The Dynasts

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NAPOLEON (genially nearing her)

But years have passed since first we talked of it,
And now, with loss of dear Hortense's son
Who won me as my own, it looms forth more.
And selfish 'tis in my good Josephine
To blind her vision to the weal of France,
And this great Empire's solidarity.
The grandeur of your sacrifice would gild
Your life's whole shape.

JOSEPHINE

Were I as coarse a wife
As I am limned in English caricature--
(Those cruel effigies they draw of me!)--
You could not speak more aridly.

NAPOLEON

Nay, nay!
You know, my comrade, how I love you still
Were there a long-notorious dislike
Betwixt us, reason might be in your dreads
But all earth knows our conjugality.
There's not a bourgeois couple in the land
Who, should dire duty rule their severance,
Could part with scanter scandal than could we.

JOSEPHINE (pouting)

Nevertheless there's one.

NAPOLEON

A scandal? What?

JOSEPHINE

Madame Walewska! How could you pretend
When, after Jena, I'd have come to you,
"The weather was so wild, the roads so rough,
That no one of my sex and delicate nerve
Could hope to face the dangers and fatigues."
Yes--so you wrote me, dear. They hurt not her!

NAPOLEON (blandly)

She was a week's adventure--not worth words!
I say 'tis France.--I have held out for years
Against the constant pressure brought on me
To null this sterile marriage.

JOSEPHINE (bursting into sobs)

Me you blame!
But how know you that you are not the culprit?

NAPOLEON

I have reason so to know--if I must say.
The Polish lady you have chosen to name
Has proved the fault not mine. (JOSEPHINE sobs more violently.)
Don't cry, my cherished;
It is not really amiable of you,
Or prudent, my good little Josephine,
With so much in the balance.

JOSEPHINE

How--know you--
What may not happen! Wait a--little longer!

NAPOLEON (playfully pinching her arm)

O come, now, my adored! Haven't I already!
Nature's a dial whose shade no hand puts back,
Trick as we may! My friend, you are forty-three
This very year in the world-- (JOSEPHINE breaks out sobbing again.)
And in vain it is
To think of waiting longer; pitiful
To dream of coaxing shy fecundity
To an unlikely freak by physicking
With superstitious drugs and quackeries
That work you harm, not good. The fact being so,
I have looked it squarely down--against my heart!
Solicitations voiced repeatedly
At length have shown the soundness of their shape,
And left me no denial. You, at times,
My dear one, have been used to handle it.
My brother Joseph, years back, frankly gave
His honest view that something should be done;
And he, you well know, shows no ill tinct
In his regard of you.

JOSEPHINE

And what princess?

NAPOLEON

For wiving with? No thought was given to that,
She shapes as vaguely as the Veiled--

JOSEPHINE

No, no;
It's Alexander's sister, I'm full sure!--
But why this craze for home-made manikins
And lineage mere of flesh? You have said yourself
It mattered not. Great Caesar, you declared,
Sank sonless to his rest; was greater deemed
Even for the isolation. Frederick
Saw, too, no heir. It is the fate of such,
Often, to be denied the common hope
As fine for fulness in the rarer gifts
That Nature yields them. O my husband long,
Will you not purge your soul to value best
That high heredity from brain to brain
Which supersedes mere sequence of blood,
That often vary more from sire to son
Than between furthest strangers! . . .
Napoleon's offspring in his like must lie;
The second of his line be he who shows
Napoleon's soul in later bodiment,
The household father happening as he may!

NAPOLEON (smilingly wiping her eyes)

Little guessed I my dear would prove her rammed
With such a charge of apt philosophy
When tutoring me gay arts in earlier times!
She who at home coquetted through the years
In which I vainly penned her wishful words
To come and comfort me in Italy,
Might, faith, have urged it then effectually!
But never would you stir from Paris joys, (With some bitterness.)
And so, when arguments like this could move me,
I heard them not; and get them only now
When their weight dully falls. But I have said
'Tis not for me, but France--Good-bye an hour. (Kissing her.)
I must dictate some letters. This new move
Of England on Madrid may mean some trouble.
Come, dwell not gloomily on this cold need
Of waiving private joy for policy.
We are but thistle-globes on Heaven's high gales,
And whither blown, or when, or how, or why,
Can choose us not at all! . . .
I'll come to you anon, dear: staunch Roustan
Will light me in.

