L'Aiglon
Page 20
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 bet
ween 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.