ACT SIXTHSCENE ITHE FIELD OF AUSTERLITZ. THE FRENCH POSITION[The night is the 1st of December following, and the eve of thebattle. The view is from the elevated position of the Emperor’sbivouac. The air cuts keen and the sky glistens with stars, butthe lower levels are covered with a white fog stretching like asea, from which the heights protrude as dusky rocks.To the left are discernible high and wooded hills. In the frontmid-distance the plateau of Pratzen outstands, declining suddenlyon the right to a low flat country covered with marshes and poolsnow mostly obscured. On the plateau itself are seen innumerableand varying lights, marking the bivouac of the centre divisionsof the Austro-Russian army. Close to the foreground the fires ofthe French are burning, surrounded by soldiery. The invisiblepresence of the countless thousand of massed humanity that composethe two armies makes itself felt indefinably.The tent of NAPOLÉON rises nearest at hand, with sentinel andother military figures looming around, and saddled horses heldby attendants. The accents of the Emperor are audible, throughthe canvas from inside, dictating a proclamation.]VOICE OF NAPOLÉON“Soldiers, the hordes of Muscovy now face you,To mend the Austrian overthrow at Ulm!But how so? Are not these the self-same bandsYou met and swept aside at Hollabrunn,And whose retreating forms, dismayed to flight,Your feet pursued along the trackways here?“Our own position, massed and menacing,Is rich in chance for opportune attack;For, say they march to cross and turn our right—A course almost at their need—their stretching flankWill offer us, from points now prearranged—-”VOICE OF A MARSHALShows it, your Majesty, the warinessThat marks your usual far-eye policy,To openly announce your tactics thusSome twelve hours ere their form can actualize?THE VOICE OF NAPOLÉONThe zest such knowledge will impart to allIs worth the risk of leakages. [To Secretary]Write on.[Dictation resumed]“Soldiers, your sections I myself shall lead;But ease your minds who would expostulateAgainst my undue rashness. If your zealSow hot confusion in the hostile filesAs your old manner is, and in our rushWe mingle with our foes, I’ll use fit care.Nevertheless, should issues stand at pauseBut for a wink-while, that time you will eyeYour Emperor the foremost in the shock,Taking his risk with every ranksman here.For victory, men, must be no thing surmised,As that which may or may not beam on us,Like noontide sunshine on a dubious morn;It must be sure!—The honour and the fameOf France’s gay and gallant infantry—So dear, so cherished all the Empire through—Binds us to compass it!Maintain the ranks;Let none be thinned by impulse or excuseOf bearing back the wounded: and, in fine,Be every one in this conviction firm:—That ’tis our sacred bond to overthrowThese hirelings of a country not their own:Yea, England’s hirelings, they!—a realm stiff-steeledIn deathless hatred of our land and lives.“The campaign closes with this victory;And we return to find our standards joinedBy vast young armies forming now in France.Forthwith resistless, Peace establish we,Worthy of you, the nation, and of me!”“NAPOLÉON.”[To his Marshals]So shall we prostrate these paid slaves of hers—England’s, I mean—the root of all the war.VOICE OF MURATThe further details sent of TrafalgarAre not assuring.VOICE OF LANNESWhat may the details be?VOICE OF NAPOLÉON [moodily]We learn that six-and-twenty ships of war,During the fight and after, struck their flags,And that the tigerish gale throughout the nightGave fearful finish to the English rage.By luck their Nelson’s gone, but gone withalAre twenty thousand prisoners, taken offTo gnaw their finger-nails in British hulks.Of our vast squadrons of the summer-timeBut rags and splintered remnants now remain.—Thuswise Villeneuve, poor craven, quitted him!And England puffed to yet more bombastry.—Well, well; I can’t be everywhere. No matter;A victory’s brewing here as counterpoise!These water-rats may paddle in their salt slush,And welcome. ’Tis not long they’ll have the lead.Ships can be wrecked by land!ANOTHER VOICEAnd how by land,Your Majesty, if one may query such?VOICE OF NAPOLÉON [sardonically]I’ll bid all states of Europe shut their portsTo England’s arrogant bottoms, slowly starveHer bloated revenues and monstrous trade,Till all her hulls lie sodden in their docks,And her grey island eyes in vain shall seekOne jack of hers upon the ocean plains!VOICE OF SOULTA few more master-strokes, your Majesty,Must be dealt hereabout to compass such!VOICE OF NAPOLÉONGod, yes!—Even here Pitt’s guineas are the foes:’Tis all a duel ’twixt this Pitt and me;And, more than Russia’s host, and Austria’s flower,I everywhere to-night around me feelAs from an unseen monster haunting nighHis country’s hostile breath!—But come: to choke itBy our to-morrow’s feats, which now, in brief,I recapitulate.—First Soult will moveTo forward the grand project of the day:Namely: ascend in echelon, right to front,With Vandamme’s men, and those of Saint Hilaire:Legrand’s division somewhere further back—Nearly whereat I place my finger here—To be there reinforced by tirailleurs:Lannes to the left here, on the Olmutz road,Supported by Murat’s whole cavalry.While in reserve, here, are the grenadiersOf Oudinot, the corps of Bernadotte,Rivaud, Drouet, and the Imperial Guard.MARSHAL’S VOICESEven as we understood, Sire, and have ordered.Nought lags but day, to light our victory!VOICE OF NAPOLÉONNow let us up and ride the bivouacs round,And note positions ere the soldiers sleep.—Omit not from to-morrow’s home dispatchDirection that this blow of TrafalgarBe hushed in all the news-sheets sold in France,Or, if reported, let it be portrayedAs a rash fight whereout we came not worst,But were so broken by the boisterous eveThat England claims to be the conqueror.[There emerge from the tent NAPOLÉON and the marshals, who allmount the horses that are led up, and proceed through the frostand time towards the bivouacs. At the Emperor’s approach to thenearest soldiery they spring up.]SOLDIERSThe Emperor! He’s here! The Emperor’s here!AN OLD GRENADIER [approaching Napoléon familiarly]We’ll bring thee Russian guns and flags galore.To celebrate thy coronation-day![They gather into wisps the straw, hay, and other litter on whichthey have been lying, and kindling these at the dying fires, wavethem as torches. This is repeated as each fire is reached, tillthe whole French position is one wide illumination. The mostenthusiastic of the soldiers follow the Emperor in a throng ashe progresses, and his whereabouts in the vast field is denotedby their cries.]CHORUS OF PITIES [aerial music]Strange suasive pull of personality!CHORUS OF IRONIC SPIRITSHis projects they unknow, his grin unsee!CHORUS OF THE PITIESTheir luckless hearts say blindly—He![The night-shades close over.]SCENE IITHE SAME. THE RUSSIAN POSITION[Midnight at the quarters of FIELD-MARSHAL PRINCE KUTÚZOF atKresnowitz. An inner apartment is discovered, roughly adaptedas a council-room. On a table with candles is unfolded a largemap of Austerlitz and its environs.The Generals are assembled in consultation round the table,WEIROTHER pointing to the map, LANGERON, BUXHÖVDEN, andMILORADOVICH standing by, DOKHTÓROF bending over the map,PRSCHEBISZEWSKY13indifferently walking up and down. KUTÚZOF,old and weary, with a scarred face and only one eye, is seatedin a chair at the head of the table, nodding, waking, andnodding again. Some officers of lower grade are in thebackground, and horses in waiting are heard hoofing and champingoutside.WEIROTHER speaks, referring to memoranda, snuffing the nearestcandle, and moving it from place to place on the map as heproceeds importantly.]WEIROTHERNow here, our right, along the Olmutz RoadWill march and oust our counterfacers there,Dislodge them from the Sainton Hill, and thenceAdvance direct to Brunn.—You heed me, sirs?—The cavalry will occupy the plain:Our centre and main strength,—you follow me?—Count Langeron, Dokhtórof, with PrschebiszewskyAnd Kollowrath—now on the Pratzen heights—Will down and cross the Goldbach rivulet,Seize Tilnitz, Kobelnitz, and hamlets nigh,Turn the French right, move onward in their rear,Cross Schwarsa, hold the great Vienna road:—So, with the nightfall, centre, right, and left,Will rendezvous beneath the walls of Brunn.LANGERON [taking a pinch of snuff]Good, General; very good!—if BonaparteWill kindly stand and let you have your way.But what if he do not!—if he forestallThese sound slow movements, mount the Pratzen hillsWhen we descend, fall on OUR rear forthwith,While we go crying for HIS rear in vain?KUTÚZOF [waking up]Ay, ay, Weirother; that’s the question—eh?WEIROTHER [impatiently]If Bonaparte had meant to climb up there,Being one so spry and so determinate,He would have set about it ere this eve!He has not troops to do so, sirs, I say:His utmost strength is forty thousand men.LANGERONThen if so weak, how can so wise a brainCourt ruin by abiding calmly hereThe impact of a force so large as ours?He may be mounting up this very hour!What think you, General Miloradovich?MILORADOVICHI? What’s the use of thinking, when to-morrowWill tell us, with no need to think at all!WEIROTHERPah! At this moment he retires apace.His fires are dark; all sounds have ceased that waySave voice of owl or mongrel wintering there.But, were he nigh, these movements I detailWould knock the bottom from his enterprize.KUTÚZOF [rising]Well, well. Now this being ordered, set it going.One here shall make fair copies of the notes,And send them round. Colonel van Toll I askTo translate part.—Generals, it grows full late,And half-a-dozen hours of needed sleepWill aid us more than maps. We now disperse,And luck attend us all. Good-night. Good-night.