[Exit NAPOLEON. The scene shuts in shadow.]

SCENE VII

VIMIERO

[A village among the hills of Portugal, about fifty miles north
of Lisbon. Around it are disclosed, as ten on Sunday morning
strikes, a blue army of fourteen thousand men in isolated columns,
and red army of eighteen thousand in line formation, drawn up in
order of battle. The blue army is a French one under JUNOT; the
other an English one under SIR ARTHUR WELLESLEY--portion of that
recently landed.

The August sun glares on the shaven faces, white gaiters, and
white cross-belts of the English, who are to fight for their
lives while sweating under a quarter-hundredweight in knapsack
and pouches, and with firelocks heavy as putlogs. They occupy
a group of heights, but their position is one of great danger,
the land abruptly terminating two miles behind their backs in
lofty cliffs overhanging the Atlantic. The French occupy the
valleys in the English front, and this distinction between the
two forces strikes the eye--the red army is accompanied by scarce
any cavalry, while the blue is strong in that area.]

DUMB SHOW

The battle is begun with alternate moves that match each other like
those of a chess opening. JUNOT makes an oblique attack by moving
a division to his right; WELLESLEY moves several brigades to his
left to balance it.

A column of six thousand French then climbs the hill against the
English centre, and drives in those who are planted there. The
English artillery checks its adversaries, and the infantry recover
and charge the baffled French down the slopes. Meanwhile the
latter's cavalry and artillery are attacking the village itself,
and, rushing on a few squadrons of English dragoons stationed there,
cut them to pieces. A dust is raised by this ado, and moans of men
and shrieks of horses are heard. Close by the carnage the little
Maceira stream continues to trickle unconcernedly to the sea.

On the English left five thousand French infantry, having ascended
to the ridge and maintained a stinging musket-fire as sharply
returned, are driven down by the bayonets of six English regiments.
Thereafter a brigade of the French, the northernmost, finding that
the others have pursued to the bottom and are resting after the
effort, surprise them and bayonet them back to their original summit.
The see-saw is continued by the recovery of the English, who again
drive their assailants down.

The French army pauses stultified, till, the columns uniting, they
fall back toward the opposite hills. The English, seeing that their
chance has come, are about to pursue and settle the fortunes of the
day. But a messenger dispatched from a distant group is marked
riding up to the large-nosed man with a telescope and an Indian
sword who, his staff around him, has been directing the English
movements. He seems astonished at the message, appears to resent
it, and pauses with a gloomy look. But he sends countermands to his
generals, and the pursuit ends abortively.

The French retreat without further molestation by a circuitous march
into the great road to Torres Vedras by which they came, leaving
nearly two thousand dead and wounded on the slopes they have quitted.

Dumb Show ends and the curtain draws.

ACT THIRD

SCENE I

SPAIN. A ROAD NEAR ASTORGA

[The eye of the spectator rakes the road from the interior of a
cellar which opens upon it, and forms the basement of a deserted
house, the roof doors, and shutters of which have been pulled down
and burnt for bivouac fires. The season is the beginning of
January, and the country is covered with a sticky snow. The road
itself is intermittently encumbered with heavy traffic, the surface
being churned to a yellow mud that lies half knee-deep, and at the
numerous holes in the track forming still deeper quagmires.

In the gloom of the cellar are heaps of damp straw, in which
ragged figures are lying half-buried, many of the men in the
uniform of English regiments, and the women and children in clouts
of all descriptions, some being nearly naked. At the back of the
cellar is revealed, through a burst door, an inner vault, where
are discernible some wooden-hooped wine-casks; in one sticks a
gimlet, and the broaching-cork of another has been driven in.
The wine runs into pitchers, washing-basins, shards, chamber-
vessels, and other extemporized receptacles. Most of the inmates
are drunk; some to insensibility.

