I
How the slates of the roof sparkle in the sun, over there, over there, beyond the high wall! How quietly the Seine runs in loops and windings, over there, over there, sliding through the green countryside! Like ships of the line, stately with canvas, the tall clouds pass along the sky, over the glittering roof, over the trees, over the looped and curving river. A breeze quivers through the linden-trees. Roses bloom at Malmaison. Roses! Roses! But the road is dusty. Already the Citoyenne Beauharnais wearies of her walk. Her skin is chalked and powdered with dust, she smells dust, and behind the wall are roses! Roses with smooth open petals, poised above rippling leaves... Roses ... They have told her so. The Citoyenne Beauharnais shrugs her shoulders and makes a little face. She must mend her pace if she would be back in time for dinner. Roses indeed! The guillotine more likely.
The tiered clouds float over Malmaison, and the slate roof sparkles in the sun.
II
Gallop! Gallop! The General brooks no delay. Make way, good people, and scatter out of his path, you, and your hens, and your dogs, and your children. The General is returned from Egypt, and is come in a 'caleche' and four to visit his new property. Throw open the gates, you, Porter of Malmaison. Pull off your cap, my man, this is your master, the husband of Madame. Faster! Faster! A jerk and a jingle and they are arrived, he and she. Madame has red eyes. Fie! It is for joy at her husband's return. Learn your place, Porter. A gentleman here for two months? Fie! Fie, then! Since when have you taken to gossiping. Madame may have a brother, I suppose. That—all green, and red, and glitter, with flesh as dark as ebony—that is a slave; a bloodthirsty, stabbing, slashing heathen, come from the hot countries to cure your tongue of idle whispering.
A fine afternoon it is, with tall bright clouds sailing over the trees.
"Bonaparte, mon ami, the trees are golden like my star, the star I pinned to your destiny when I married you. The gypsy, you remember her prophecy! My dear friend, not here, the servants are watching; send them away, and that flashing splendour, Roustan. Superb—Imperial, but.. . My dear, your arm is trembling; I faint to feel it touching me! No, no, Bonaparte, not that—spare me that—did we not bury that last night! You hurt me, my friend, you are so hot and strong. Not long, Dear, no, thank God, not long."
The looped river runs saffron, for the sun is setting. It is getting dark. Dark. Darker. In the moonlight, the slate roof shines palely milkily white.
The roses have faded at Malmaison, nipped by the frost. What need for roses? Smooth, open petals—her arms. Fragrant, outcurved petals—her breasts. He rises like a sun above her, stooping to touch the petals, press them wider. Eagles. Bees. What are they to open roses! A little shivering breeze runs through the linden-trees, and the tiered clouds blow across the sky like ships of the line, stately with canvas.
III
The gates stand wide at Malmaison, stand wide all day. The gravel of the avenue glints under the continual rolling of wheels. An officer gallops up with his sabre clicking; a mameluke gallops down with his charger kicking. 'Valets de pied' run about in ones, and twos, and groups, like swirled blown leaves. Tramp! Tramp! The guard is changing, and the grenadiers off duty lounge out of sight, ranging along the roads toward Paris.
The slate roof sparkles in the sun, but it sparkles milkily, vaguely, the great glass-houses put out its shining. Glass, stone, and onyx now for the sun's mirror. Much has come to pass at Malmaison. New rocks and fountains, blocks of carven marble, fluted pillars uprearing antique temples, vases and urns in unexpected places, bridges of stone, bridges of wood, arbours and statues, and a flood of flowers everywhere, new flowers, rare flowers, parterre after parterre of flowers. Indeed, the roses bloom at Malmaison. It is youth, youth untrammeled and advancing, trundling a country ahead of it as though it were a hoop. Laughter, and spur janglings in tessellated vestibules. Tripping of clocked and embroidered stockings in little low-heeled shoes over smooth grass-plots. India muslins spangled with silver patterns slide through trees—mingle—separate—white day fireflies flashing moon-brilliance in the shade of foliage.
"The kangaroos! I vow, Captain, I must see the kangaroos."
"As you please, dear Lady, but I recommend the shady linden alley and feeding the cockatoos."
"They say that Madame Bonaparte's breed of sheep is the best in all France."
"And, oh, have you seen the enchanting little cedar she planted when the First Consul sent home the news of the victory of Marengo?"
Picking, choosing, the chattering company flits to and fro. Over the trees the great clouds go, tiered, stately, like ships of the line bright with canvas.