[The Generals and other officers go out severally.]Such plans are—paper! Only to-morrow’s lightReveals the true manoeuvre to my sight![He flaps out with his hand all the candles but one or two,slowly walks outside the house, and listens. On the highground in the direction of the French lines are heard shouts,and a wide illumination grows and strengthens; but the hollowsare still mantled in fog.]Are these the signs of regiments out of heart,And beating backward from an enemy![He remains pondering. On the Pratzen heights immediately in frontthere begins a movement among the Russians, signifying that the planwhich involves desertion of that vantage-ground is about to be putin force. Noises of drunken singing arise from the Russian lines atvarious points elsewhere.The night shades involve the whole.]SCENE IIITHE SAME. THE FRENCH POSITION[Shortly before dawn on the morning of the 2nd of December. Awhite frost and fog still prevail in the low-lying areas; butoverhead the sky is clear. A dead silence reigns.NAPOLÉON, on a grey horse, closely attended by BERTHIER, andsurrounded by MARSHALS SOULT, LANNES, MURAT, and their aides-decamp, all cloaked, is discernible in the gloom riding downfrom the high ground before Bellowitz, on which they havebivouacked, to the village of Puntowitz on the Goldbach stream,quite near the front of the Russian position of the day beforeon the Pratzen crest. The Emperor and his companions come toa pause, look around and upward to the hills, and listen.]NAPOLÉONTheir bivouac fires, that lit the top last night,Are all extinct.LANNESAnd hark you, Sire; I catchA sound which, if I err not, means the thingWe have hoped, and hoping, feared fate would not yield!NAPOLÉONMy God, it surely is the tramp of horseAnd jolt of cannon downward from the hillToward our right here, by the swampy lakesThat face Davout? Thus, as I sketched, they work!MURATYes! They already move upon Tilnitz.NAPOLÉONLeave them alone! Nor stick nor stone we’ll stirTo interrupt them. Nought that we can schemeWill help us like their own stark sightlessness!—Let them get down to those white lowlands there,And so far plunge in the level that no skill,When sudden vision flashes on their fault,Can help them, though despair-stung, to regainThe key to mastery held at yestereve!Meantime move onward these divisions hereUnder the fog’s kind shroud; descend the slope,And cross the stream below the Russian lines:There halt concealed, till I send down the word.[NAPOLÉON and his staff retire to the hill south-east of Bellowitzand the day dawns pallidly.]’Tis good to get above that rimy cloakAnd into cleaner air. It chilled me through.[When they reach the summit they are over the fog: and suddenlythe sun breaks forth to the left of Pratzen, illuminating theash-hued face of NAPOLÉON and the faces of those around him.All eyes are turned first to the sun, and thence to look forthe dense masses of men that had occupied the upland the nightbefore.]MURATI see them not. The plateau seems deserted!NAPOLÉONGone; verily!—Ah, how much will you bid,An hour hence, for the coign abandoned now!The battle’s ours.—It was, then, their rash marchDownwards to Tilnitz and the Goldbach swampsBefore dawn, that we heard.—No hurry, Lannes!Enjoy this sun, that rests its chubby jowlUpon the plain, and thrusts its bristling beardAcross the lowlands’ fleecy counterpane,Peering beneath our broadest hat-brims’ shade....Soult, how long hence to win the Pratzen top?SOULTSome twenty minutes or less, your Majesty:Our troops down there, still mantled by the mist,Are half upon the way.NAPOLÉONGood! Set forthwithVandamme and Saint Hilaire to mount the slopes—-[Firing begins in the marsh to the right by Tilnitz and the pools,though the thick air yet hides the operations.]O, there you are, blind boozy Buxhövden!Achieve your worst. Davout will hold you firm.[The head of and aide-de-camp rises through the fog on thatside, and he hastens up to NAPOLÉON and his companions, to whomthe officer announces what has happened. DAVOUT rides off,disappearing legs first into the white stratum that covers theattack.]Lannes and Murat, you have concern enoughHere on the left, with Prince BagrationAnd all the Austro-Russian cavalry.Haste off. The victory promising to-dayWill, like a thunder-clap, conclude the war![The Marshals with their aides gallop away towards their respectivedivisions. Soon the two divisions under SOULT are seen ascendingin close column the inclines of the Pratzen height. Thereupon theheads of the Russian centre columns disclose themselves, breakingthe sky-line of the summit from the other side, in a desperateattempt to regain the position vacated by the Russian left. Afierce struggle develops there between SOULT’S divisions and these,who, despite their tardy attempt to recover the lost post ofdominance, are pressed by the French off the slopes into thelowland.]SEMICHORUS I OF THE PITIES [aerial music]O Great Necessitator, heed us now!If it indeed must beThat this day Austria smoke with slaughtery,Quicken the issue as Thou knowest how;And dull their lodgment in a flesh that galls!SEMICHORUS IIIf it be in the future human storyTo lift this man to yet intenser glory,Let the exploit be doneWith the least sting, or none,To those, his kind, at whose expense such pitch is won!SPIRIT OF THE YEARSAgain ye deprecate the World-Soul’s wayThat I so long have told? Then note anew[Since ye forget] the ordered potencies,Nerves, sinews, trajects, eddies, ducts of ItThe Eternal Urger, pressing change on change.[At once, as earlier, a preternatural clearness possesses theatmosphere of the battle-field, in which the scene becomesanatomized and the living masses of humanity transparent. Thecontrolling Immanent Will appears therein, as a brain-likenetwork of currents and ejections, twitching, interpenetrating,entangling, and thrusting hither and thither the human forms.]SEMICHORUS I OF IRONIC SPIRITS [aerial music]O Innocents, can ye forgetThat things to be were shaped and setEre mortals and this planet met?SEMICHORUS IIStand ye apostrophizing ThatWhich, working all, works but thereatLike some sublime fermenting-vat.SEMICHORUS IHeaving throughout its vast contentWith strenuously transmutive bentThough of its aim insentient?—SEMICHORUS IICould ye have seen Its early deedsYe would not cry, as one who pleadsFor quarter, when a Europe bleeds!SEMICHORUS IEre ye, young Pities, had upgrownFrom out the deeps where mortals moanAgainst a ruling not their own,SEMICHORUS IIHe of the Years beheld, and we,Creation’s prentice artistryExpress in forms that now unbeSEMICHORUS ITentative dreams from day to day;Mangle its types, re-knead the clayIn some more palpitating way;SEMICHORUS IIBeheld the rarest wrecked amain,Whole nigh-perfected species slainBy those that scarce could boast a brain;SEMICHORUS ISaw ravage, growth, diminish, add,Here peoples sane, there peoples mad,In choiceless throws of good and bad;SEMICHORUS IIHeard laughters at the ruthless doomsWhich tortured to the eternal gloomsQuick, quivering hearts in hecatombs.CHORUSUs Ancients, then, it ill befitsTo quake when Slaughter’s spectre flitsAthwart this field of Austerlitz!SHADE OF THE EARTHPain not their young compassions by such lore,But hold you mute, and read the battle yonder:The moment marks the day’s catastrophe.SCENE IVTHE SAME. THE RUSSIAN POSITION[It is about noon, and the vital spectacle is now near the villageof Tilnitz. The fog has dispersed, and the sun shines clearly,though without warmth, the ice on the pools gleaming under itsradiance.GENERAL BUXHÖVDEN and his aides-de-camp have reined up, and remainat pause on a hillock. The General watches through a glass hisbattalions, which are still disputing the village. Suddenlyapproach down the track from the upland of Pratzen large companiesof Russian infantry helter-skelter. COUNT LANGERON is beheld tobe retreating with them; and soon, pale and agitated, he hastensup to GENERAL BUXHÖVDEN, whose face is flushed.]LANGERONWhile they are upon us you stay idle here!Prschebiszewsky’s column is distraught and rent,And more than half my own made captive! Yea,Kreznowitz carried, and Sokolnitz hemmed:The enemy’s whole strength will stound you soon!BUXHÖVDENYou seem to see the enemy everywhere.LANGERONYou cannot see them, be they here or no!BUXHÖVDENI only wait Prschebiszewsky’s nearing corpsTo join Dokhtórof’s to them. Here they come.[SOULT, supported by BERNADOTTE and OUDINOT, having cleared andsecured the Pratzen height, his battalions are perceived descendingfrom it on this side, behind DOKHTÓROF’S division, so placing thelatter between themselves and the pools.]LANGERONYou cannot tell the Frenchmen from ourselves!These are the victors.—Ah—Dokhtórof—lost![DOKHTÓROF’S troops are seen to be retreating towards the water.The watchers stand in painful tenseness.]BUXHÖVDENDokhtórof tell to save him as he may!We, Count, must gather up our shaken fleshAnd hurry them by the road through Austerlitz.[BUXHÖVDEN’S regiments and the remains of LANGERON’S are ralliedand collected, and they retreat by way of the hamlet of Aujezd.As they go over the summit of a hill BUXHÖVDEN looks back.LANGERON’S columns, which were behind his own, have been cutoff by VANDAMME’S division coming down from the Pratzen plateau.This and some detachments from DOKHTÓROF’S column rush towardsthe Satschan lake and endeavour to cross it on the ice. Itcracks beneath their weight. At the same moment NAPOLÉON andhis brilliant staff appear on the top of the Pratzen.The Emperor watches the scene with a vulpine smile; and directsa battery near at hand to fire down upon the ice on which theRussians are crossing. A ghastly crash and splashing followsthe discharge, the shining surface breaking into pieces like amirror, which fly in all directions. Two thousand fugitives areengulfed, and their groans of despair reach the ears of thewatchers like ironical huzzas.A general flight of the Russian army from wing to wing is nowdisclosed, involving in its current the EMPEROR ALEXANDER andthe EMPEROR FRANCIS, with the reserve, who are seen towardsAusterlitz endeavouring to rally their troops in vain. Theyare swept along by the disordered soldiery.]SCENE VTHE SAME. NEAR THE WINDMILL OF PALENY[The mill is about seven miles to the southward, between Frenchadvanced posts and the Austrians.A bivouac fire is burning. NAPOLÉON, in grey overcoat andbeaver hat turned up front to back, rides to the spot withBERTHIER, SAVARY, and his aides, and alights. He walks toand fro complacently, meditating or talking to BERTHIER. Twogroups of officers, one from each army, stand in the backgroundon their respective sides.]NAPOLÉONWhat’s this of Alexander? Weep, did he,Like his old namesake, but for meaner cause?Ha, ha!BERTHIERWord goes, you Majesty, that Colonel Toll,One of Field-Marshal Price Kutúzof’s staff,In the retreating swirl of overthrow,Found Alexander seated on a stone,Beneath a leafless roadside apple-tree,Out here by Goding on the Holitsch way;His coal-black uniform and snowy plumeUnmarked, his face disconsolate, his grey eyesMourning in tears the fate of his brave array—All flying southward, save the steadfast slain.NAPOLÉONPoor devil!