So far as the characters are doing anything they are contemplating
almost incessant traffic outside, passing in one direction. It
includes a medley of stragglers from the Marquis of ROMANA'S
Spanish forces and the retreating English army under SIR JOHN
MOORE--to which the concealed deserters belong.]

FIRST DESERTER

Now he's one of the Eighty-first, and I'd gladly let that poor blade
know that we've all that man can wish for here--good wine and buxom
women. But if I do, we shan't have room for ourselves--hey?

[He signifies a man limping past with neither fire-lock nor
knapsack. Where the discarded knapsack has rubbed for weeks
against his shoulder-blades the jacket and shirt are fretted
away, leaving his skin exposed.]

SECOND DESERTER

He may be the Eighty-firsht, or th' Eighty-second; but what I say is,
without fear of contradiction, I wish to the Lord I was back in old
Bristol again. I'd sooner have a nipperkin of our own real "Bristol
milk" than a mash-tub full of this barbarian wine!

THIRD DESERTER

'Tis like thee to be ungrateful, after putting away such a skinful
on't. I am as much Bristol as thee, but would as soon be here as
there. There ain't near such willing women, that are strict
respectable too, there as hereabout, and no open cellars.-- As
there's many a slip in this country I'll have the rest of my
allowance now.

[He crawls on his elbows to one of the barrels, and turning on his
back lets the wine run down his throat.]

FORTH DESERTER (to a fifth, who is snoring)

Don't treat us to such a snoaching there, mate. Here's some more
coming, and they'll sight us if we don't mind!

[Enter without a straggling flock of military objects, some with
fragments of shoes on, others bare-footed, many of the latter's
feet bleeding. The arms and waists of some are clutched by women
as tattered and bare-footed as themselves. They pass on.

The Retreat continues. More of ROMANA'S Spanish limp along in
disorder; then enters a miscellaneous group of English cavalry
soldiers, some on foot, some mounted, the rearmost of the latter
bestriding a shoeless foundered creature whose neck is vertebrae
and mane only. While passing it falls from exhaustion; the trooper
extricates himself and pistols the animal through the head. He
and the rest pass on.]

FIRST DESERTER (a new plashing of feet being heard)

Here's something more in order, or I am much mistaken. He cranes
out.) Yes, a sergeant of the Forty-third, and what's left of their
second battalion. And, by God, not far behind I see shining helmets.
'Tis a whole squadron of French dragoons!

[Enter the sergeant. He has a racking cough, but endeavours, by
stiffening himself up, to hide how it is wasting away his life.
He halts, and looks back, till the remains of the Forty-third are
abreast, to the number of some three hundred, about half of whom
are crippled invalids, the other half being presentable and armed
soldiery.'

SERGEANT

Now show yer nerve, and be men. If you die to-day you won't have to
die to-morrow. Fall in! (The miscellany falls in.) All invalids and
men without arms march ahead as well as they can. Quick--maw-w-w-ch!
(Exeunt invalids, etc.) Now! Tention! Shoulder-r-r--fawlocks! (Order
obeyed.)

[The sergeant hastily forms these into platoons, who prime and load,
and seem preternaturally changed from what they were into alert
soldiers.

Enter French dragoons at the left-back of the scene. The rear
platoon of the Forty-third turns, fires, and proceeds. The next
platoon covering them does the same. This is repeated several
times, staggering the pursuers. Exeunt French dragoons, giving
up the pursuit. The coughing sergeant and the remnant of the
Forty-third march on.]

FOURTH DESERTER (to a woman lying beside him)

What d'ye think o' that, my honey? It fairly makes me a man again.
Come, wake up! We must be getting along somehow. (He regards the
woman more closely.) Why--my little chick? Look here, friends.
(They look, and the woman is found to be dead.) If I didn't think
that her poor knees felt cold! . . . And only an hour ago I swore
to marry her!

