MORELL [quite overcome, kneeling beside her chair and embracing her with boyish ingenuousness] It’s all true, every word. What I am you have made me with the labor of your hands and the love of your heart. You are my wife, my mother, my sisters: you are the sum of all loving care to me.
CANDIDA [in his arms, smiling, to Eugene] Am I your mother and sisters to you, Eugene?
MARCHBANKS [rising with a fierce gesture of disgust] Ah, never. Out, then, into the night with me!
CANDIDA [rising quickly] You are not going like that, Eugene?
MARCHBANKS [with the ring of a man’s voice – no longer a boy’s – in the words] I know the hour when it strikes. I am impatient to do what must be done.
MORELL [who has also risen] Candida: dont let him do anything rash.
CANDIDA [confident, smiling at Eugene] Oh, there is no fear. He has learnt to live without happiness.
MARCHBANKS. I no longer desire happiness: life is nobler than that. Parson James: I give you my happiness with both hands: I love you because you have filled the heart of the woman I loved. Goodbye. [He goes towards the door].
CANDIDA. One last word. [He stops, but without turning to her. She goes to him]. How old are you, Eugene?
MARCHBANKS. As old as the world now. This morning I was eighteen.
CANDIDA. Eighteen! Will you, for my sake, make a little poem out of the two sentences I am going to say to you? And will you promise to repeat it to yourself whenever you think of me?
MARCHBANKS [without moving] Say the sentences.
CANDIDA. When I am thirty, she will be forty-five. When I am sixty, she will be seventy-five.
MARCHBANKS [turning to her] In a hundred years, we shall be the same age. But I have a better secret than that candida in my heart. Let me go now. The night outside grows impatient.
CANDIDA. Goodbye. [She takes his face in her hands; and as he divines her intention and falls on his knees, she kisses his forehead. Then he flies out into the night. She turns to Morell, holding out her arms to him.] Ah, James!
They embrace. But they do not know the secret in the poet’s heart.
THE MAN OF DESTINY
The Man of Destiny first produced at Croydon, 1897; in London, 1901; in New York, 1899; in Berlin, 1904
THE MAN OF DESTINY
The twelfth of May,1796, in north Italy, at Tavazzano, on the road from Lodi to Milan. The afternoon sun is blazing serenely over the plains of Lombardy, treating the Alps with respect and the ant-hills with indulgence, neither disgusted by the basking of the swine in the villages nor hurt by its cool reception in the churches, but ruthlessly disdainful of two hordes of mischievous insects which are the French and Austrian armies. Two days before, at Lodi, the Austrians tried to prevent the French from crossing the river by the narrow bridge there; but the French, commanded by a general aged 27, Napoleon Bonaparte, who does not respect the rules of war, rushed the fireswept bridge, supported by a tremendous cannonade in which the young general assisted with his own hands. Cannonading is his technical speciality: he has been trained in the artillery under the old régime, and made perfect in the military arts of shirking his duties, swindling the paymaster over travelling expenses, and dignifying war with the noise and smoke of cannon, as depicted in all military portraits. He is, however, an original observer, and has perceived, for the first time since the invention of gunpowder, that a cannon ball, if it strikes a man, will kill him. To a thorough grasp of this remarkable discovery he adds a highly evolved faculty for physical geography and for the calculation of times and distances. He has prodigious powers of work, and a clear realistic knowledge of human nature in public affairs, having seen it exhaustively tested in that department during the French Revolution. He is imaginative without illusions, and creative without religion, loyalty, patriotism or any of the common ideals. Not that he is incapable of these ideals: on the contrary, he has swallowed them all in his boyhood, and now, having a keen dramatic faculty, is extremely clever at playing upon them by the arts of the actor and stage manager. Withal, he is no spoiled child. Poverty, ill-luck, the shifts of impecunious shabby-gentility, repeated failure as a would-be author, humiliation as a rebuffed time server, reproof and punishment as an incompetent and dishonest officer, an escape from dismissal from the service so narrow that if the emigration of the nobles had not raised the value of even the most rascally lieutenant to the famine price of a general he would have been swept contemptuously from the army: these trials have ground his conceit outof him, and forced him to be self-sufficient and to understand that to such men as he is the world will give nothing that he cannot take from it by force. In this the world is not free from cowardice and folly; for Napoleon, as a merciless cannonader of political rubbish, is making himself useful: indeed, it is even now impossible to live in England without sometimes feeling how much that country lost in not being conquered by him as well as by Julius Cæsar.