—But he’ll soon get over it—Sooner than his employers oversea!—Ha!—this well make friend Pitt and England writhe,And cloud somewhat their lustrous Trafalgar.[An open carriage approaches from the direction of Holitsch,accompanied by a small escort of Hungarian guards. NAPOLÉONwalks forward to meet it as it draws up, and welcomes theAustrian Emperor, who alights. He is wearing a grey cloakover a white uniform, carries a light walking-cane, and isattended by PRINCE JOHN OF LICHTENSTEIN, SWARZENBERG, andothers. His fresh-coloured face contrasts strangely with thebluish pallor of NAPOLÉON’S; but it is now thin and anxious.They formally embrace. BERTHIER, PRINCE JOHN, and the restretire, and the two Emperors are left by themselves before thefire.]NAPOLÉONHere on the roofless ground do I receive you—My only mansion for these two months past!FRANCISYour tenancy thereof has brought such fameThat it must needs be one which charms you, Sire.NAPOLÉONGood! Now this war. It has been forced on meJust at a crisis most inopportune,When all my energies and arms were bentOn teaching England that her watery wallsAre no defence against the wrath of FranceAroused by breach of solemn covenants.FRANCISI had no zeal for violating peaceTill ominous events in ItalyRevealed the gloomy truth that France aspiresTo conquest there, and undue sovereignty.Since when mine eyes have seen no sign outheldTo signify a change of purposings.NAPOLÉONYet there were terms distinctly specifiedTo General Giulay in November past,Whereon I’d gladly fling the sword aside.To wit: that hot armigerent jealousyStir us no further on transalpine rule,I’d take the Isonzo River as our bounds.FRANCISRoundly, that I cede all!—And how may standYour views as to the Russian forces here?NAPOLÉONYou have all to lose by that alliance, Sire.Leave Russia. Let the Emperor AlexanderMake his own terms; whereof the first must beThat he retire from Austrian territory.I’ll grant an armistice therefor. AnonI’ll treat with him to weld a lasting peace,Based on some simple undertakings; chief,That Russian armies keep to the ports of his domain.Meanwhile to you I’ll tender this good word:Keep Austria to herself. To Russia bound,You pay your own costs with your provinces,Alexander’s likewise therewithal.FRANCISI see as much, and long have seen it, Sire;And standing here the vanquished, let me ownWhat happier issues might have left unsaid:Long, long I have lost the wish to bind myselfTo Russia’s purposings and Russia’s risks;Little do I count these alliancesWith Powers that have no substance seizable![As they converse they walk away.]AN AUSTRIAN OFFICERO strangest scene of an eventful life,This junction that I witness here to-day!An Emperor—in whose majestic veinsAeneas and the proud Caesarian lineClaim yet to live; and, those scarce less renowned,The dauntless Hawks’-Hold Counts, of gallantrySo great in fame one thousand years ago—To bend with deference and manners mildIn talk with this adventuring campaigner,Raised but by pikes above the common herd!ANOTHER AUSTRIAN OFFICERAy! There be Satschan swamps and Pratzen heightsIn royal lines, as here at Austerlitz.[The Emperors again draw near.]FRANCISThen, to this armistice, which shall be calledImmediately at all points, I agree;And pledge my word that my august allyAccept it likewise, and withdraw his forceBy daily measured march to his own realm.NAPOLÉONFor him I take your word. And pray believeThat rank ambitions are your own, not mine;That though I have postured as your enemy,And likewise Alexander’s, we are oneIn interests, have in all things common cause.One country sows these mischiefs Europe throughBy her insidious chink of luring ore—False-featured England, who, to aggrandizeHer name, her influence, and her revenues,Schemes to impropriate the whole world’s trade,And starves and bleeds the folk of other lands.Her rock-rimmed situation walls her offLike a slim selfish mollusk in its shellFrom the wide views and fair fraternitiesWhich on the mainland we reciprocate,And quicks her quest for profit in our woes!FRANCISI am not competent, your Majesty,To estimate that country’s conscience now,Nor engage on my ally’s behalfThat English ships be shut from Russian trade.But joyful am I that in all things elseMy promise can be made; and that this dayOur conference ends in friendship and esteem.NAPOLÉONI will send Savary at to-morrow’s blinkAnd make all lucid to the Emperor.For us, I wholly can avow as mineThe cordial spirit of your Majesty.[They retire towards the carriage of FRANCIS. BERTHIER, SAVARY,LICHTENSTEIN, and the suite of officers advance from the background,and with mutual gestures of courtesy and amicable leave-takingsthe two Emperors part company.]CHORUS OF THE PITIES [aerial music]Each for himself, his family, his heirs;For the wan weltering nations who concerns, who cares?CHORUS OF IRONIC SPIRITSA pertinent query, in truth!—But spoil not the sport by your ruth:’Tis enough to make halfYonder zodiac laughWhen rulers begin to alludeTo their lack of ambition,And strong oppositionTo all but the general good!SPIRIT OF THE YEARSHush levities. Events press: turn ye westward.[A nebulous curtain draws slowly across.]SCENE VISHOCKERWICK HOUSE, NEAR BATH[The interior of the Picture Gallery. Enter WILTSHIRE, the owner,and Pitt, who looks emaciated and walks feebly.]WILTSHIRE [pointing to a portrait]Now here you have the lady we discussed:A fine example of his manner, sir?PITTIt is a fine example, sir, indeed,—With that transparency amid the shades,And those thin blue-green-grayish leafagesBehind the pillar in the background there,Which seem the leaves themselves.—Ah, this is Quin.[Moving to another picture.]WILTSHIREYes, Quin. A man of varied parts, though roughAnd choleric at times. Yet, at his best,As Falstaff, never matched, they say. But IHad not the fate to see him in the flesh.PITTChurchill well carves him in his “Character”:—“His eyes, in gloomy socket taught to roll,Proclaimed the sullen habit of his soul.In fancied scenes, as in Life’s real plan,He could not for a moment sink the man:Nature, in spite of all his skill, crept in;Horatio, Dorax, Falstaff—stile ’twas Quin.”—He was at Bath when Gainsborough settled thereIn that house in the Circus which we know.—I like the portrait much.—The brilliancyOf Gainsborough lies in this his double sway:Sovereign of landscape he; of portraitureJoint monarch with Sir Joshua.... Ah?—that’s—hark!Is that the patter of horses’s hoofsAlong the road?WILTSHIREI notice nothing, sir.PITTIt is a gallop, growing quite distinct.And—can it be a messenger for me!WILTSHIREI hope no ugly European newsTo stop the honour of this visit, sir![They listen. The gallop of the horse grows louder, and ischecked at the door of the house. There is a hasty knocking,and a courier, splashed with mud from hard riding, is showninto the gallery. He presents a dispatch to PITT, who sitsdown and hurriedly opens it.]PITT [to himself]O heavy news indeed!... Disastrous; dire![He appears overcome as he sits, and covers his forehead withhis hand.]WILTSHIREI trust you are not ill, sir?PITT [after some moments]Could I haveA little brandy, sir, quick brought to me?WILTSHIREIn one brief minute.[Brandy is brought in, and PITT takes it.]PITTNow leave me, please, alone. I’ll call anon.Is there a map of Europe handy here?[WILTSHIRE fetches a map from the library, and spreads it beforethe minister. WILTSHIRE, courier, and servant go out.]O God that I should live to see this day![He remains awhile in a profound reverie; then resumes the readingof the dispatch.]“Defeated—the Allies—quite overthrownAt Austerlitz—last week.”—Where’s Austerlitz?—But what avails it where the place is now;What corpse is curious on the longitudeAnd situation of his cemetery!...The Austrians and the Russians overcome,That vast adventuring army is set freeTo bend unhindered strength against our strand....So do my plans through all these plodding yearsAnnounce them built in vain!His heel on Europe, monarchies in chainsTo France, I am as though I had never been![He gloomily ponders the dispatch and the map some minutes longer.At last he rises with difficulty, and rings the bell. A servantenters.]Call up my carriage, please you, now at once;And tell your master I return to BathThis moment—I may want a little helpIn getting to the door here.SERVANTSir, I will,And summon you my master instantly.[He goes out and re-enters with WILTSHIRE. PITT is assisted fromthe room.]PITTRoll up that map. ’Twill not be needed nowThese ten years! Realms, laws, peoples, dynasties,Are churning to a pulp within the mawOf empire-making Lust and personal Gain![Exeunt PITT, WILTSHIRE, and the servant; and in a few minutes thecarriage is heard driving off, and the scene closes.]SCENE VIIPARIS. A STREET LEADING TO THE TUILERIES[It is night, and the dim oil lamps reveal a vast concourse ofcitizens of both sexes around the Palace gates and in theneighbouring thoroughfares.]SPIRIT OF THE YEARS [to the Spirit of Rumour]Thou may’st descend and join this crowd awhile,And speak what things shall come into they mouth.SPIRIT SINISTERI’ll harken! I wouldn’t miss it for the groans on anotherAusterlitz![The Spirit of Rumour enters on the scene in the disguise of ayoung foreigner.]SPIRIT [to a street-woman]Lady, a late hour this to be afoot!WOMANPoor profit, then, to me from my true trade,Wherein hot competition is so rifeAlready, since these victories brought to townSo many foreign jobbers in my line,That I’d best hold my tongue from praise of fame!However, one is caught by popular zeal,And though five midnights have not brought a sou,I, too, chantJubilatelike the rest.