Edmond Rostand

“ Like the great portrait hanging in the throne-room,
With the ermine cloak and Golden Fleece upon you;
But here, like this, I like you very much.
With the dear silver of your floating hair,
Your kindly eyes, your simple coat and waistcoat;
For now you're just a dear old gentleman,
By whom a grandchild might be petted.
The Emperor.
Petted!
The Duke.
Are you not bored to see the heavy jowls
Of Louis-Philip on the coins of France?
The Emperor.
Hush! hush!
The Duke.
Do you adore these podgy Bourbons?
The Emperor.
You are not like your cousins the Archdukes.
The Duke. ”

“ Prokesch.
My Lord!
The Duke.
Why, if you think of it, dear friend,
Napoleon's son, Don Juan, is strict logic.
The soul's the same: ever dissatisfied;
The same unceasing lust of victory.
Oh splendid blood another has corrupted,
Who, striving to be Cæsar, was not able;
Thy energy is not all dead within me.
A misbegotten Cæsar is Don Juan!
Yes, 'tis another way of conquering;
Thus I shall know that fever of the heart
Which Byron tells us kills whom it devours;
And 'tis a way of being still my father.
Napoleon or Don Juan!—They're decision,
The magic will, and the seductive grace. ”

“ So be it? 'Tis well the legend closes thus,
And that this conqueror is the other's son.
I'm the fair shadow of the dusky hero,
And, as he conquered nations, one by one,
So will I conquer women, one by one.
Moonbeams shall be my sun of Austerlitz!
Prokesch.
Ah, silence! for your irony's too bitter.
The Duke.
Oh, yes; I know. I hear the spectres crying—
Blue-coated spectres torn along the whirlwind—
"Well? What about the Imperial tale of triumph?
Our toil? our wounds? our glory?—What about
The snow, the blood, the history, the dead
We left on all the fields of victory? ”

“ 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! ”

“ 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! ”

“ Fought Austerlitz, fought Eylau, Somo-Siera,
Eckmühl, Essling, Wagram, Smolensk, and so forth.
Thirty-two feats of arms, a lot of wounds,
And only fought for glory and dry bread.
Marmont.
Surely you will not listen to him thus?
The Duke.
No, sir, I will not listen thus, but standing!
Marmont.
My Lord!
The Duke.
For in the volume whose sublime
Chapters are headed with proud capitals
You are the titles and you catch the eye;
But these—these are the thousand little letters—
You're nought, without the black and humble army
That goes to make a page of history. ”

“ Flambeau.
One had to do far greater deeds to win it.
The Duke.
You made no claim?
Flambeau.
The Little Corporal
Didn't bestow it; so I hadn't earned it.
The Duke.
Then I, who have no power, no throne, no title,
I, who am but a memory in a phantom,
That Duke of Reichstadt who with helpless grief
Can only wander under Austrian trees,
Carving an N upon their mossy trunks,
Wayfarer, only noticed when I cough;
Who have no longer even the little piece
Of watered silk so scarlet in my cradle;
I, on whose woes they vainly lavish stars,
Who only wear two crosses, not the One! ”

“ The Duke.
I love you!
The Emperor.
Yes; if you appeared alone,
Without a drum, upon the bridge at Strassburg,
The King would vanish.
The Duke.
I adore you, Grandad!
The Emperor.
I'm stifled!
The Duke.
No.
The Emperor.
I should have held my tongue.
The Duke.
Besides, the climate of Vienna's bad:
I'm ordered Paris—
The Emperor.
Really?
The Duke.
For my cough.
If I'm to spend a season there, of course
I can't stop anywhere but at the Louvre.
The Emperor.
Indeed!
The Duke.
And if you liked—
The Emperor.
They've often begged us
To wink at your escaping—
The Duke. ”

“ 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.] ”

“ 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. ”

“ And what we often are, we great men's sons!
Metternich feeds this doubt with frequent hints:
He's right; it is his duty as an Austrian.
I shiver when he opes the bonbonnière
They call his wit, to find some honeyed venom.
You! tell me honestly what is my worth?
You know me; can I be an Emperor?
From this pale brow may God withhold the crown
Unless its pallor's that of Bonaparte!
Prokesch.
Prince—!
The Duke.
Answer me! Must I despise myself?
Speak out! What am I? Are my wits too dull,
And are my wrists too feeble for the sceptre?
What do you think of me?
Prokesch. ”