Prisoners'-base, and its swooping, veering, racing, giggling, bumping. The First Consul runs plump into M. de Beauharnais and falls. But he picks himself up smartly, and starts after M. Isabey. Too late, M. Le Premier Consul, Mademoiselle Hortense is out after you. Quickly, my dear Sir! Stir your short legs, she is swift and eager, and as graceful as her mother. She is there, that other, playing too, but lightly, warily, bearing herself with care, rather floating out upon the air than running, never far from goal. She is there, borne up above her guests as something indefinably fair, a rose above periwinkles. A blown rose, smooth as satin, reflexed, one loosened petal hanging back and down. A rose that undulates languorously as the breeze takes it, resting upon its leaves in a faintness of perfume.
There are rumours about the First Consul. Malmaison is full of women, and Paris is only two leagues distant. Madame Bonaparte stands on the wooden bridge at sunset, and watches a black swan pushing the pink and silver water in front of him as he swims, crinkling its smoothness into pleats of changing colour with his breast. Madame Bonaparte presses against the parapet of the bridge, and the crushed roses at her belt melt, petal by petal, into the pink water.
IV
A vile day, Porter. But keep your wits about you. The Empress will soon be here. Queer, without the Emperor! It is indeed, but best not consider that. Scratch your head and prick up your ears. Divorce is not for you to debate about. She is late? Ah, well, the roads are muddy. The rain spears are as sharp as whetted knives. They dart down and down, edged and shining. Clop-trop! Clop-trop! A carriage grows out of the mist. Hist, Porter. You can keep on your hat. It is only Her Majesty's dogs and her parrot. Clop-trop! The Ladies in Waiting, Porter. Clop-trop! It is Her Majesty. At least, I suppose it is, but the blinds are drawn.
"In all the years I have served Her Majesty she never before passed the gate without giving me a smile!"
You're a droll fellow, to expect the Empress to put out her head in the pouring rain and salute you. She has affairs of her own to think about.
Clang the gate, no need for further waiting, nobody else will be coming to Malmaison to-night.
White under her veil, drained and shaking, the woman crosses the antechamber. Empress! Empress! Foolish splendour, perished to dust. Ashes of roses, ashes of youth. Empress forsooth!
Over the glass domes of the hot-houses drenches the rain. Behind her a clock ticks—ticks again. The sound knocks upon her thought with the echoing shudder of hollow vases. She places her hands on her ears, but the minutes pass, knocking. Tears in Malmaison. And years to come each knocking by, minute after minute. Years, many years, and tears, and cold pouring rain.
"I feel as though I had died, and the only sensation I have is that I am no more."
Rain! Heavy, thudding rain!
V
The roses bloom at Malmaison. And not only roses. Tulips, myrtles, geraniums, camelias, rhododendrons, dahlias, double hyacinths. All the year through, under glass, under the sky, flowers bud, expand, die, and give way to others, always others. From distant countries they have been brought, and taught to live in the cool temperateness of France. There is the 'Bonapartea' from Peru; the 'Napoleone Imperiale'; the 'Josephinia Imperatrix', a pearl-white flower, purple-shadowed, the calix pricked out with crimson points. Malmaison wears its flowers as a lady wears her gems, flauntingly, assertively. Malmaison decks herself to hide the hollow within.
The glass-houses grow and grow, and every year fling up hotter reflections to the sailing sun.
The cost runs into millions, but a woman must have something to console herself for a broken heart. One can play backgammon and patience, and then patience and backgammon, and stake gold napoleons on each game won. Sport truly! It is an unruly spirit which could ask better. With her jewels, her laces, her shawls; her two hundred and twenty dresses, her fichus, her veils; her pictures, her busts, her birds. It is absurd that she cannot be happy. The Emperor smarts under the thought of her ingratitude. What could he do more? And yet she spends, spends as never before. It is ridiculous. Can she not enjoy life at a smaller figure? Was ever monarch plagued with so extravagant an ex-wife. She owes her chocolate-merchant, her candle-merchant, her sweetmeat purveyor; her grocer, her butcher, her poulterer; her architect, and the shopkeeper who sells her rouge; her perfumer, her dressmaker, her merchant of shoes. She owes for fans, plants, engravings, and chairs. She owes masons and carpenters, vintners, lingeres. The lady's affairs are in sad confusion.
And why? Why?
Can a river flow when the spring is dry?