—In courtesies have haughty monarchs viedTowards the Conqueror! who, with men-at-armsOne quarter theirs, has vanquished by his nerveVast mustering four-hundred-thousand strong,And given new tactics to the art of warUnparalleled in Europe’s history!SPIRITWhat man is this, whose might thou blazonest so—Who makes the earth to tremble, shakes old thrones,And turns the plains to wilderness?WOMANDost askAs ignorant, yet asking can define?What mean you, traveller?SPIRITI am a stranger here,A wandering wight, whose life has not been spentThis side the globe, though I can speak the tongue.WOMANYour air has truth in’t; but your state is strange!Had I a husband he should tackle thee.SPIRITDozens thou hast had—batches more than sheSamaria knew, if now thou hast not one!WOMANWilt take the situation from this hour?SPIRITThou know’st not what thy frailty asks, good dame!WOMANWell, learn in small the Emperor’s chronicle,As gleaned from what my soldier-husbands say:—some five-and-forty standards of his foesAre brought to Paris, borne triumphantlyIn proud procession through the surging streets,Ever as brands of fame to shine aloftIn dim-lit senate-halls and city aisles.SPIRITFair Munich sparkled with festivityAs there awhile he tarried, and was metBy the gay Joséphine your Empress here.—There, too, Eugène—WOMANNapoléon’s stepson he—-SPIRITReceived for gift the hand of fair PrincessAugusta [daughter of Bavaria’s crown,Forced from her plighted troth to Baden’s heir],And, to complete his honouring, was hailedSuccessor to the throne of Italy.WOMANHow know you, ere this news has got abroad?SPIRITChannels have I the common people lack.—There, on the nonce, the forenamed Baden princeWas joined to Stephanie Beauharnais, herWho stands as daughter to the man we wait,Some say as more.WOMANThey do? Then such not I.Can revolution’s dregs so soil thy soulThat thou shouldst doubt the eldest son thereof?’Tis dangerous to insinuate nowadays!SPIRITRight! Lady many-spoused, more charityUpbrims in thee than in some loftier onesWho would not name thee with their white-washed tongues.—Enough. I am one whom, didst thou know my name,Thou would’st not grudge a claim to speak his mind.WOMANA thousand pardons, sir.SPIRITResume thy taleIf so thou wishest.WOMANNay, but you know best—-SPIRITHow laurelled progress through applauding crowdsHave marked his journey home. How Strasburg town,Stuttgart, Carlsruhe, acclaimed him like the rest:How pageantry would here have welcomed him,Had not his speed outstript intelligence—Now will a glimpse of him repay thee. Hark![Shouts arise and increase in the distance, announcing BONAPARTE’Sapproach.]Well, Buonaparte has revived by land,But not by sea. On that thwart elementNever will he incorporate his dream,And float as master!WOMANWhat shall hinder him?SPIRITThat which has hereto. England, so to say.WOMANBut she’s in straits. She lost her Nelson now,[A worthy man: he loved a woman well!]George drools and babbles in a darkened room;Her heaven-born Minister declines apace;All smooths the Emperor’s sway.SPIRITTales have two sides,Sweet lady. Vamped-up versions reach thee here.—That Austerlitz was lustrous none ignores,But would it shock thy garrulousness to knowThat the true measure of this Trafalgar—Utter defeat, ay, France’s naval death—Your Emperor bade be hid?WOMANThe seer’s giftHas never plenteously endowed me, sir,As in appearance you. But to plain senseThing’s seem as stated.SPIRITWe’ll let seemings be.—But know, these English take to liquid lifeRight patly—nursed therefor in infancyBy rimes and rains which creep into their blood,Till like seeks like. The sea is their dry land,And, as on cobbles you, they wayfare there.WOMANHeaven prosper, then, their watery wayfaringsIf they’ll leave us the land!—[The Imperial carriage appears.]The Emperor!—Long live the Emperor!—He’s the best by land.[BONAPARTE’S carriage arrives, without an escort. The streetlamps shine in, and reveal the EMPRESS JOSÉPHINE seated besidehim. The plaudits of the people grow boisterous as they hailhim Victor of Austerlitz. The more active run after the carriage,which turns in from the Rue St. Honore to the Carrousel, andthence vanishes into the Court of the Tuileries.]WOMANMay all success attend his next exploit!SPIRITNamely: to put the knife in England’s trade,And teach her treaty-manners—if he can!WOMANI like not your queer knowledge, creepy man.There’s weirdness in your air. I’d call you ghostHad not the Goddess Reason laid all suchPast Mother Church’s cunning to restore.—Adieu. I’ll not be yours to-night. I’d starve first![She withdraws. The crowd wastes away, and the Spirit vanishes.]SCENE VIIIPUTNEY. BOWLING GREEN HOUSE[PITT’S bedchamber, from the landing without. It is afternoon.At the back of the room as seen through the doorway is a curtainedbed, beside which a woman sits, the LADY HESTER STANHOPE. Bendingover a table at the front of the room is SIR WALTER FARQUHAR, thephysician. PARSLOW the footman and another servant are near thedoor. TOMLINE, the Bishop of Lincoln, enters.]FARQUHAR [in a subdued voice]I grieve to call your lordship up again,But symptoms lately have disclosed themselvesThat mean the knell to the frail life in him.And whatsoever thing of gravityIt may be needful to communicate,Let them be spoken now. Time may not serveIf they be much delayed.TOMLINEAh, stands it this?...The name of his disease is—Austerlitz!His brow’s inscription has been AusterlitzFrom that dire morning in the month just pastWhen tongues of rumour twanged the word acrossFrom its hid nook on the Moravian plains.FARQUHARAnd yet he might have borne it, had the weightOf governmental shackles been unclasped,Even partly, from his limbs last Lammastide,When that despairing journey to the KingAt Gloucester Lodge by Wessex shore was madeTo beg such. But relief the King refused.“Why want you Fox? What—Grenville and his friends?”He harped. “You are sufficient without these—Rather than Fox, why, give me civil war!”And fibre that would rather snap than shrinkHeld out no longer. Now the upshot nears.[LADY HESTER STANHOPE turns her head and comes forward.]LADY HESTERI am grateful you are here again, good friend!He’s sleeping some light seconds; but once moreHas asked for tidings of Lord Harrowby,And murmured of his mission to BerlinAs Europe’s haggard hope; if, sure, it beThat any hope remain!TOMLINEThere’s no news yet.—These several days while I have been sitting by himHe has inquired the quarter of the wind,And where that moment beaked the stable-cock.When I said “East,” he answered “That is well!Those are the breezes that will speed him home!”So cling his heart-strings to his country’s cause.FARQUHARI fear that Wellesley’s visit here by nowStrung him to tensest strain. He quite broke down,And has fast faded since.LADY HESTERAh! now he wakes.Please come and speak to him as you would wish [to TOMLINE].[LADY HESTER, TOMLINE,and FARQUHAR retire behind the bed, wherein a short time voices are heard in prayer. Afterwards theBishop goes to a writing-table, and LADY HESTER comes to thedoorway. Steps are heard on the stairs, and PITT’S friend ROSE,the President of the Board of Trade, appears on the landing andmakes inquiries.]LADY HESTER [whispering]He wills the wardenry of his affairsTo his old friend the Bishop. But his wordsBespeak too much anxiety for me,And underrate his services so farThat he has doubts if his high deeds deserveSuch size of recognition by the StateAs would award slim pensions to his kin.He had been fain to write down his intents,But the quill dropped from his unmuscled hand.—Now his friend Tomline pens what he dictatesAnd gleans the lippings of his last desires.[ROSE and LADY HESTER turn. They see the Bishop bending overthe bed with a sheet of paper on which he has previously beenwriting. A little later he dips a quill and holds it withinthe bed-curtain, spreading the paper beneath. A thin whitehand emerges from behind the curtain and signs the paper. TheBishop beckons forward the two servants, who also sign.FARQUHAR on one side of the bed, and TOMLINE on the other, arespoken to by the dying man. The Bishop afterwards withdrawsfrom the bed and comes to the landing where the others are.]TOMLINEA list of his directions has been drawn,And feeling somewhat more at mental easeHe asks Sir Walter if he has long to live.Farquhar just answered, in a soothing tone,That hope still frailly breathed recovery.At this my dear friend smiled and shook his head,As if to say: “I can translate your words,But I reproach not friendship’s lullabies.”ROSERest he required; and rest was not for him.[FARQUHAR comes forward as they wait.]FARQUHARHis spell of concentration on these things,Determined now, that long have wasted him,Have left him in a numbing lethargy,From which I fear he may not rouse to strengthFor speech with earth again.ROSEBut hark. He does.[The listen.]PITTMy country! How I leave my country!...TOMLINEAh,—Immense the matter those poor words contain!ROSEStill does his soul stay wrestling with that theme,And still it will, even semi-consciously,Until the drama’s done.[They continue to converse by the doorway in whispers. PITTsinks slowly into a stupor, from which he never awakens.]SPIRIT OF THE PITIES [to Spirit of the Years]Do you intend to speak to him ere the close?SPIRIT OF THE YEARSNay, I have spoke too often! Time and time,When all Earth’s light has lain on the nether side,And yapping midnight winds have leapt on the roofs,And raised for him an evil harlequinadeOf national disasters in long train,That tortured him with harrowing grimace,Now I would leave him to pass out in peace,And seek the silence unperturbedly.SPIRIT SINISTEREven ITS official Spirit can show ruthAt man’s fag end, when his destruction’s sure!SPIRIT OF THE YEARSIt suits us ill to cavil each with each.I might retort. I only say to theeITS slaves we are: ITS slaves must ever be!CHORUS [aerial music]Yea, from the Void we fetch, like these,And tarry till That pleaseTo null us by Whose stress we emanate.—Our incorporeal sense,Our overseeings, our supernal state,Our readings Why and Whence,Are but the flower of Man’s intelligence;And that but an unreckoned incidentOf the all-urging Will, raptly magnipotent.[A gauze of shadow overdraws.]