However, on this May afternoon in 1796, it is early days with him. He has but recently been promoted general, partly by using his wife to seduce the Directory (then governing France); partly by the scarcity of officers caused by the emigration as aforesaid; partly by his faculty of knowing a country, with all its roads, rivers, hills and valleys, as he knows the palm of his hand; and largely by that new faith of his in the efficacy of firing cannons at people. His army is, as to discipline, in a state which has so greatly shocked some modern writers before whom the following story has been enacted, that they, impressed with the later glory of ‘L’Empereur’, have altogether refused to credit it. But Napoleon is not L’Empereur yet: his men call him Le Petit Caporal, as he is still in the stage of gaining influence over them by displays of pluck. He is not in a position to force his will on them in orthodox military fashion by the cat o’ nine tails. The French Revolution, which has escaped suppression solely through the monarchy’s habits of being at least four years in arrear with its soldiers in the matter of pay, has substituted for that habit, as far as possible, the habit of not paying at all, except in promises and patriotic flatteries which are not compatible with martial law of the Prussian type. Napoleon has therefore approached the Alps in command of men without money, in rags, and consequently indisposed to stand much discipline, especially from upstart generals. This circumstance, which would have embarrassed an idealist soldier, has been worth a thousand cannon to Napoleon. He has said to his army ‘You have patriotism and courage; but you have no money, no clothes, and hardly anything to eat. In Italy there are all these things, and glory as well, to be gained by a devoted army led by a general who regards loot as the natural right of the soldier. I am such a general. En avant, mes enfants!’ The result has entirely justified him. The army conquers Italy as the locusts conquered Cyprus. They fight all day and march all night, covering impossible distances and appearingin incredible places, not because every soldier carries a field marshal’s baton in his knapsack, but because he hopes to carry at least half a dozen silver forks there next day.
It must be understood, by the way, that the French army does not make war on the Italians. It is there to rescue them from the tyranny of their Austrian conquerors, and confer republican institutions on them; so that in incidentally looting them it merely makes free with the property of its friends, who ought to be grateful to it, and perhaps would be if ingratitude were not the proverbial failing of their country. The Austrians, whom it fights, are a thoroughly respectable regular army, well disciplined, commanded by gentlemen versed in orthodox campaigning: at the head of them Beaulieu, practising the classic art of war under orders from Vienna, and getting horribly beaten by Napoleon, who acts on his own responsibility in defiance of professional precedents or orders from Paris. Even when the Austrians win a battle, all that is necessary is to wait until their routine obliges them to return to their quarters for afternoon tea, so to speak, and win it back again from them: a course pursued later on with brilliant success at Marengo. On the whole, with his foe handicapped by Austrian statesmanship, classic generalship, and
the exigencies of the aristocratic social structure of Viennese society, Napoleon finds it possible to be irresistible without working heroic miracles. The world, however, likes miracles and heroes, and is quite incapable of conceiving the action of such forces as academic militarism or Viennese drawing-roomism. Hence it has already begun to manufacture ‘L’Empereur’, and thus to make it difficult for the romanticists of a hundred years later to credit the hitherto unrecorded little scene now in question at Tavazzano.
The best quarters at Tavazzano are at a little inn, the first house reached by travellers passing through the place from Milan to Lodi. It stands in a vineyard; and its principal room, a pleasant refuge from the summer heat, is open so widely at the back to this vineyard that it is almost a large veranda. The bolder children, much excited by the alarums and excursions of the past few days, and by an irruption of French troops at six o’clock, know that the French commander has quartered himself in this room, and are divided between a craving to peep in at the front windows, and a mortal dread of the sentinel, a young gentleman-soldier who, having no natural moustache, has hada most ferocious one painted on his face with boot blacking by his sergeant. As his heavy uniform, like all the uniforms of that day, is designed for parade without the least reference to his health or comfort, he perspires profusely in the sun; and his painted moustache has run in little streaks down his chin and round his neck, except where it has dried in stiff japanned flakes and had its sweeping outline chipped off in grotesque little bays and headlands, making him unspeakably ridiculous in the eye of History a hundred years later, but monstrous and horrible to the contemporary north Italian infant, to whom nothing would seem more natural than that he should relieve the monotony of his guard by pitchforking a stray child up on his bayonet, and eating it uncooked. Nevertheless one girl of bad character, in whom an instinct of privilege with soldiers is already stirring, does peep in at the safest window for a moment before a glance and a clink from the sentinel sends her flying. Most of what she sees she has seen before: the vineyard at the back, with the old winepress and a cart among the vines; the door close on her right leading to the street entry; the landlord’s best sideboard, now in full action for dinner, further back on the same side; the fireplace on the other side with a couch near it; another door, leading to the inner rooms, between it and the vineyard; and the table in the middle set out with a repast of Milanese risotto, cheese, grapes, bread, olives, and a big wickered flask of red wine.
The landlord, Giuseppe Grandi, she knows well. He is a swarthy vivacious shrewdly cheerful black-curled bullet headed grinning little innkeeper of 40. Naturally an excellent host, he is in the highest spirits this evening at his good fortune in having as his guest the French commander to protect him against the license of the troops. He actually sports a pair of gold earrings which would otherwise have been hidden carefully under the winepress with his little equipment of silver plate.
Napoleon, sitting facing her on the further side of the table, she sees for the first time. He is working hard, partly at his meal, which he has discovered how to dispatch in ten minutes by attacking all the courses simultaneously (this practise is the beginning of his downfall), and partly at a military map on which he from time to time marks the position of the forces by taking a grapeskin from his mouth and planting it on the map with his thumb like a wafer. There is no revolutionary untidiness about his dress or person; but his elbow has displaced most ofthe dishes and glasses; and his long hair trails into the risotto when he forgets it and leans more intently over the map.
