by Thomas Hardy
SCENE IV
THE FIELD OF TALAVERA
[It is the same month and weather as in the preceding scene.
Talavera town, on the river Tagus, is at the extreme right of the
foreground; a mountain range on the extreme left.
The allied army under SIR ARTHUR WELLESLEY stretches between—the
English on the left, the Spanish on the right—part holding a hill
to the left-centre of the scene, divided from the mountains by a
valley, and part holding a redoubt to the right-centre. This army
of more than fifty thousand all told, of which twenty-two thousand
only are English, has its back to the spectator.
Beyond, in a wood of olive, oak, and cork, are the fifty to sixty
thousand French, facing the spectator and the allies. Their right
includes a strong battery upon a hill which fronts the one on the
English left.
Behind all, the heights of Salinas close the prospect, the small
river Alberche flowing at their foot from left to right into the
Tagus, which advances in foreshortened perspective to the town at
the right front corner of the scene as aforesaid.]
DUMB SHOW
The hot and dusty July afternoon having turned to twilight, shady
masses of men start into motion from the French position, come towards
the foreground, silently ascend the hill on the left of the English,
and assail the latter in a violent outburst of fire and lead. They
nearly gain possession of the hill ascended.
CHORUS OF RUMOURS [aerial music]
Talavera tongues it as ten o' the night-time:
Now come Ruffin's slaughterers surging upward,
Backed by bold Vilatte's! From the vale Lapisse, too,
Darkly outswells there!
Down the vague veiled incline the English fling them,
Bended bayonets prodding opponents backward:
So the first fierce charge of the ardent Frenchmen
England repels there!
Having fallen back into the darkness the French presently reascend
in yet larger masses. The high square knapsack which every English
foot-soldier carries, and his shako, and its tuft, outline themselves
against the dim light as the ranks stand awaiting the shock.
CHORUS OF RUMOURS
Pushing spread they!—shout as they reach the summit!—
Strength and stir new-primed in their plump battalions:
Puffs of barbed flame blown on the lines opposing
Higher and higher.
There those hold them mute, though at speaking distance—
Mute, while clicking flints, and the crash of volleys
Whelm the weighted gloom with immense distraction
Pending their fire.
Fronting heads, helms, brows can each ranksman read there,
Epaulettes, hot cheeks, and the shining eyeball,
[Called a trice from gloom by the fleeting pan-flash]
Pressing them nigher!
The French again fall back in disorder into the hollow, and LAPISSE
draws off on the right. As the sinking sound of the muskets tells
what has happened the English raise a shout.
CHORUS OF PITIES
Thus the dim nocturnal embroil of conflict
Closes with the roar of receding gun-fire.
Harness loosened then, and their day-long strenuous
Temper unbending,
Worn-out lines lie down where they late stood staunchly—
Cloaks around them rolled—by the bivouac embers:
There at dawn to stake in the dynasts' death-game
All, till the ending!
SCENE V
THE SAME
DUMB SHOW [continued]
The morning breaks. There is another murderous attempt to dislodge the
English from the hill, the assault being pressed with a determination
that excites the admiration of the English themselves.
The French are seen descending into the valley, crossing it, and
climbing it on the English side under the fire of HILL'S whole
division, all to no purpose. In their retreat they leave behind
them on the slopes nearly two thousand lying.
The day advances to noon, and the air trembles in the intense heat.
The combat flags, and is suspended.
SPIRIT OF THE PITIES
What do I see but thirsty, throbbing bands
From these inimic hosts defiling down
In homely need towards the little stream
That parts their enmities, and drinking there!
They get to grasping hands across the rill,
Sealing their sameness as earth's sojourners.—
What more could plead the wryness of the time
Than such unstudied piteous pantomimes!
SPIRIT IRONIC
It is only that Life's queer mechanics chance to work out in this
grotesque shape just now. The groping tentativeness of an Immanent
Will [as grey old Years describes it] cannot be asked to learn logic
at this time of day! The spectacle of Its instruments, set to riddle
one another through, and then to drink together in peace and concord,
is where the humour comes in, and makes the play worth seeing!
SPIRIT SINISTER
Come, Sprite, don't carry your ironies too far, or you may wake up
the Unconscious Itself, and tempt It to let all the gory clock-work
of the show run down to spite me!
DUMB SHOW [continuing]
The drums roll, and the men of the two nations part from their
comradeship at the Alberche brook, the dark masses of the French
army assembling anew. SIR ARTHUR WELLESLEY has seated himself on
a mound that commands a full view of the contested hill, and
remains there motionless a long time. When the French form for
battle he is seen to have come to a conclusion. He mounts, gives
his orders, and the aides ride off.
The French advance steadily through the sultry atmosphere, the
skirmishers in front, and the columns after, moving, yet seemingly
motionless. Their eighty cannon peal out and their shots mow every
space in the line of them. Up the great valley and the terraces of
the hill whose fame is at that moment being woven, comes VILLATE,
boring his way with foot and horse, and RUFFIN'S men following
behind.