THE FIELD OF AUSTERLITZ. THE FRENCH POSITION[The night is the 1st of December following, and the eve of thebattle. The view is from the elevated position of the Emperor’sbivouac. The air cuts keen and the sky glistens with stars, butthe lower levels are covered with a white fog stretching like asea, from which the heights protrude as dusky rocks.To the left are discernible high and wooded hills. In the frontmid-distance the plateau of Pratzen outstands, declining suddenlyon the right to a low flat country covered with marshes and poolsnow mostly obscured. On the plateau itself are seen innumerableand varying lights, marking the bivouac of the centre divisionsof the Austro-Russian army. Close to the foreground the fires ofthe French are burning, surrounded by soldiery. The invisiblepresence of the countless thousand of massed humanity that composethe two armies makes itself felt indefinably.The tent of NAPOLÉON rises nearest at hand, with sentinel andother military figures looming around, and saddled horses heldby attendants. The accents of the Emperor are audible, throughthe canvas from inside, dictating a proclamation.]
VOICE OF NAPOLÉON“Soldiers, the hordes of Muscovy now face you,To mend the Austrian overthrow at Ulm!But how so? Are not these the self-same bandsYou met and swept aside at Hollabrunn,And whose retreating forms, dismayed to flight,Your feet pursued along the trackways here?“Our own position, massed and menacing,Is rich in chance for opportune attack;For, say they march to cross and turn our right—A course almost at their need—their stretching flankWill offer us, from points now prearranged—-”
VOICE OF A MARSHALShows it, your Majesty, the warinessThat marks your usual far-eye policy,To openly announce your tactics thusSome twelve hours ere their form can actualize?
THE VOICE OF NAPOLÉONThe zest such knowledge will impart to allIs worth the risk of leakages. [To Secretary]Write on.[Dictation resumed]“Soldiers, your sections I myself shall lead;But ease your minds who would expostulateAgainst my undue rashness. If your zealSow hot confusion in the hostile filesAs your old manner is, and in our rushWe mingle with our foes, I’ll use fit care.Nevertheless, should issues stand at pauseBut for a wink-while, that time you will eyeYour Emperor the foremost in the shock,Taking his risk with every ranksman here.For victory, men, must be no thing surmised,As that which may or may not beam on us,Like noontide sunshine on a dubious morn;It must be sure!—The honour and the fameOf France’s gay and gallant infantry—So dear, so cherished all the Empire through—Binds us to compass it!Maintain the ranks;Let none be thinned by impulse or excuseOf bearing back the wounded: and, in fine,Be every one in this conviction firm:—That ’tis our sacred bond to overthrowThese hirelings of a country not their own:Yea, England’s hirelings, they!—a realm stiff-steeledIn deathless hatred of our land and lives.“The campaign closes with this victory;And we return to find our standards joinedBy vast young armies forming now in France.Forthwith resistless, Peace establish we,Worthy of you, the nation, and of me!”“NAPOLÉON.”[To his Marshals]So shall we prostrate these paid slaves of hers—England’s, I mean—the root of all the war.
VOICE OF MURATThe further details sent of TrafalgarAre not assuring.
VOICE OF LANNESWhat may the details be?
VOICE OF NAPOLÉON [moodily]We learn that six-and-twenty ships of war,During the fight and after, struck their flags,And that the tigerish gale throughout the nightGave fearful finish to the English rage.By luck their Nelson’s gone, but gone withalAre twenty thousand prisoners, taken offTo gnaw their finger-nails in British hulks.Of our vast squadrons of the summer-timeBut rags and splintered remnants now remain.—Thuswise Villeneuve, poor craven, quitted him!And England puffed to yet more bombastry.—Well, well; I can’t be everywhere. No matter;A victory’s brewing here as counterpoise!These water-rats may paddle in their salt slush,And welcome. ’Tis not long they’ll have the lead.Ships can be wrecked by land!
ANOTHER VOICEAnd how by land,Your Majesty, if one may query such?
VOICE OF NAPOLÉON [sardonically]I’ll bid all states of Europe shut their portsTo England’s arrogant bottoms, slowly starveHer bloated revenues and monstrous trade,Till all her hulls lie sodden in their docks,And her grey island eyes in vain shall seekOne jack of hers upon the ocean plains!
VOICE OF SOULTA few more master-strokes, your Majesty,Must be dealt hereabout to compass such!
VOICE OF NAPOLÉONGod, yes!—Even here Pitt’s guineas are the foes:’Tis all a duel ’twixt this Pitt and me;And, more than Russia’s host, and Austria’s flower,I everywhere to-night around me feelAs from an unseen monster haunting nighHis country’s hostile breath!—But come: to choke itBy our to-morrow’s feats, which now, in brief,I recapitulate.—First Soult will moveTo forward the grand project of the day:Namely: ascend in echelon, right to front,With Vandamme’s men, and those of Saint Hilaire:Legrand’s division somewhere further back—Nearly whereat I place my finger here—To be there reinforced by tirailleurs:Lannes to the left here, on the Olmutz road,Supported by Murat’s whole cavalry.While in reserve, here, are the grenadiersOf Oudinot, the corps of Bernadotte,Rivaud, Drouet, and the Imperial Guard.
MARSHAL’S VOICESEven as we understood, Sire, and have ordered.Nought lags but day, to light our victory!
VOICE OF NAPOLÉONNow let us up and ride the bivouacs round,And note positions ere the soldiers sleep.—Omit not from to-morrow’s home dispatchDirection that this blow of TrafalgarBe hushed in all the news-sheets sold in France,Or, if reported, let it be portrayedAs a rash fight whereout we came not worst,But were so broken by the boisterous eveThat England claims to be the conqueror.[There emerge from the tent NAPOLÉON and the marshals, who allmount the horses that are led up, and proceed through the frostand time towards the bivouacs. At the Emperor’s approach to thenearest soldiery they spring up.]
SOLDIERSThe Emperor! He’s here! The Emperor’s here!
AN OLD GRENADIER [approaching Napoléon familiarly]We’ll bring thee Russian guns and flags galore.To celebrate thy coronation-day![They gather into wisps the straw, hay, and other litter on whichthey have been lying, and kindling these at the dying fires, wavethem as torches. This is repeated as each fire is reached, tillthe whole French position is one wide illumination. The mostenthusiastic of the soldiers follow the Emperor in a throng ashe progresses, and his whereabouts in the vast field is denotedby their cries.]
CHORUS OF PITIES [aerial music]Strange suasive pull of personality!
CHORUS OF IRONIC SPIRITSHis projects they unknow, his grin unsee!
CHORUS OF THE PITIESTheir luckless hearts say blindly—He![The night-shades close over.]
THE SAME. THE RUSSIAN POSITION[Midnight at the quarters of FIELD-MARSHAL PRINCE KUTÚZOF atKresnowitz. An inner apartment is discovered, roughly adaptedas a council-room. On a table with candles is unfolded a largemap of Austerlitz and its environs.The Generals are assembled in consultation round the table,WEIROTHER pointing to the map, LANGERON, BUXHÖVDEN, andMILORADOVICH standing by, DOKHTÓROF bending over the map,PRSCHEBISZEWSKY13indifferently walking up and down. KUTÚZOF,old and weary, with a scarred face and only one eye, is seatedin a chair at the head of the table, nodding, waking, andnodding again. Some officers of lower grade are in thebackground, and horses in waiting are heard hoofing and champingoutside.WEIROTHER speaks, referring to memoranda, snuffing the nearestcandle, and moving it from place to place on the map as heproceeds importantly.]
WEIROTHERNow here, our right, along the Olmutz RoadWill march and oust our counterfacers there,Dislodge them from the Sainton Hill, and thenceAdvance direct to Brunn.—You heed me, sirs?—The cavalry will occupy the plain:Our centre and main strength,—you follow me?—Count Langeron, Dokhtórof, with PrschebiszewskyAnd Kollowrath—now on the Pratzen heights—Will down and cross the Goldbach rivulet,Seize Tilnitz, Kobelnitz, and hamlets nigh,Turn the French right, move onward in their rear,Cross Schwarsa, hold the great Vienna road:—So, with the nightfall, centre, right, and left,Will rendezvous beneath the walls of Brunn.
LANGERON [taking a pinch of snuff]Good, General; very good!—if BonaparteWill kindly stand and let you have your way.But what if he do not!—if he forestallThese sound slow movements, mount the Pratzen hillsWhen we descend, fall on OUR rear forthwith,While we go crying for HIS rear in vain?
KUTÚZOF [waking up]Ay, ay, Weirother; that’s the question—eh?
WEIROTHER [impatiently]If Bonaparte had meant to climb up there,Being one so spry and so determinate,He would have set about it ere this eve!He has not troops to do so, sirs, I say:His utmost strength is forty thousand men.
LANGERONThen if so weak, how can so wise a brainCourt ruin by abiding calmly hereThe impact of a force so large as ours?He may be mounting up this very hour!What think you, General Miloradovich?
MILORADOVICHI? What’s the use of thinking, when to-morrowWill tell us, with no need to think at all!
WEIROTHERPah! At this moment he retires apace.His fires are dark; all sounds have ceased that waySave voice of owl or mongrel wintering there.But, were he nigh, these movements I detailWould knock the bottom from his enterprize.
KUTÚZOF [rising]Well, well. Now this being ordered, set it going.One here shall make fair copies of the notes,And send them round. Colonel van Toll I askTo translate part.—Generals, it grows full late,And half-a-dozen hours of needed sleepWill aid us more than maps. We now disperse,And luck attend us all. Good-night. Good-night.[The Generals and other officers go out severally.]Such plans are—paper! Only to-morrow’s lightReveals the true manoeuvre to my sight![He flaps out with his hand all the candles but one or two,slowly walks outside the house, and listens. On the highground in the direction of the French lines are heard shouts,and a wide illumination grows and strengthens; but the hollowsare still mantled in fog.]Are these the signs of regiments out of heart,And beating backward from an enemy!
[He remains pondering. On the Pratzen heights immediately in frontthere begins a movement among the Russians, signifying that the planwhich involves desertion of that vantage-ground is about to be putin force. Noises of drunken singing arise from the Russian lines atvarious points elsewhere.The night shades involve the whole.]