Night. The Empress sits alone, and the clock ticks, one after one. The clock nicks off the edges of her life. She is chipped like an old bit of china; she is frayed like a garment of last year's wearing. She is soft, crinkled, like a fading rose. And each minute flows by brushing against her, shearing off another and another petal. The Empress crushes her breasts with her hands and weeps. And the tall clouds sail over Malmaison like a procession of stately ships bound for the moon.
Scarlet, clear-blue, purple epauletted with gold. It is a parade of soldiers sweeping up the avenue. Eight horses, eight Imperial harnesses, four caparisoned postilions, a carriage with the Emperor's arms on the panels. Ho, Porter, pop out your eyes, and no wonder. Where else under the Heavens could you see such splendour!
They sit on a stone seat. The little man in the green coat of a Colonel of Chasseurs, and the lady, beautiful as a satin seed-pod, and as pale. The house has memories. The satin seed-pod holds his germs of Empire. We will stay here, under the blue sky and the turreted white clouds. She draws him; he feels her faded loveliness urge him to replenish it. Her soft transparent texture woos his nervous fingering. He speaks to her of debts, of resignation; of her children, and his; he promises that she shall see the King of Rome; he says some harsh things and some pleasant. But she is there, close to him, rose toned to amber, white shot with violet, pungent to his nostrils as embalmed rose-leaves in a twilit room.
Suddenly the Emperor calls his carriage and rolls away across the looping Seine.
VI
Crystal-blue brightness over the glass-houses. Crystal-blue streaks and ripples over the lake. A macaw on a gilded perch screams; they have forgotten to take out his dinner. The windows shake. Boom! Boom! It is the rumbling of Prussian cannon beyond Pecq. Roses bloom at Malmaison. Roses! Roses! Swimming above their leaves, rotting beneath them. Fallen flowers strew the unraked walks. Fallen flowers for a fallen Emperor! The General in charge of him draws back and watches. Snatches of music—snarling, sneering music of bagpipes. They say a Scotch regiment is besieging Saint-Denis. The Emperor wipes his face, or is it his eyes. His tired eyes which see nowhere the grace they long for. Josephine! Somebody asks him a question, he does not answer, somebody else does that. There are voices, but one voice he does not hear, and yet he hears it all the time. Josephine! The Emperor puts up his hand to screen his face. The white light of a bright cloud spears sharply through the linden-trees. 'Vive l'Empereur!' There are troops passing beyond the wall, troops which sing and call. Boom! A pink rose is jarred off its stem and falls at the Emperor's feet.
"Very well. I go." Where! Does it matter? There is no sword to clatter. Nothing but soft brushing gravel and a gate which shuts with a click.
"Quick, fellow, don't spare your horses."
A whip cracks, wheels turn, why burn one's eyes following a fleck of dust.
VII
Over the slate roof tall clouds, like ships of the line, pass along the sky. The glass-houses glitter splotchily, for many of their lights are broken. Roses bloom, fiery cinders quenching under damp weeds. Wreckage and misery, and a trailing of petty deeds smearing over old recollections.
The musty rooms are empty and their shutters are closed, only in the gallery there is a stuffed black swan, covered with dust. When you touch it, the feathers come off and float softly to the ground. Through a chink in the shutters, one can see the stately clouds crossing the sky toward the Roman arches of the Marly Aqueduct.