[They remain silent. The Retreat continues in the snow without,
now in the form of a file of ox-carts, followed by a mixed rabble
of English and Spanish, and mules and muleteers hired by English
officers to carry their baggage. The muleteers, looking about
and seeing that the French dragoons gave been there, cut the bands
which hold on the heavy packs, and scamper off with their mules.]

A VOICE (behind)

The Commander-in-Chief is determined to maintain discipline, and
they must suffer. No more pillaging here. It is the worst case
of brutality and plunder that we have had in this wretched time!

[Enter an English captain of hussars, a lieutenant, a guard of
about a dozen, and three men as prisoner.]

CAPTAIN

If they choose to draw lots, only one need be made an example of.
But they must be quick about it. The advance-guard of the enemy
is not far behind.

[The three prisoners appear to draw lots, and the one on whom the
lot falls is blindfolded. Exeunt the hussars behind a wall, with
carbines. A volley is heard and something falls. The wretched
in the cellar shudder.]

FOURTH DESERTER

'Tis the same for us but for this heap of straw. Ah--my doxy is the
only one of us who is safe and sound! (He kisses the dead woman.)

[Retreat continues. A train of six-horse baggage-waggons lumbers
past, a mounted sergeant alongside. Among the baggage lie wounded
soldiers and sick women.]

SERGEANT OF THE WAGGON-TRAIN

If so be they are dead, ye may as well drop 'em over the tail-board.
'Tis no use straining the horses unnecessary.

[Waggons halt. Two of the wounded who have just died are taken
out, laid down by the roadside, and some muddy snow scraped over
them. Exeunt waggons and sergeant.

An interval. More English troops pass on horses, mostly shoeless
and foundered.

Enter SIR JOHN MOORE and officers. MOORE appears on the pale
evening light as a handsome man, far on in the forties, the
orbits of his dark eyes showing marks of deep anxiety. He is
talking to some of his staff with vehement emphasis and gesture.
They cross the scene and go on out of sight, and the squashing
of their horses' hoofs in the snowy mud dies away.]

FIFTH DESERTER (incoherently in his sleep)

Poise fawlocks--open pans--right hands to pouch--handle ca'tridge--
bring it--quick motion-bite top well off--prime--shut pans--cast
about--load---

FIRST DESERTER (throwing a shoe at the sleeper)

Shut up that! D'ye think you are a 'cruity in the awkward squad
still?

SECOND DESERTER

I don't know what he thinks, but I know what I feel! Would that I
were at home in England again, where there's old-fashioned tipple,
and a proper God A'mighty instead of this eternal 'Ooman and baby;
--ay, at home a-leaning against old Bristol Bridge, and no questions
asked, and the winter sun slanting friendly over Baldwin Street as
'a used to do! 'Tis my very belief, though I have lost all sure
reckoning, that if I were there, and in good health, 'twould be New
Year's day about now. What it is over here I don't know. Ay, to-
night we should be a-setting in the tap of the "Adam and Eve"--
lifting up the tune of "The Light o' the Moon." 'Twer a romantical
thing enough. 'A used to go som'at like this (he sings in a nasal
tone):--

"O I thought it had been day,
And I stole from here away;
But it proved to be the light o' the moon!"

[Retreat continues, with infantry in good order. Hearing the
singing, one of the officers looks around, and detaching a patrol
enters the ruined house with the file of men, the body of soldiers
marching on. The inmates of the cellar bury themselves in the
straw. The officer peers about, and seeing no one prods the straw
with his sword.

VOICES (under the straw)

Oh! Hell! Stop it! We'll come out! Mercy! Quarter!

[The lurkers are uncovered.]

OFFICER

If you are well enough to sing bawdy songs, you are well enough to
march. So out of it--or you'll be shot, here and now!