THE SAME. THE FRENCH POSITION[Shortly before dawn on the morning of the 2nd of December. Awhite frost and fog still prevail in the low-lying areas; butoverhead the sky is clear. A dead silence reigns.NAPOLÉON, on a grey horse, closely attended by BERTHIER, andsurrounded by MARSHALS SOULT, LANNES, MURAT, and their aides-decamp, all cloaked, is discernible in the gloom riding downfrom the high ground before Bellowitz, on which they havebivouacked, to the village of Puntowitz on the Goldbach stream,quite near the front of the Russian position of the day beforeon the Pratzen crest. The Emperor and his companions come toa pause, look around and upward to the hills, and listen.]
NAPOLÉONTheir bivouac fires, that lit the top last night,Are all extinct.
LANNESAnd hark you, Sire; I catchA sound which, if I err not, means the thingWe have hoped, and hoping, feared fate would not yield!
NAPOLÉONMy God, it surely is the tramp of horseAnd jolt of cannon downward from the hillToward our right here, by the swampy lakesThat face Davout? Thus, as I sketched, they work!
MURATYes! They already move upon Tilnitz.
NAPOLÉONLeave them alone! Nor stick nor stone we’ll stirTo interrupt them. Nought that we can schemeWill help us like their own stark sightlessness!—Let them get down to those white lowlands there,And so far plunge in the level that no skill,When sudden vision flashes on their fault,Can help them, though despair-stung, to regainThe key to mastery held at yestereve!Meantime move onward these divisions hereUnder the fog’s kind shroud; descend the slope,And cross the stream below the Russian lines:There halt concealed, till I send down the word.[NAPOLÉON and his staff retire to the hill south-east of Bellowitzand the day dawns pallidly.]’Tis good to get above that rimy cloakAnd into cleaner air. It chilled me through.[When they reach the summit they are over the fog: and suddenlythe sun breaks forth to the left of Pratzen, illuminating theash-hued face of NAPOLÉON and the faces of those around him.All eyes are turned first to the sun, and thence to look forthe dense masses of men that had occupied the upland the nightbefore.]MURATI see them not. The plateau seems deserted!
NAPOLÉONGone; verily!—Ah, how much will you bid,An hour hence, for the coign abandoned now!The battle’s ours.—It was, then, their rash marchDownwards to Tilnitz and the Goldbach swampsBefore dawn, that we heard.—No hurry, Lannes!Enjoy this sun, that rests its chubby jowlUpon the plain, and thrusts its bristling beardAcross the lowlands’ fleecy counterpane,Peering beneath our broadest hat-brims’ shade....Soult, how long hence to win the Pratzen top?
SOULTSome twenty minutes or less, your Majesty:Our troops down there, still mantled by the mist,Are half upon the way.
NAPOLÉONGood! Set forthwithVandamme and Saint Hilaire to mount the slopes—-[Firing begins in the marsh to the right by Tilnitz and the pools,though the thick air yet hides the operations.]O, there you are, blind boozy Buxhövden!Achieve your worst. Davout will hold you firm.[The head of and aide-de-camp rises through the fog on thatside, and he hastens up to NAPOLÉON and his companions, to whomthe officer announces what has happened. DAVOUT rides off,disappearing legs first into the white stratum that covers theattack.]Lannes and Murat, you have concern enoughHere on the left, with Prince BagrationAnd all the Austro-Russian cavalry.Haste off. The victory promising to-dayWill, like a thunder-clap, conclude the war![The Marshals with their aides gallop away towards their respectivedivisions. Soon the two divisions under SOULT are seen ascendingin close column the inclines of the Pratzen height. Thereupon theheads of the Russian centre columns disclose themselves, breakingthe sky-line of the summit from the other side, in a desperateattempt to regain the position vacated by the Russian left. Afierce struggle develops there between SOULT’S divisions and these,who, despite their tardy attempt to recover the lost post ofdominance, are pressed by the French off the slopes into thelowland.]
SEMICHORUS I OF THE PITIES [aerial music]O Great Necessitator, heed us now!If it indeed must beThat this day Austria smoke with slaughtery,Quicken the issue as Thou knowest how;And dull their lodgment in a flesh that galls!
SEMICHORUS IIIf it be in the future human storyTo lift this man to yet intenser glory,Let the exploit be doneWith the least sting, or none,To those, his kind, at whose expense such pitch is won!
SPIRIT OF THE YEARSAgain ye deprecate the World-Soul’s wayThat I so long have told? Then note anew[Since ye forget] the ordered potencies,Nerves, sinews, trajects, eddies, ducts of ItThe Eternal Urger, pressing change on change.[At once, as earlier, a preternatural clearness possesses theatmosphere of the battle-field, in which the scene becomesanatomized and the living masses of humanity transparent. Thecontrolling Immanent Will appears therein, as a brain-likenetwork of currents and ejections, twitching, interpenetrating,entangling, and thrusting hither and thither the human forms.]
SEMICHORUS I OF IRONIC SPIRITS [aerial music]O Innocents, can ye forgetThat things to be were shaped and setEre mortals and this planet met?
SEMICHORUS IIStand ye apostrophizing ThatWhich, working all, works but thereatLike some sublime fermenting-vat.
SEMICHORUS IHeaving throughout its vast contentWith strenuously transmutive bentThough of its aim insentient?—
SEMICHORUS IICould ye have seen Its early deedsYe would not cry, as one who pleadsFor quarter, when a Europe bleeds!
SEMICHORUS IEre ye, young Pities, had upgrownFrom out the deeps where mortals moanAgainst a ruling not their own,
SEMICHORUS IIHe of the Years beheld, and we,Creation’s prentice artistryExpress in forms that now unbe
SEMICHORUS ITentative dreams from day to day;Mangle its types, re-knead the clayIn some more palpitating way;
SEMICHORUS IIBeheld the rarest wrecked amain,Whole nigh-perfected species slainBy those that scarce could boast a brain;
SEMICHORUS ISaw ravage, growth, diminish, add,Here peoples sane, there peoples mad,In choiceless throws of good and bad;
SEMICHORUS IIHeard laughters at the ruthless doomsWhich tortured to the eternal gloomsQuick, quivering hearts in hecatombs.
CHORUSUs Ancients, then, it ill befitsTo quake when Slaughter’s spectre flitsAthwart this field of Austerlitz!
SHADE OF THE EARTHPain not their young compassions by such lore,But hold you mute, and read the battle yonder:The moment marks the day’s catastrophe.
THE SAME. THE RUSSIAN POSITION[It is about noon, and the vital spectacle is now near the villageof Tilnitz. The fog has dispersed, and the sun shines clearly,though without warmth, the ice on the pools gleaming under itsradiance.GENERAL BUXHÖVDEN and his aides-de-camp have reined up, and remainat pause on a hillock. The General watches through a glass hisbattalions, which are still disputing the village. Suddenlyapproach down the track from the upland of Pratzen large companiesof Russian infantry helter-skelter. COUNT LANGERON is beheld tobe retreating with them; and soon, pale and agitated, he hastensup to GENERAL BUXHÖVDEN, whose face is flushed.]
LANGERONWhile they are upon us you stay idle here!Prschebiszewsky’s column is distraught and rent,And more than half my own made captive! Yea,Kreznowitz carried, and Sokolnitz hemmed:The enemy’s whole strength will stound you soon!
BUXHÖVDENYou seem to see the enemy everywhere.
LANGERONYou cannot see them, be they here or no!
BUXHÖVDENI only wait Prschebiszewsky’s nearing corpsTo join Dokhtórof’s to them. Here they come.[SOULT, supported by BERNADOTTE and OUDINOT, having cleared andsecured the Pratzen height, his battalions are perceived descendingfrom it on this side, behind DOKHTÓROF’S division, so placing thelatter between themselves and the pools.]
LANGERONYou cannot tell the Frenchmen from ourselves!These are the victors.—Ah—Dokhtórof—lost![DOKHTÓROF’S troops are seen to be retreating towards the water.The watchers stand in painful tenseness.]
BUXHÖVDENDokhtórof tell to save him as he may!We, Count, must gather up our shaken fleshAnd hurry them by the road through Austerlitz.[BUXHÖVDEN’S regiments and the remains of LANGERON’S are ralliedand collected, and they retreat by way of the hamlet of Aujezd.As they go over the summit of a hill BUXHÖVDEN looks back.LANGERON’S columns, which were behind his own, have been cutoff by VANDAMME’S division coming down from the Pratzen plateau.This and some detachments from DOKHTÓROF’S column rush towardsthe Satschan lake and endeavour to cross it on the ice. Itcracks beneath their weight. At the same moment NAPOLÉON andhis brilliant staff appear on the top of the Pratzen.The Emperor watches the scene with a vulpine smile; and directsa battery near at hand to fire down upon the ice on which theRussians are crossing. A ghastly crash and splashing followsthe discharge, the shining surface breaking into pieces like amirror, which fly in all directions. Two thousand fugitives areengulfed, and their groans of despair reach the ears of thewatchers like ironical huzzas.A general flight of the Russian army from wing to wing is nowdisclosed, involving in its current the EMPEROR ALEXANDER andthe EMPEROR FRANCIS, with the reserve, who are seen towardsAusterlitz endeavouring to rally their troops in vain. Theyare swept along by the disordered soldiery.]
THE SAME. NEAR THE WINDMILL OF PALENY[The mill is about seven miles to the southward, between Frenchadvanced posts and the Austrians.A bivouac fire is burning. NAPOLÉON, in grey overcoat andbeaver hat turned up front to back, rides to the spot withBERTHIER, SAVARY, and his aides, and alights. He walks toand fro complacently, meditating or talking to BERTHIER. Twogroups of officers, one from each army, stand in the backgroundon their respective sides.]
NAPOLÉONWhat’s this of Alexander? Weep, did he,Like his old namesake, but for meaner cause?Ha, ha!