IFrindsbury, Kent, 1786Bang!Bang!Tap!Tap-a-tap! Rap!All through the lead and silver Winter days,All through the copper of Autumn hazes.Tap to the red rising sun,Tap to the purple setting sun.Four years pass before the job is done.Two thousand oak trees grown and felled,Two thousand oaks from the hedgerows of the Weald,Sussex had yielded two thousand oaksWith huge bolesRound which the tape rollsThirty mortal feet, say the village folks.Two hundred loads of elm and Scottish fir;Planking from Dantzig.My! What timber goes into a ship!Tap! Tap!Two years they have seasoned her ribs on the ways,Tapping, tapping.You can hear, though there's nothing where you gaze.Through the fog down the reaches of the river,The tapping goes on like heart-beats in a fever.The church-bells chimeHours and hours,Dropping days in showers.Bang! Rap! Tap!Go the hammers all the time.They have planked up her timbersAnd the nails are driven to the head;They have decked her over,And again, and again.The shoring-up beams shudder at the strain.Black and blue breeches,Pigtails bound and shining:Like ants crawling about,The hull swarms with carpenters, running in and out.Joiners, calkers,And they are all terrible talkers.Jem Wilson has been to sea and he tells some wonderful talesOf whales, and spice islands,And pirates off the Barbary coast.He boasts magnificently, with his mouth full of nails.Stephen Pibold has a tenor voice,He shifts his quid of tobacco and sings:"The second in command was blear-eyed Ned:While the surgeon his limb was a-lopping,A nine-pounder came and smack went his head,Pull away, pull away, pull away! I say;Rare news for my Meg of Wapping!"Every SundayPeople come in crowds(After church-time, of course)In curricles, and gigs, and wagons,And some have brought cold chicken and flagonsOf wine,And beer in stoppered jugs."Dear! Dear! But I tell 'ee 'twill be a fine ship.There's none finer in any of the slips at Chatham."The third Summer's roses have started in to blow,When the fine stern carving is begun.Flutings, and twinings, and long slow swirls,Bits of deal shaved away to thin spiral curls.Tap! Tap! A cornucopia is nailed into place.Rap-a-tap! They are putting up a railing filigreed like Irish lace.The Three Town's people never saw such grace.And the paint on it! The richest gold leaf!Why, the glitter when the sun is shining passes belief.And that row of glass windows tipped toward the skyAre rubies and carbuncles when the day is dry.Oh, my! Oh, my!They have coppered up the bottom,And the copper nailsStand about and sparkle in big wooden pails.Bang! Clash! Bang!"And he swigg'd, and Nick swigg'd,And Ben swigg'd, and Dick swigg'd,And I swigg'd, and all of us swigg'd it,And swore there was nothing like grog."It seems they sing,Even though coppering is not an easy thing.What a splendid specimen of humanity is a true British workman,Say the people of the Three Towns,As they walk about the dockyardTo the sound of the evening church-bells.And so artistic, too, each one tells his neighbour.What immense taste and labour!Miss Jessie Prime, in a pink silk bonnet,Titters with delight as her eyes fall upon it,When she steps lightly down from Lawyer Green's whisky;Such amazing beauty makes one feel frisky,She explains.Mr. Nichols says he is delighted(He is the firm);His work is all requitedIf Miss Jessie can approve.Miss Jessie answers that the ship is "a love".The sides are yellow as marigold,The port-lids are red when the ports are up:Blood-red squares like an even chequerOf yellow asters and portulaca.There is a wide "black strake" at the waterlineAnd above is a blue like the sky when the weather is fine.The inner bulwarks are painted red."Why?" asks Miss Jessie. "'Tis a horrid note."Mr. Nichols clears his throat,And tells her the launching day is set.He says, "Be careful, the paint is wet."But Miss Jessie has touched it, her sprigged muslin gownHas a blood-red streak from the shoulder down."It looks like blood," says Miss Jessie with a frown.Tap! Tap! Rap!An October day, with waves running in blue-white lines and a capful of wind.Three broad flags ripple out behindWhere the masts will be:Royal Standard at the main,Admiralty flag at the fore,Union Jack at the mizzen.The hammers tap harder, faster,They must finish by noon.The last nail is driven.But the wind has increased to half a gale,And the ship shakes and quivers upon the ways.The Commissioner of Chatham Dockyard is comingIn his ten-oared barge from the King's Stairs;The Marine's band will play "God Save Great George Our King";And there is to be a dinner afterwards at the Crown, with speeches.The wind screeches, and flaps the flags till they pound like hammers.The wind hums over the ship,And slips round the dog-shores,Jostling them almost to falling.There is no time now to wait for Commissioners and marine bands.Mr. Nichols has a bottle of port in his hands.He leans over, holding his hat, and shouts to the men below:"Let her go!"Bang! Bang! Pound!The dog-shores fall to the ground,And the ship slides down the greased planking.A splintering of glass,And port wine running all over the white and copper stem timbers."Success to his Majesty's ship, the Bellerophon!"And the red wine washes away in the waters of the Medway.