GIUSEPPE. Will your excellency –
NAPOLEON [intent on his map, but cramming himself mechanically with his left hand] Dont talk. I’m busy.
GIUSEPPE [with perfect goodhumor] Excellency: I obey.
NAPOLEON. Some red ink.
GIUSEPPE. Alas! excellency, there is none.
NAPOLEON [with Corsican facetiousness] Kill something and bring me its blood.
GIUSEPPE [grinning] There is nothing but your excellency’s horse, the sentinel, the lady upstairs, and my wife.
NAPOLEON. Kill your wife.
GIUSEPPE. Willingly, your excellency; but unhappily I am not strong enough. She would kill me.
NAPOLEON. That will do equally well.
GIUSEPPE. Your excellency does me too much honor. [Stretching his hand towards the flask] Perhaps some wine will answer your excellency’s purpose.
NAPOLEON [hastily protecting the flask, and becoming quite serious] Wine! No: that would be waste. You are all the same: waste! waste! waste! [He marks the map with gravy, using his fork as a pen]. Clear away. [He finishes his wine; pushes back his chair; and uses his napkin, stretching his legs and leaning back, but still frowning and thinking].
GIUSEPPE [clearing the table and removing the things to a tray on the sideboard] Every man to his trade, excellency. We innkeepers have plenty of cheap wine: we think nothing of spilling it. You great generals have plenty of cheap blood: you think nothing of spilling it. Is it not so, excellency?
NAPOLEON. Blood costs nothing: wine costs money. [He rises and goes to the fireplace].
GIUSEPPE. They say you are careful of everything except human life, excellency.
NAPOLEON. Human life, my friend, is the only thing that takes care of itself. [He throws himself at his ease on the couch].
GIUSEPPE [admiring him] Ah, excellency, what fools we all are beside you! If I could only find out the secret of your success!
NAPOLEON. You would make yourself Emperor of Italy, eh?
GIUSEPPE. Too troublesome, excellency: I leave all that to you. Besides, what would become of my inn if I were Emperor? See how you enjoy looking on at me whilst I keep the inn for you and wait on you! Well, I shall enjoy looking on at you whilst you become Emperor of Europe, and govern the country for me [As he chatters, he takes the cloth off deftly without removing the map, and finally takes the corners in his hands and the middle in his mouth, to fold it up].
NAPOLEON. Emperor of Europe, eh? Why only Europe?
GIUSEPPE. Why, indeed? Emperor of the world, excellency! Why not? [He folds and rolls up the cloth, emphasizing his phrase by the steps of the process]. One man is like another [fold]: one country is like another [fold]: one battle is like another. [At the last fold, he slaps the cloth on the table and deftly rolls it up, adding, by way of peroration] Conquer one: conquer all. [He takes the cloth to the sideboard, and puts it in a drawer].
NAPOLEON. And govern for all; fight for all; be everybody’s servant under cover of being everybody’s master, Giuseppe.
GIUSEPPE [at the sideboard] Excellency?
NAPOLEON. I forbid you to talk to me about myself.
GIUSEPPE [coming to the foot of the couch] Pardon. Your excellency is so unlike other great men. It is the subject they like best.
NAPOLEON. Well, talk to me about the subject they like next best, whatever that may be.
GIUSEPPE [unabashed] Willingly, your excellency. Has your excellency by any chance caught a glimpse of the lady upstairs?
NAPOLEON [sitting up promptly] How old is she?
GIUSEPPE. The right age, excellency.
NAPOLEON. Do you mean seventeen or thirty?
GIUSEPPE. Thirty, excellency.
NAPOLEON. Goodlooking?
GIUSEPPE. I cannot see with your excellency’s eyes: every man must judge that for himself. In my opinion, excellency, a fine figure of a lady. [Slyly] Shall I lay the table for her collation here?
NAPOLEON [brusquely, rising] No: lay nothing here until the officer for whom I am waiting comes back. [He looks at his watch, and takes to walking to and fro between the fireplace and the vineyard].
GIUSEPPE [with conviction] Excellency: believe me, he has been captured by the accursed Austrians. He dare not keep you waiting if he were at liberty.
NAPOLEON [turning at the edge of the shadow of the veranda] Giuseppe: if that turns out to be true, it will put me into such a temper that nothing short of hanging you and your whole household, includin
g the lady upstairs, will satisfy me.
GIUSEPPE. We are all cheerfully at your excellency’s disposal, except the lady. I cannot answer for her; but no lady could resist you, General.
NAPOLEON [sourly, resuming his march] Hm! You will never be hanged. There is no satisfaction in hanging a man who does not object to it.
GIUSEPPE [sympathetically] Not the least in the world, excellency: is there? [Napoleon again looks at his watch, evidently growing anxious]. Ah, one can see that you are a great man, General: you know how to wait. If it were a corporal now, or a sub-lieutenant, at the end of three minutes he would be swearing, fuming, threatening, pulling the house about our ears.
Plays Pleasant Page 18