BERTHIERWord goes, you Majesty, that Colonel Toll,One of Field-Marshal Price Kutúzof’s staff,In the retreating swirl of overthrow,Found Alexander seated on a stone,Beneath a leafless roadside apple-tree,Out here by Goding on the Holitsch way;His coal-black uniform and snowy plumeUnmarked, his face disconsolate, his grey eyesMourning in tears the fate of his brave array—All flying southward, save the steadfast slain.
NAPOLÉONPoor devil!—But he’ll soon get over it—Sooner than his employers oversea!—Ha!—this well make friend Pitt and England writhe,And cloud somewhat their lustrous Trafalgar.[An open carriage approaches from the direction of Holitsch,accompanied by a small escort of Hungarian guards. NAPOLÉONwalks forward to meet it as it draws up, and welcomes theAustrian Emperor, who alights. He is wearing a grey cloakover a white uniform, carries a light walking-cane, and isattended by PRINCE JOHN OF LICHTENSTEIN, SWARZENBERG, andothers. His fresh-coloured face contrasts strangely with thebluish pallor of NAPOLÉON’S; but it is now thin and anxious.They formally embrace. BERTHIER, PRINCE JOHN, and the restretire, and the two Emperors are left by themselves before thefire.]
NAPOLÉONHere on the roofless ground do I receive you—My only mansion for these two months past!
FRANCISYour tenancy thereof has brought such fameThat it must needs be one which charms you, Sire.
NAPOLÉONGood! Now this war. It has been forced on meJust at a crisis most inopportune,When all my energies and arms were bentOn teaching England that her watery wallsAre no defence against the wrath of FranceAroused by breach of solemn covenants.
FRANCISI had no zeal for violating peaceTill ominous events in ItalyRevealed the gloomy truth that France aspiresTo conquest there, and undue sovereignty.Since when mine eyes have seen no sign outheldTo signify a change of purposings.
NAPOLÉONYet there were terms distinctly specifiedTo General Giulay in November past,Whereon I’d gladly fling the sword aside.To wit: that hot armigerent jealousyStir us no further on transalpine rule,I’d take the Isonzo River as our bounds.
FRANCISRoundly, that I cede all!—And how may standYour views as to the Russian forces here?
NAPOLÉONYou have all to lose by that alliance, Sire.Leave Russia. Let the Emperor AlexanderMake his own terms; whereof the first must beThat he retire from Austrian territory.I’ll grant an armistice therefor. AnonI’ll treat with him to weld a lasting peace,Based on some simple undertakings; chief,That Russian armies keep to the ports of his domain.Meanwhile to you I’ll tender this good word:Keep Austria to herself. To Russia bound,You pay your own costs with your provinces,Alexander’s likewise therewithal.
FRANCISI see as much, and long have seen it, Sire;And standing here the vanquished, let me ownWhat happier issues might have left unsaid:Long, long I have lost the wish to bind myselfTo Russia’s purposings and Russia’s risks;Little do I count these alliancesWith Powers that have no substance seizable![As they converse they walk away.]
AN AUSTRIAN OFFICERO strangest scene of an eventful life,This junction that I witness here to-day!An Emperor—in whose majestic veinsAeneas and the proud Caesarian lineClaim yet to live; and, those scarce less renowned,The dauntless Hawks’-Hold Counts, of gallantrySo great in fame one thousand years ago—To bend with deference and manners mildIn talk with this adventuring campaigner,Raised but by pikes above the common herd!
ANOTHER AUSTRIAN OFFICERAy! There be Satschan swamps and Pratzen heightsIn royal lines, as here at Austerlitz.[The Emperors again draw near.]
FRANCISThen, to this armistice, which shall be calledImmediately at all points, I agree;And pledge my word that my august allyAccept it likewise, and withdraw his forceBy daily measured march to his own realm.
NAPOLÉONFor him I take your word. And pray believeThat rank ambitions are your own, not mine;That though I have postured as your enemy,And likewise Alexander’s, we are oneIn interests, have in all things common cause.One country sows these mischiefs Europe throughBy her insidious chink of luring ore—False-featured England, who, to aggrandizeHer name, her influence, and her revenues,Schemes to impropriate the whole world’s trade,And starves and bleeds the folk of other lands.Her rock-rimmed situation walls her offLike a slim selfish mollusk in its shellFrom the wide views and fair fraternitiesWhich on the mainland we reciprocate,And quicks her quest for profit in our woes!
FRANCISI am not competent, your Majesty,To estimate that country’s conscience now,Nor engage on my ally’s behalfThat English ships be shut from Russian trade.But joyful am I that in all things elseMy promise can be made; and that this dayOur conference ends in friendship and esteem.
NAPOLÉONI will send Savary at to-morrow’s blinkAnd make all lucid to the Emperor.For us, I wholly can avow as mineThe cordial spirit of your Majesty.[They retire towards the carriage of FRANCIS. BERTHIER, SAVARY,LICHTENSTEIN, and the suite of officers advance from the background,and with mutual gestures of courtesy and amicable leave-takingsthe two Emperors part company.]
CHORUS OF THE PITIES [aerial music]Each for himself, his family, his heirs;For the wan weltering nations who concerns, who cares?
CHORUS OF IRONIC SPIRITSA pertinent query, in truth!—But spoil not the sport by your ruth:’Tis enough to make halfYonder zodiac laughWhen rulers begin to alludeTo their lack of ambition,And strong oppositionTo all but the general good!
SPIRIT OF THE YEARSHush levities. Events press: turn ye westward.[A nebulous curtain draws slowly across.]
SHOCKERWICK HOUSE, NEAR BATH[The interior of the Picture Gallery. Enter WILTSHIRE, the owner,and Pitt, who looks emaciated and walks feebly.]
WILTSHIRE [pointing to a portrait]Now here you have the lady we discussed:A fine example of his manner, sir?
PITTIt is a fine example, sir, indeed,—With that transparency amid the shades,And those thin blue-green-grayish leafagesBehind the pillar in the background there,Which seem the leaves themselves.—Ah, this is Quin.[Moving to another picture.]
WILTSHIREYes, Quin. A man of varied parts, though roughAnd choleric at times. Yet, at his best,As Falstaff, never matched, they say. But IHad not the fate to see him in the flesh.
PITTChurchill well carves him in his “Character”:—“His eyes, in gloomy socket taught to roll,Proclaimed the sullen habit of his soul.In fancied scenes, as in Life’s real plan,He could not for a moment sink the man:Nature, in spite of all his skill, crept in;Horatio, Dorax, Falstaff—stile ’twas Quin.”—He was at Bath when Gainsborough settled thereIn that house in the Circus which we know.—I like the portrait much.—The brilliancyOf Gainsborough lies in this his double sway:Sovereign of landscape he; of portraitureJoint monarch with Sir Joshua.... Ah?—that’s—hark!Is that the patter of horses’s hoofsAlong the road?
WILTSHIREI notice nothing, sir.
PITTIt is a gallop, growing quite distinct.And—can it be a messenger for me!
WILTSHIREI hope no ugly European newsTo stop the honour of this visit, sir![They listen. The gallop of the horse grows louder, and ischecked at the door of the house. There is a hasty knocking,and a courier, splashed with mud from hard riding, is showninto the gallery. He presents a dispatch to PITT, who sitsdown and hurriedly opens it.]
PITT [to himself]O heavy news indeed!... Disastrous; dire![He appears overcome as he sits, and covers his forehead withhis hand.]
WILTSHIREI trust you are not ill, sir?
PITT [after some moments]Could I haveA little brandy, sir, quick brought to me?
WILTSHIREIn one brief minute.[Brandy is brought in, and PITT takes it.]
PITTNow leave me, please, alone. I’ll call anon.Is there a map of Europe handy here?[WILTSHIRE fetches a map from the library, and spreads it beforethe minister. WILTSHIRE, courier, and servant go out.]O God that I should live to see this day![He remains awhile in a profound reverie; then resumes the readingof the dispatch.]“Defeated—the Allies—quite overthrownAt Austerlitz—last week.”—Where’s Austerlitz?—But what avails it where the place is now;What corpse is curious on the longitudeAnd situation of his cemetery!...The Austrians and the Russians overcome,That vast adventuring army is set freeTo bend unhindered strength against our strand....So do my plans through all these plodding yearsAnnounce them built in vain!His heel on Europe, monarchies in chainsTo France, I am as though I had never been![He gloomily ponders the dispatch and the map some minutes longer.At last he rises with difficulty, and rings the bell. A servantenters.]Call up my carriage, please you, now at once;And tell your master I return to BathThis moment—I may want a little helpIn getting to the door here.
SERVANTSir, I will,And summon you my master instantly.[He goes out and re-enters with WILTSHIRE. PITT is assisted fromthe room.]
PITTRoll up that map. ’Twill not be needed nowThese ten years! Realms, laws, peoples, dynasties,Are churning to a pulp within the mawOf empire-making Lust and personal Gain![Exeunt PITT, WILTSHIRE, and the servant; and in a few minutes thecarriage is heard driving off, and the scene closes.]
PARIS. A STREET LEADING TO THE TUILERIES[It is night, and the dim oil lamps reveal a vast concourse ofcitizens of both sexes around the Palace gates and in theneighbouring thoroughfares.]
SPIRIT OF THE YEARS [to the Spirit of Rumour]Thou may’st descend and join this crowd awhile,And speak what things shall come into they mouth.
SPIRIT SINISTERI’ll harken! I wouldn’t miss it for the groans on anotherAusterlitz![The Spirit of Rumour enters on the scene in the disguise of ayoung foreigner.]
SPIRIT [to a street-woman]Lady, a late hour this to be afoot!
WOMANPoor profit, then, to me from my true trade,Wherein hot competition is so rifeAlready, since these victories brought to townSo many foreign jobbers in my line,That I’d best hold my tongue from praise of fame!However, one is caught by popular zeal,And though five midnights have not brought a sou,I, too, chantJubilatelike the rest.—In courtesies have haughty monarchs viedTowards the Conqueror! who, with men-at-armsOne quarter theirs, has vanquished by his nerveVast mustering four-hundred-thousand strong,And given new tactics to the art of warUnparalleled in Europe’s history!