IIParis, March, 1814Fine yellow sunlight down the rue du Mont Thabor.Ten o'clock striking from all the clock-towers of Paris.Over the door of a shop, in gilt letters:"Martin—Parfumeur", and something more.A large gilded wooden something.Listen! What a ringing of hammers!Tap!Tap!Squeak!Tap! Squeak! Tap-a-tap!"Blaise.""Oui, M'sieu.""Don't touch the letters. My name stays.""Bien, M'sieu.""Just take down the eagle, and the shield with the bees.""As M'sieu pleases."Tap! Squeak! Tap!The man on the ladder hammers steadily for a minute or two,Then stops."He! Patron!They are fastened well, Nom d'un Chien!What if I break them?""Break away,You and Paul must have them down to-day.""Bien."And the hammers start again,Drum-beating at the something of gilded wood.Sunshine in a golden floodLighting up the yellow fronts of houses,Glittering each window to a flash.Squeak! Squeak! Tap!The hammers beat and rap.A Prussian hussar on a grey horse goes by at a dash.From other shops, the noise of striking blows:Pounds, thumps, and whacks;Wooden sounds: splinters—cracks.Paris is full of the galloping of horses and the knocking of hammers."Hullo! Friend Martin, is business slackThat you are in the street this morning? Don't turn your backAnd scuttle into your shop like a rabbit to its hole.I've just been taking a stroll.The stinking Cossacks are bivouacked all up and down the Champs Elysees.I can't get the smell of them out of my nostrils.Dirty fellows, who don't believe in frillsLike washing. Ah, mon vieux, you'd have to goOut of business if you lived in Russia. So!We've given up being perfumers to the Emperor, have we?Blaise,Be careful of the hen,Maybe I can find a use for her one of these days.That eagle's rather well cut, Martin.But I'm sick of smelling Cossack,Take me inside and let me put my head into a stackOf orris-root and musk."Within the shop, the light is dimmed to a pearl-and-green duskOut of which dreamily sparkle counters and shelves of glass,Containing phials, and bowls, and jars, and dishes; a massOf aqueous transparence made solid by threads of gold.Gold and glass,And scents which whiff across the green twilight and pass.The perfumer sits down and shakes his head:"Always the same, Monsieur Antoine,You artists are wonderful folk indeed."But Antoine Vernet does not heed.He is reading the names on the bottles and bowls,Done in fine gilt letters with wonderful scrolls."What have we here? 'Eau Imperial Odontalgique.'I must say, mon cher, your names are chic.But it won't do, positively it will not do.Elba doesn't count. Ah, here is another:'Baume du Commandeur'. That's better. He needs something to smotherRegrets. A little lubricant, too,Might be useful. I have it,'Sage Oil', perhaps he'll be good now; with it we'll submitThis fine German rouge. I fear he is pale.""Monsieur Antoine, don't railAt misfortune. He treated me well and fairly.""And you prefer him to Bourbons, admit it squarely.""Heaven forbid!" Bang! Whack!Squeak! Squeak! Crack!CRASH!"Oh, Lord, Martin! That shield is hash.The whole street is covered with golden bees.They look like so many yellow peas,Lying there in the mud. I'd like to paint it.'Plum pudding of Empire'. That's rather quaint, itMight take with the Kings. Shall I try?" "Oh, Sir,You distress me, you do." "Poor old Martin's purr!But he hasn't a scratch in him, I know.Now let us get back to the powders and patches.Foolish man,The Kings are here now. We must hit on a planTo change all these titles as fast as we can.'Bouquet Imperatrice'. Tut! Tut! Give me some ink—'Bouquet de la Reine', what do you think?Not the same receipt?Now, Martin, put away your conceit.Who will ever know?'Extract of Nobility'—excellent, since most of them are killed.""But, Monsieur Antoine—""You are self-willed,Martin. You need a salveFor your conscience, do you?Very well, we'll halveThe compliments, also the pastes and dentifrices;Send some to the Kings, and some to the Empresses.'Oil of Bitter Almonds'—the Empress Josephine can have that.'Oil of Parma Violets' fits the other one pat."Rap! Rap! Bang!"What a hideous clatter!Blaise seems determined to batterThat poor old turkey into bits,And pound to jelly my excellent wits.Come, come, Martin, you mustn't shirk.'The night cometh soon'—etc. Don't jerkMe up like that. 'Essence de la Valliere'—That has a charmingly Bourbon air.And, oh! Magnificent! Listen to this!—'Vinaigre des Quatre Voleurs'. Nothing amissWith that—England, Austria, Russia and Prussia!Martin, you're a wonder,Upheavals of continents can't keep you under.""Monsieur Antoine, I am grieved indeedAt such levity. What France has gone through—""Very true, Martin, very true,But never forget that a man must feed."Pound! Pound! Thump!Pound!"Look here, in another minute Blaise will drop that bird on the ground."Martin shrugs his shoulders. "Ah, well, what then?—"Antoine, with a laugh: "I'll give you two sous for that antiquated hen."The Imperial Eagle sells for two sous,And the lilies go up.A man must choose!