“ But tell yourself, Ah! tell yourself—and this
Shall be your sad atonement for his glory,
Widow who cast aside her widow's weeds!—
Tell yourself this: Men only gaze upon you
For the immortal fame he robed you in,
And only whisper praises of your beauty
Because of old he conquered all the world!
Maria Louisa.
I'll hear no more! Bombelles, let us begone!
The Duke.
Return to Sala. I am saved. Thank God!
Maria Louisa.
Farewell!
The Duke. ”

“ The Duke.
Where does it take me?
Fanny.
To the rendezvous.
The Duke.
Where's that?
Fanny.
Out of your way, but so the Countess
Would have it:—Wagram.
The Duke.
What a Bonaparte!
Fanny.
Well? Are you pleased?
The Duke.
Dear little Tanagra,
I'll recompense your zeal—
Fanny.
Ungrateful monster!
The Duke.
And Prokesch?
Fanny.
He'll be waiting for you there.
The Duke.
The only man whose eye we had to fear—
Prince Metternich—has left. All will go well.
Flambeau.
Metternich gone! You never said a word!
The Duke.
Well—
Flambeau. ”

“ 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! ”

“ Flambeau!
Flambeau.
And Almanacs—
The Duke.
Flambeau!
Flambeau.
And everything!
The Duke.
Flambeau!
Flambeau.
What, weeping? Take this handkerchief
And dry your eyes upon the King of Rome!
[He kneels by the Duke's side and wipes his eyes
with the handkerchief.]
I bid you strike the iron while it's hot:
You've got the people and you've got the Marshals,
The King, the King himself, is only King
On one condition: that he's Bonapartist. ”

“ 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? ”

“ 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. ”

“ 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! ”

“ 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. ”

“ 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 ”

“ 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. ”

“ 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! ”

“ I'll love, with stormy April in my heart.
I'll love—like these—like all!
Bombelles.
[Who has come in with Maria Louisa. She sits on the stone bench.]
Was he in love?
Maria Louisa.
What! must you still be harping on him?
Bombelles.
Yes.
The Duke.
My mother and Bombelles—!
Bombelles.
Speak!
Maria Louisa.
I don't know.
He was intimidated in my presence.
Even on his throne, beneath his golden laurels,
He felt his inequality of birth;
And then, to keep a countenance, he'd call me
His "Good Louisa." Yes! such shocking taste!
For I love sentiment. I am a woman.
Bombelles. ”

“ For here it is! 'Tis ticking in my brain!
It is the clock which wakes me every morning,
Drives me exhausted by my midnight toil
Back to my narrow table, to my toil,
To be more fit by night-fall for the throne!
The Emperor.
The throne! the throne! Oh, never hope again
That you may reign in France, you—Upstart's son,
Because our nobler blood has made you look
Rather more kingly than your father was.
The Duke. ”

“ Maria Louisa.
We'll try them on in there. Come, follow me.
Only Parisians, Franz, know how to fit us.
The Duke.
Yes, mother.
Maria Louisa.
Don't you love Parisian taste?
The Duke.
It's very true they dress you well in Paris.
[Maria Louisa, Scarampi, and the Fitter go
into Maria Louisa's apartment with the things
they are to try on.]
The Duke.
Now! Who are you, sir?
The Tailor.
I? A nameless atom.
Weary of life in mean and paltry times,
Of smoking pipes and dreaming of ideals.
Who am I? How do I know? That's my trouble. ”

“ The Duke.
Oh!
The French Attaché.
No! That's a lie!
All.
Eh? What?
Tiburtius.
What's that?
All.
Who spoke?
Gentz.
I love a quarrel!
Flambeau.
Aha! Thank God, there was a man among them!
Tiburtius.
Who dared—?
The Attaché.
I dared, sir!
Gentz.
He's the Attaché
Of the French Embassy.
Tiburtius.
You challenge me!
You represent the King, sir!
Gentz.
Quite amusing!
The Attaché.
The King is not in question, but my country.
You are insulting France, when you insult
The man she loved through many glorious years.
Tiburtius.
Buonaparte—
The Attaché. ”