SPIRITWhat man is this, whose might thou blazonest so—Who makes the earth to tremble, shakes old thrones,And turns the plains to wilderness?
WOMANDost askAs ignorant, yet asking can define?What mean you, traveller?
SPIRITI am a stranger here,A wandering wight, whose life has not been spentThis side the globe, though I can speak the tongue.
WOMANYour air has truth in’t; but your state is strange!Had I a husband he should tackle thee.
SPIRITDozens thou hast had—batches more than sheSamaria knew, if now thou hast not one!
WOMANWilt take the situation from this hour?
SPIRITThou know’st not what thy frailty asks, good dame!
WOMANWell, learn in small the Emperor’s chronicle,As gleaned from what my soldier-husbands say:—some five-and-forty standards of his foesAre brought to Paris, borne triumphantlyIn proud procession through the surging streets,Ever as brands of fame to shine aloftIn dim-lit senate-halls and city aisles.
SPIRITFair Munich sparkled with festivityAs there awhile he tarried, and was metBy the gay Joséphine your Empress here.—There, too, Eugène—
WOMANNapoléon’s stepson he—-
SPIRITReceived for gift the hand of fair PrincessAugusta [daughter of Bavaria’s crown,Forced from her plighted troth to Baden’s heir],And, to complete his honouring, was hailedSuccessor to the throne of Italy.
WOMANHow know you, ere this news has got abroad?
SPIRITChannels have I the common people lack.—There, on the nonce, the forenamed Baden princeWas joined to Stephanie Beauharnais, herWho stands as daughter to the man we wait,Some say as more.
WOMANThey do? Then such not I.Can revolution’s dregs so soil thy soulThat thou shouldst doubt the eldest son thereof?’Tis dangerous to insinuate nowadays!
SPIRITRight! Lady many-spoused, more charityUpbrims in thee than in some loftier onesWho would not name thee with their white-washed tongues.—Enough. I am one whom, didst thou know my name,Thou would’st not grudge a claim to speak his mind.
WOMANA thousand pardons, sir.
SPIRITResume thy taleIf so thou wishest.
WOMANNay, but you know best—-
SPIRITHow laurelled progress through applauding crowdsHave marked his journey home. How Strasburg town,Stuttgart, Carlsruhe, acclaimed him like the rest:How pageantry would here have welcomed him,Had not his speed outstript intelligence—Now will a glimpse of him repay thee. Hark![Shouts arise and increase in the distance, announcing BONAPARTE’Sapproach.]Well, Buonaparte has revived by land,But not by sea. On that thwart elementNever will he incorporate his dream,And float as master!
WOMANWhat shall hinder him?
SPIRITThat which has hereto. England, so to say.
WOMANBut she’s in straits. She lost her Nelson now,[A worthy man: he loved a woman well!]George drools and babbles in a darkened room;Her heaven-born Minister declines apace;All smooths the Emperor’s sway.
SPIRITTales have two sides,Sweet lady. Vamped-up versions reach thee here.—That Austerlitz was lustrous none ignores,But would it shock thy garrulousness to knowThat the true measure of this Trafalgar—Utter defeat, ay, France’s naval death—Your Emperor bade be hid?
WOMANThe seer’s giftHas never plenteously endowed me, sir,As in appearance you. But to plain senseThing’s seem as stated.
SPIRITWe’ll let seemings be.—But know, these English take to liquid lifeRight patly—nursed therefor in infancyBy rimes and rains which creep into their blood,Till like seeks like. The sea is their dry land,And, as on cobbles you, they wayfare there.
WOMANHeaven prosper, then, their watery wayfaringsIf they’ll leave us the land!—[The Imperial carriage appears.]The Emperor!—Long live the Emperor!—He’s the best by land.[BONAPARTE’S carriage arrives, without an escort. The streetlamps shine in, and reveal the EMPRESS JOSÉPHINE seated besidehim. The plaudits of the people grow boisterous as they hailhim Victor of Austerlitz. The more active run after the carriage,which turns in from the Rue St. Honore to the Carrousel, andthence vanishes into the Court of the Tuileries.]
WOMANMay all success attend his next exploit!
SPIRITNamely: to put the knife in England’s trade,And teach her treaty-manners—if he can!
WOMANI like not your queer knowledge, creepy man.There’s weirdness in your air. I’d call you ghostHad not the Goddess Reason laid all suchPast Mother Church’s cunning to restore.—Adieu. I’ll not be yours to-night. I’d starve first![She withdraws. The crowd wastes away, and the Spirit vanishes.]
PUTNEY. BOWLING GREEN HOUSE[PITT’S bedchamber, from the landing without. It is afternoon.At the back of the room as seen through the doorway is a curtainedbed, beside which a woman sits, the LADY HESTER STANHOPE. Bendingover a table at the front of the room is SIR WALTER FARQUHAR, thephysician. PARSLOW the footman and another servant are near thedoor. TOMLINE, the Bishop of Lincoln, enters.]
FARQUHAR [in a subdued voice]I grieve to call your lordship up again,But symptoms lately have disclosed themselvesThat mean the knell to the frail life in him.And whatsoever thing of gravityIt may be needful to communicate,Let them be spoken now. Time may not serveIf they be much delayed.
TOMLINEAh, stands it this?...The name of his disease is—Austerlitz!His brow’s inscription has been AusterlitzFrom that dire morning in the month just pastWhen tongues of rumour twanged the word acrossFrom its hid nook on the Moravian plains.
FARQUHARAnd yet he might have borne it, had the weightOf governmental shackles been unclasped,Even partly, from his limbs last Lammastide,When that despairing journey to the KingAt Gloucester Lodge by Wessex shore was madeTo beg such. But relief the King refused.“Why want you Fox? What—Grenville and his friends?”He harped. “You are sufficient without these—Rather than Fox, why, give me civil war!”And fibre that would rather snap than shrinkHeld out no longer. Now the upshot nears.[LADY HESTER STANHOPE turns her head and comes forward.]
LADY HESTERI am grateful you are here again, good friend!He’s sleeping some light seconds; but once moreHas asked for tidings of Lord Harrowby,And murmured of his mission to BerlinAs Europe’s haggard hope; if, sure, it beThat any hope remain!
TOMLINEThere’s no news yet.—These several days while I have been sitting by himHe has inquired the quarter of the wind,And where that moment beaked the stable-cock.When I said “East,” he answered “That is well!Those are the breezes that will speed him home!”So cling his heart-strings to his country’s cause.
FARQUHARI fear that Wellesley’s visit here by nowStrung him to tensest strain. He quite broke down,And has fast faded since.
LADY HESTERAh! now he wakes.Please come and speak to him as you would wish [to TOMLINE].[LADY HESTER, TOMLINE,and FARQUHAR retire behind the bed, wherein a short time voices are heard in prayer. Afterwards theBishop goes to a writing-table, and LADY HESTER comes to thedoorway. Steps are heard on the stairs, and PITT’S friend ROSE,the President of the Board of Trade, appears on the landing andmakes inquiries.]
LADY HESTER [whispering]He wills the wardenry of his affairsTo his old friend the Bishop. But his wordsBespeak too much anxiety for me,And underrate his services so farThat he has doubts if his high deeds deserveSuch size of recognition by the StateAs would award slim pensions to his kin.He had been fain to write down his intents,But the quill dropped from his unmuscled hand.—Now his friend Tomline pens what he dictatesAnd gleans the lippings of his last desires.[ROSE and LADY HESTER turn. They see the Bishop bending overthe bed with a sheet of paper on which he has previously beenwriting. A little later he dips a quill and holds it withinthe bed-curtain, spreading the paper beneath. A thin whitehand emerges from behind the curtain and signs the paper. TheBishop beckons forward the two servants, who also sign.FARQUHAR on one side of the bed, and TOMLINE on the other, arespoken to by the dying man. The Bishop afterwards withdrawsfrom the bed and comes to the landing where the others are.]
TOMLINEA list of his directions has been drawn,And feeling somewhat more at mental easeHe asks Sir Walter if he has long to live.Farquhar just answered, in a soothing tone,That hope still frailly breathed recovery.At this my dear friend smiled and shook his head,As if to say: “I can translate your words,But I reproach not friendship’s lullabies.”
ROSERest he required; and rest was not for him.[FARQUHAR comes forward as they wait.]
FARQUHARHis spell of concentration on these things,Determined now, that long have wasted him,Have left him in a numbing lethargy,From which I fear he may not rouse to strengthFor speech with earth again.
ROSEBut hark. He does.[The listen.]
PITTMy country! How I leave my country!...
TOMLINEAh,—Immense the matter those poor words contain!
ROSEStill does his soul stay wrestling with that theme,And still it will, even semi-consciously,Until the drama’s done.[They continue to converse by the doorway in whispers. PITTsinks slowly into a stupor, from which he never awakens.]
SPIRIT OF THE PITIES [to Spirit of the Years]Do you intend to speak to him ere the close?
SPIRIT OF THE YEARSNay, I have spoke too often! Time and time,When all Earth’s light has lain on the nether side,And yapping midnight winds have leapt on the roofs,And raised for him an evil harlequinadeOf national disasters in long train,That tortured him with harrowing grimace,Now I would leave him to pass out in peace,And seek the silence unperturbedly.
SPIRIT SINISTEREven ITS official Spirit can show ruthAt man’s fag end, when his destruction’s sure!
SPIRIT OF THE YEARSIt suits us ill to cavil each with each.I might retort. I only say to theeITS slaves we are: ITS slaves must ever be!
CHORUS [aerial music]Yea, from the Void we fetch, like these,And tarry till That pleaseTo null us by Whose stress we emanate.—Our incorporeal sense,Our overseeings, our supernal state,Our readings Why and Whence,Are but the flower of Man’s intelligence;And that but an unreckoned incidentOf the all-urging Will, raptly magnipotent.[A gauze of shadow overdraws.]