IIIParis, April, 1814Cold, impassive, the marble arch of the Place du Carrousel.Haughty, contemptuous, the marble arch of the Place du Carrousel.Like a woman raped by force, rising above her fate,Borne up by the cold rigidity of hate,Stands the marble arch of the Place du Carrousel.Tap! Clink-a-tink!Tap! Rap! Chink!What falls to the ground like a streak of flame?Hush! It is only a bit of bronze flashing in the sun.What are all those soldiers? Those are not the uniforms of France.Alas! No! The uniforms of France, Great Imperial France, are done.They will rot away in chests and hang to dusty tatters in barn lofts.These are other armies. And their name?Hush, be still for shame;Be still and imperturbable like the marble arch.Another bright spark falls through the blue air.Over the Place du Carrousel a wailing of despair.Crowd your horses back upon the people, Uhlans and Hungarian Lancers,They see too much.Unfortunately, Gentlemen of the Invading Armies, what they do not see,they hear.Tap! Clink-a-tink!Tap!Another sharp spearOf brightness,And a ringing of quick metal lightnessOn hard stones.Workmen are chipping off the names of Napoleon's victoriesFrom the triumphal arch of the Place du Carrousel.Do they need so much force to quell the crowd?An old Grenadier of the line groans aloud,And each hammer tap points the sob of a woman.Russia, Prussia, Austria, and the faded-white-lily Bourbon kingThink it wellTo guard against tumult,A mob is an undependable thing.Ding! Ding!Vienna is scattered all over the Place du CarrouselIn glittering, bent, and twisted letters.Your betters have clattered over Vienna before,Officer of his Imperial Majesty our Father-in-Law!Tink! Tink!A workman's chisel can strew you to the winds,Munich.Do they thinkTo pleasure Paris, used to the fall of cities,By giving her a fall of letters!It is a month too late.One month, and our lily-white Bourbon kingHas done a colossal thing;He has curdled love,And soured the desires of a people.Still the letters fall,The workmen creep up and down their ladders like lizards on a wall.Tap! Tap! Tink!Clink! Clink!"Oh, merciful God, they will not touch Austerlitz!Strike me blind, my God, my eyes can never look on that.I would give the other leg to save it, it took one.Curse them! Curse them! Aim at his hat.Give me the stone. Why didn't you give it to me?I would not have missed. Curse him!Curse all of them! They have got the 'A'!"Ding! Ding!"I saw the Terror, but I never saw so horrible a thing as this.'Vive l'Empereur! Vive l'Empereur!'""Don't strike him, Fritz.The mob will rise if you do.Just run him out to the 'quai',That will get him out of the way.They are almost through."Clink! Tink! Ding!Clear as the sudden ringOf a bell"Z" strikes the pavement.Farewell, Austerlitz, Tilsit, Presbourg;Farewell, greatness departed.Farewell, Imperial honours, knocked broadcast by the beating hammersof ignorant workmen.Straight, in the Spring moonlight,Rises the deflowered arch.In the silence, shining bright,She stands naked and unsubdued.Her marble coldness will endure the marchOf decades.Rend her bronzes, hammers;Cast down her inscriptions.She is unconquerable, austere,Cold as the moon that swims above herWhen the nights are clear.
IVCroissy, Ile-de-France, June, 1815"Whoa! Victorine.Devil take the mare! I've never seen so vicious a beast.She kicked Jules the last time she was here,He's been lame ever since, poor chap."Rap! Tap!Tap-a-tap-a-tap! Tap! Tap!"I'd rather be lame than dead at Waterloo, M'sieu Charles.""Sacre Bleu! Don't mention Waterloo, and the damned grinning British.We didn't run in the old days.There wasn't any running at Jena.Those were decent days,And decent men, who stood up and fought.We never got beaten, because we wouldn't be.See!""You would have taught them, wouldn't you, Sergeant Boignet?But to-day it's everyone for himself,And the Emperor isn't what he was.""How the Devil do you know that?If he was beaten, the causeIs the green geese in his army, led by traitors.Oh, I say no names, Monsieur Charles,You needn't hammer so loud.If there are any spies lurking behind the bellows,I beg they come out. Dirty fellows!"The old Sergeant seizes a red-hot pokerAnd advances, brandishing it, into the shadows.The rows of horses flickPlacid tails.Victorine gives a savage kickAs the nailsGo in. Tap! Tap!Jules draws a horseshoe from the fireAnd beats it from red to peacock-blue and black,Purpling darker at each whack.Ding! Dang! Dong!Ding-a-ding-dong!It is a long time since any one spoke.Then the blacksmith brushes his hand over his eyes,"Well," he sighs,"He's broke."The Sergeant charges out from behind the bellows."It's the green geese, I tell you,Their hearts are all whites and yellows,There's no red in them. Red!That's what we want. Fouche should be fedTo the guillotine, and all Paris dance the carmagnole.That would breed jolly fine lick-bloodsTo lead his armies to victory.""Ancient history, Sergeant.He's done.""Say that again, Monsieur Charles, and I'll stunYou where you