SEVERAL

You may shoot us, captain, or the French may shoot us, or the devil
may take us; we don't care which! Only we can't stir. Pity the
women, captain, but do what you will with us!

[The searchers pass over the wounded, and stir out those capable
of marching, both men and women, so far as they discover them.
They are pricked on by the patrol. Exeunt patrol and deserters
in its charge.

Those who remain look stolidly at the highway. The English Rear-
guard of cavalry crosses the scene and passes out. An interval.
It grows dusk.]

SPIRIT IRONIC

Quaint poesy, and real romance of war!

SPIRIT OF THE PITIES

Mock on, Shade, if thou wilt! But others find
Poesy ever lurk where pit-pats poor mankind!

[The scene is cloaked in darkness.]

SCENE II

THE SAME

[It is nearly midnight. The fugitives who remain in the cellar
having slept off the effects of the wine, are awakened by a new
tramping of cavalry, which becomes more and more persistent. It
is the French, who now fill the road. The advance-guard having
passed by, DELABORDE'S division, LORGE'S division, MERLE'S
division, and others, successively cross the gloom.

Presently come the outlines of the Imperial Guard, and then, with
a start, those in hiding realize their situation, and are wide
awake. NAPOLEON enters with his staff. He has just been overtaken
by a courier, and orders those round him to halt.]

NAPOLEON

Let there a fire be lit: Ay, here and now.
The lines within these letters brook no pause
In mastering their purport.

[Some of the French approach the ruined house and, appropriating
what wood is still left there, heap it by the roadside and set it
alight. A mixed rain and snow falls, and the sputtering flames
throw a glare all round.]

SECOND DESERTER (under his voice)

We be shot corpses! Ay, faith, we be! Why didn't I stick to
England, and true doxology, and leave foreign doxies and their
wine alone! . . . Mate, can ye squeeze another shardful from the
cask there, for I feel my time is come! . . . O that I had but the
barrel of that firelock I throwed away, and that wasted powder to
prime and load! This bullet I chaw to squench my hunger would do
the rest! . . . Yes, I could pick him off now!

FIRST DESERTER

You lie low with your picking off, or he may pick off you! Thank
God the babies are gone. Maybe we shan't be noticed, if we've but
the courage to do nothing, and keep hid.

[NAPOLEON dismounts, approaches the fire, and looks around.]

NAPOLEON

Another of their dead horses here, I see.

OFFICER

Yes, sire. We have counted eighteen hundred odd
From Benavente hither, pistoled thus.
Some we'd to finish for them: headlong haste
Spared them no time for mercy to their brutes.
One-half their cavalry now tramps afoot.

NAPOLEON

And what's the tale of waggons we've picked up?

OFFICER

Spanish and all abandoned, some four hundred;
Of magazines and firelocks, full ten load;
And stragglers and their girls a numerous crew.

NAPOLEON

Ay, devil--plenty those! Licentious ones
These English, as all canting peoples are.--
And prisoners?

OFFICER

Seven hundred English, sire;
Spaniards five thousand more.

NAPOLEON

'Tis not amiss.
To keep the new year up they run away!
(He soliloquizes as he begins tearing open the dispatches.)
Nor Pitt nor Fox displayed such blundering
As glares in this campaign! It is, indeed,
Enlarging Folly to Foolhardiness
To combat France by land! But how expect
Aught that can claim the name of government
From Canning, Castlereagh, and Perceval,
Caballers all--poor sorry politicians--
To whom has fallen the luck of reaping in
The harvestings of Pitt's bold husbandry.

[He unfolds a dispatch, and looks for something to sit on. A cloak
is thrown over a log, and he settles to reading by the firelight.
The others stand round. The light, crossed by the snow-flakes,
flickers on his unhealthy face and stoutening figure. He sinks
into the rigidity of profound thought, till his features lour.]

