malmaison!
Metternich.
You see them! see them!
The Duke.
Roll, drums of Arcola, and drown his voice!
Metternich.
The mirror's teeming!
The Duke.
[Twisting his wrist loose, but still holding the chandelier
.]
I will shatter it!
Metternich.
Others, and others yet, arrive!
The Duke.
[Hurling the chandelier into the mirror.]
'Tis shattered!
Not one remains! Not one!
Metternich.
[Pointing at the Duke with a terrible gesture.]
Yes!—One!
The Duke.
No, no!
It is not I! Not I!—My Father!—Help!
Curtain.
THE FOURTH ACT
The Park at Schönbrunn. Ruins of a Roman Arch in the centre, in front of which is a fountain. Entrances on the right and on the left. Towards the right, in front, is a pile of stones, parts of columns, a head of Neptune, a broken urn, the whole covered with ivy and shrubs. Orange-trees in boxes, bearing fruit and blossom, are dotted about, with lamps hanging in their foliage. At the rise of the curtain a gay throng of Lords and Ladies in dominos and other disguises are moving about the stage.
First Mask.
Who is the clown?
Second Mask.
Don't know.
Third Mask.
The Cardinal?
First Mask.
Don't know.
Second Mask.
The Punchinello?
Third Mask.
I don't know.
Fourth Mask.
It's too delicious.
Fifth Mask.
All incognito.
The Punchinello.
[To a lady in a domino.]
Your ear—
The Domino.
What for?
The Punchinello.
Ah, hush! My secret!
First Mask.
Watteau—
The Punchinello.
[To another Domino.]
Your ear—
First Mask.
Would have delighted in these figures—
The Domino.
[To the Punchinello.]
What for?
The Punchinello.
Ah, hush! My secret!
First Mask.
And these ruins.
Another Mask.
All is uncertain, tremulous, and vague—
Our hearts, the music, moonbeams, and the water.
Metternich.
And so, dear Attaché of the French Embassy,
Here I've contrived half-darkness and half-silence,
And yonder in the music and the light
The ball—
The Attaché.
It's really—
Metternich.
Rather good, I think.
This way—
The Attaché.
You condescend to be my guide?
Metternich.
Dear friend, I'm prouder of this little ball,
Of having mingled all these courtly perfumes
With the wild odors of the midnight woods,
Than ever of the Congress of Verona.
That is the vestiary and the way out
So that in leaving you may find at once
Your Polish mantle or your overcoat.
Lastly, the theatre which I've contrived
On yonder bowling-green, near Cupid's fountain,
Where, in a set-piece made of natural foliage,
Some princely amateurs will play "Michel
And"—I don't know—some dainty little piece
By a French author: Eugène—what's-his-name?
The Attaché.
And—supper?
Metternich.
Here.
The Attaché.
What?
Metternich.
Every box will blossom
With snowy tablecloths and golden dishes.
The Attaché.
The orange-trees?
Metternich.
My own idea. They'll bring
All they can find. Under each leafy ball
Two couples will be seated, starved and laughing.
The Attaché.
Supper in short at separate orange-trees?
Splendid.
Metternich.
Why, yes.—And as for grave affairs—
[To a Lackey.]
Tell them to play no more Slavonic dances—
[To the Attaché.]
I do not put them off. Not I. I leave
Ere supper-time to meet the Hospodars—
They are awaiting me—
[To a Lackey.]
Those wreaths are skimpy.
My hobby's organizing balls like this;
And when the revelry is at its highest
Back to the everlasting Eastern Question!
I love to rule a people and a ball:
The Arbiter of Europe—
The Attaché.
And its elegance!
Gentz.
Arbiter Elegantiarum!
Metternich.
Ah,
You're talking Latin; you've been drinking?
Gentz.
Rum.
Metternich.
Fanny has kept you very late at table;
Oh, this liaison! you're as good as lost.
Gentz.
What? I and Fanny? Off.
Metternich.
What?
Gentz.
Off.
Metternich.
[Seeing the Prefect of Police.]
Sedlinzky.
Sedlinzky.
One word.
Gentz.
[To Metternich.]
It's off.
[To a Domino.]
'Twas wrong to bring you, Fanny.
If they discovered you! What an imprudence!
A public dancer!
Fanny.
Oh, I'll dance discreetly.
Gentz.
They'll find you out. For heaven's sake be clumsy.
Metternich.
A plot?
Sedlinzky.
Yes; for the Duke!—and at this ball!
Metternich.
[Lightly.]
Here! you alarm me!
Gentz.
Be an angel, Fanny,
And tell me why you wished to come.
Fanny.
Caprice.
Metternich.
I fear the Duke no more. I've killed his pride.
And he's in mourning for it. He'll not come.
Sedlinzky.
But there's a plot!
Metternich.
Bah!
Sedlinzky.
Women—
Metternich.
Featherbrains.
Sedlinzky.
No! Noble ladies.
Metternich.
Really?
Sedlinzky.
Poles and Greeks:
Princess Grazalcowitch.
L'Aiglon Page 13