stand for a dung-eating Royalist."The Sergeant gives the poker a savage twist;He is as purple as the cooling horseshoes.The air from the bellows creaks through the flues.Tap! Tap! The blacksmith shoes Victorine,And through the doorway a fine sheenOf leaves flutters, with the sun between.By a spurt of fire from the forgeYou can see the Sergeant, with swollen gorge,Puffing, and gurgling, and choking;The bellows keep on croaking.They wheeze,And sneeze,Creak! Bang! Squeeze!And the hammer strokes fall like buzzing beesOr pattering rain,Or faster than these,Like the hum of a waterfall struck by a breeze.Clank! from the bellows-chain pulled up and down.Clank!And sunshine twinkles on Victorine's flank,Starting it to blue,Dropping it to black.Clack! Clack!Tap-a-tap! Tap!Lord! What galloping! Some mishapIs making that man ride so furiously."Francois, you!Victorine won't be throughFor another quarter of an hour." "As you hope to die,Work faster, man, the order has come.""What order? Speak out. Are you dumb?""A chaise, without arms on the panels, at the gateIn the far side-wall, and just to wait.We must be there in half an hour with swift cattle.You're a stupid fool if you don't hear that rattle.Those are German guns. Can't you guess the rest?Nantes, Rochefort, possibly Brest."Tap! Tap! as though the hammers were mad.Dang! Ding! Creak! The farrier's ladJerks the bellows till he cracks their bones,And the stifled air hiccoughs and groans.The Sergeant is lying on the floorStone dead, and his hat with the tricoloreCockade has rolled off into the cinders. Victorine snorts and lays backher ears.What glistens on the anvil? Sweat or tears?
VSt. Helena, May, 1821Tap! Tap! Tap!Through the white tropic night.Tap! Tap!Beat the hammers,Unwearied, indefatigable.They are hanging dull black cloth about the dead.Lustreless black clothWhich chokes the radiance of the moonlightAnd puts out the little moving shadows of leaves.Tap! Tap!The knocking makes the candles quaver,And the long black hangings waverTap! Tap! Tap!Tap! Tap!In the ears which do not heed.Tap! Tap!Above the eyelids which do not flicker.Tap! Tap!Over the hands which do not stir.Chiselled like a cameo of white agate against the hangings,Struck to brilliance by the falling moonlight,A face!Sharp as a frozen flame,Beautiful as an altar lamp of silver,And still. Perfectly still.In the next room, the men chatterAs they eat their midnight lunches.A knife hits against a platter.But the figure on the bedBetween the stifling black hangingsIs cold and motionless,Played over by the moonlight from the windowsAnd the indistinct shadows of leaves.Tap! Tap!Upholsterer Darling has a fine shop in Jamestown.Tap! Tap!Andrew Darling has ridden hard from Longwood to see to the work in his shopin Jamestown.He has a corps of men in it, toiling and swearing,Knocking, and measuring, and planing, and squaring,Working from a chart with figures,Comparing with their rules,Setting this and that part together with their tools.Tap! Tap! Tap!Haste indeed!So great is the needThat carpenters have been taken from the new church,Joiners have been called from shaping pews and lecternsTo work of greater urgency.Coffins!Coffins is what they are making this bright Summer morning.Coffins—and all to measurement.There is a tin coffin,A deal coffin,A lead coffin,And Captain Bennett's best mahogany dining-tableHas been sawed up for the grand outer coffin.Tap! Tap! Tap!Sunshine outside in the square,But inside, only hollow coffins and the tapping upon them.The men whistle,And the coffins grow under their hammersIn the darkness of the shop.Tap! Tap! Tap!Tramp of men.Steady tramp of men.Slit-eyed Chinese with long pigtailsBearing oblong things upon their shouldersMarch slowly along the road to Longwood.Their feet fall softly in the dust of the road;Sometimes they call gutturally to each other and stop to shift shoulders.Four coffins for the little dead man,Four fine coffins,And one of them Captain Bennett's dining-table!And sixteen splendid Chinamen, all strong and ableAnd of assured neutrality.Ah! George of England, Lord Bathhurst & Co.Your princely munificence makes one's heart glow.Huzza! Huzza! For the Lion of England!Tap! Tap! Tap!Marble likeness of an Emperor,Dead man, who burst your heart against a world too narrow,The hammers drum you to your last throneWhich always you shall hold alone.Tap! Tap!The glory of your past is faded as a sunset fire,Your day lingers only like the tones of a wind-lyreIn a twilit room.Here is the emptiness of your dreamScattered about you.Coins of yesterday,Double napoleons stamped with Consul or Emperor,Strange as those of Herculaneum—And you just dead!Not one spool of threadWill these buy in any market-place.Lay them over him,They are the baubles of a crown of mistWorn in a vision and melted away at waking.Tap! Tap!His heart strained at kingdomsAnd now it is content with a silver dish.Strange World! Strange Wayfarer!Strange Destiny!Lower it gently beside him and let it lie.Tap! Tap! Tap!