So this is their reply! They have done with me!
Britain declines negotiating further--
Flouts France and Russia indiscriminately.
"Since one dethrones and keeps as prisoners
The most legitimate kings"--that means myself--
"The other suffers their unworthy treatment
For sordid interests"--that's for Alexander! . . .
And what is Georgy made to say besides?--
"Pacific overtures to us are wiles
Woven to unnerve the generous nations round
Lately escaped the galling yoke of France,
Or waiting so to do. Such, then, being seen,
These tentatives must be regarded now
As finally forgone; and crimson war
Be faced to its fell worst, unflinchingly."
--The devil take their lecture! What am I,
That England should return such insolence?

[He jumps up, furious, and walks to and fro beside the fire.
By and by cooling he sits down again.]

Now as to hostile signs in Austria. . . .
(He breaks another seal and reads.)
Ah,--swords to cross with her some day in spring!
Thinking me cornered over here in Spain
She speaks without disguise, the covert pact
'Twixt her and England owning now quite frankly,
Careless how works its knowledge upon me.
She, England, Germany: well--I can front them!
That there is no sufficient force of French
Between the Elbe and Rhine to prostrate her,
Let new and terrible experience
Soon disillude her of! Yea; she may arm:
The opportunity she late let slip
Will not subserve her now!

SPIRIT OF THE PITIES

Has he no heart-hints that this Austrian court,
Whereon his mood takes mould so masterful,
Is rearing naively in its nursery-room
A future wife for him?

SPIRIT OF THE YEARS

Thou dost but guess it,
And how should his heart know?

NAPOLEON (opening and reading another dispatch)

Now eastward. Ohe!--
The Orient likewise looms full somberly. . . .
The Turk declines pacifically to yield
What I have promised Alexander. Ah! . . .
As for Constantinople being his prize
I'll see him frozen first. His flight's too high!
And showing that I think so makes him cool. (Rises.)
Is Soult the Duke Dalmatia yet at hand?

OFFICER

He has arrived along the Leon road
Just now, your Majesty; and only waits
The close of your perusals.

[Enter SOULT, who is greeted by NAPOLEON.]

FIRST DESERTER

Good Lord deliver us from all great men, and take me back again to
humble life! That's Marshal Soult the Duke of Dalmatia!

SECOND DESERTER

The Duke of Damnation for our poor rear, by the look on't!

FIRST DESERTER

Yes--he'll make 'em rub their poor rears before he has done with
'em! But we must overtake 'em to-morrow by a cross-cut, please God!

NAPOLEON (pointing to the dispatches)

Here's matter enough for me, Duke, and to spare.
The ominous contents are like the threats
The ancient prophets dealt rebellious Judah!
Austria we soon shall have upon our hands,
And England still is fierce for fighting on,--
Strange humour in a concord-loving land!
So now I must to Paris straight away--
At least, to Valladolid; so as to stand
More apt for couriers than I do out here
In this far western corner, and to mark
The veerings of these new developments,
And blow a counter-breeze. . . .

Then, too, there's Lannes, still sweating at the siege
Of sullen Zaragoza as 'twere hell.
Him I must further counsel how to close
His twice too tedious battery.--You, then, Soult--
Ney is not yet, I gather, quite come up?

SOULT

He's near, sire, on the Benavente road;
But some hours to the rear I reckon, still.

NAPOLEON (pointing to the dispatches)

Him I'll direct to come to your support
In this pursuit and harassment of Moore
Wherein you take my place. You'll follow up
And chase the flying English to the sea.
Bear hard on them, the bayonet at their loins.
With Merle's and Mermet's corps just gone ahead,
And Delaborde's, and Heudelet's here at hand.
While Lorge's and Lahoussaye's picked dragoons
Will follow, and Franceschi's cavalry.
To Ney I am writing, in case of need,
He will support with Marchand and Mathieu.--
Your total thus of seventy thousand odd,
Ten thousand horse, and cannon to five score,
Should near annihilate this British force,
And carve a triumph large in history.
(He bends over the fire and makes some notes rapidly.)
I move into Astorga; then turn back,
(Though only in my person do I turn)
And leave to you the destinies of Spain.

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