Reign of Louis Philippe
A great tall column spearing at the skyWith a little man on top. Goodness! Tell me why?He looks a silly thing enough to stand up there so high.What a strange fellow, like a soldier in a play,Tight-fitting coat with the tails cut away,High-crowned hat which the brims overlay.Two-horned hat makes an outline like a bow.Must have a sword, I can see the light glowBetween a dark line and his leg. VertigoI get gazing up at him, a pygmy flashed with sun.A weathercock or scarecrow or both things in one?As bright as a jewelled crown hung above a throne.Say, what is the use of him if he doesn't turn?Just put up to glitter there, like a torch to burn,A sort of sacrificial show in a lofty urn?But why a little soldier in an obsolete dress?I'd rather see a Goddess with a spear, I confess.Something allegorical and fine. Why, yes—I cannot take my eyes from him. I don't know why at all.I've looked so long the whole thing swims. I feel he ought to fall.Foreshortened there among the clouds he's pitifully small.What do you say? There used to be an Emperor standing there,With flowing robes and laurel crown. Really? Yet I declareThose spiral battles round the shaft don't seem just his affair.A togaed, laurelled man's I mean. Now this chap seems to feelAs though he owned those soldiers. Whew! How he makes one reel,Swinging round above his circling armies in a wheel.Sweeping round the sky in an orbit like the sun's,Flashing sparks like cannon-balls from his own long guns.Perhaps my sight is tired, but that figure simply stuns.How low the houses seem, and all the people are mere flies.That fellow pokes his hat up till it scratches on the skies.Impudent! Audacious! But, by Jove, he blinds the eyes!
Into the brazen, burnished sky, the cry hurls itself. The zigzagging cry of hoarse throats, it floats against the hard winds, and binds the head of the serpent to its tail, the long snail-slow serpent of marching men. Men weighed down with rifles and knapsacks, and parching with war. The cry jars and splits against the brazen, burnished sky.
This is the war of wars, and the cause? Has this writhing worm of men a cause?
Crackling against the polished sky is an eagle with a sword. The eagle is red and its head is flame.
In the shoulder of the worm is a teacher.
His tongue laps the war-sucked air in drought, but he yells defiance at the red-eyed eagle, and in his ears are the bells of new philosophies, and their tinkling drowns the sputter of the burning sword. He shrieks, "God damn you! When you are broken, the word will strike out new shoots."
His boots are tight, the sun is hot, and he may be shot, but he is in the shoulder of the worm.
A dust speck in the worm's belly is a poet.
He laughs at the flaring eagle and makes a long nose with his fingers. He will fight for smooth, white sheets of paper, and uncurdled ink. The sputtering sword cannot make him blink, and his thoughts are wet and rippling. They cool his heart.
He will tear the eagle out of the sky and give the earth tranquillity, and loveliness printed on white paper.
The eye of the serpent is an owner of mills.
He looks at the glaring sword which has snapped his machinery and struck away his men.
But it will all come again, when the sword is broken to a million dying stars, and there are no more wars.
Bankers, butchers, shop-keepers, painters, farmers—men, sway and sweat. They will fight for the earth, for the increase of the slow, sure roots of peace, for the release of hidden forces. They jibe at the eagle and his scorching sword.
One! Two!—One! Two!—clump the heavy boots. The cry hurtles against the sky.
Each man pulls his belt a little tighter, and shifts his gun to make it lighter. Each man thinks of a woman, and slaps out a curse at the eagle. The sword jumps in the hot sky, and the worm crawls on to the battle, stubbornly.
This is the war of wars, from eye to tail the serpent has one cause: PEACE!