According to the order given, the Twenty-third Light Dragoons and
the German Hussars advance at a chosen moment against the head of
these columns. On the way they disappear.
SPIRIT OF THE PITIES
Why this bedevilment? What can have chanced?
SPIRIT OF RUMOUR
It so befalls that as their chargers near
The inimical wall of flesh with its iron frise,
A treacherous chasm uptrips them: zealous men
And docile horses roll to dismal death
And horrid mutilation.
SPIRIT OF THE PITIES
Those who live
Even now advance! I'll see no more. Relate.
SPIRIT OF RUMOUR
Yes, those pant on. Then further Frenchmen cross,
And Polish Lancers, and Westphalian Horse,
Who ring around these luckless Islanders,
And sweep them down like reeds by the river-bank
In scouring floods; till scarce a man remains.
Meanwhile on the British right SEBASTIANI'S corps has precipitated
itself in column against GENERAL CAMPBELL'S division, the division
of LAPISSE against the centre, and at the sa
me time the hill on the
English left is again assaulted. The English and their allies are
pressed sorely here, the bellowing battery tearing lanes through
their masses.
SPIRIT OF RUMOUR [continuing]
The French reserves of foot and horse now on,
Smiting the Islanders in breast and brain
Till their mid-lines are shattered.... Now there ticks
The moment of the crisis; now the next,
Which brings the turning stroke.
SIR ARTHUR WELLESLEY sends down the Forty-eighth regiment under
COLONEL DONELLAN to support the wasting troops. It advances amid
those retreating, opening to let them pass.
SPIRIT OF THE RUMOUR [continuing]
The pales, enerved,
The hitherto unflinching enemy!
Lapisse is pierced to death; the flagging French
Decline into the hollows whence they came.
The too exhausted English and reduced
Lack strength to follow.—Now the western sun,
Conning with unmoved visage quick and dead,
Gilds horsemen slackening, and footmen stilled,
Till all around breathes drowsed hostility.
Last, the swealed herbage lifts a leering light,
And flames traverse the field; and hurt and slain
Opposed, opposers, in a common plight
Are scorched together on the dusk champaign.
The fire dies down, and darkness enwraps the scene.
SCENE VI
BRIGHTON. THE ROYAL PAVILION
[It is the birthday dinner-party of the PRINCE OF WALES. In the
floridly decorated banqueting-room stretch tables spread with gold
and silver plate, and having artificial fountains in their midst.
Seated at the tables are the PRINCE himself as host—rosy, well
curled, and affable—the DUKES OF YORK, CLARENCE, KENT, SUSSEX,
CUMBERLAND, and CAMBRIDGE, with many noblemen, including LORDS
HEADFORT, BERKELEY, EGREMONT, CHICHESTER, DUDLEY, SAY AND SELE,
SOUTHAMPTON, HEATHFIELD, ERSKINE, KEITH, C. SOMERSET, G. CAVENDISH,
R. SEYMOUR, and others; SIR C. POLE, SIR E.G. DE CRESPIGNY, MR.
SHERIDAN; Generals, Colonels, and Admirals, and the REV. MR. SCOTT.
The PRINCE'S band plays in the adjoining room. The banquet is
drawing to its close, and a boisterous conversation is in progress.
Enter COLONEL BLOOMFIELD with a dispatch for the PRINCE, who looks
it over amid great excitement in the company. In a few moments
silence is called.]
PRINCE OF WALES
I have the joy, my lords and gentlemen,
To rouse you with the just imported tidings
From General Wellesley through Lord Castlereagh
Of a vast victory [noisy cheers] over the French in Spain.
The place—called Talavera de la Reyna
[If I pronounce it rightly]—long unknown,
Wears not the crest and blazonry of fame! [Cheers.]
The heads and chief contents of the dispatch
I read you as succinctly as I can. [Cheers.]
SHERIDAN [singing sotto voce]
"Now foreign foemen die and fly,
Dammy, we'll drink little England dry!"
[The PRINCE reads the parts of the dispatch that describe the
battle, amid intermittent cheers.]
PRINCE OF WALES [continuing]
Such is the substance of the news received,
Which, after Wagram, strikes us genially
As sudden sunrise through befogged night shades!
SHERIDAN [privately]
By God, that's good, sir! You are a poet born, while the rest of us
are but made, and bad at that.
[The health of the army in Spain is drunk with acclamations.]
PRINCE OF WALES [continuing]
In this achievement we, alas! have lost
Too many! Yet suck blanks must ever be.—
Mackenzie, Langworth, Beckett of the Guards,
Have fallen of ours; while of the enemy
Generals Lapisse and Morlot are laid low.—
Drink to their memories!
[They drink in silence.]
Other news, my friends,
Received to-day is of like hopeful kind.
The Great War-Expedition to the Scheldt [Cheers.]
Which lately sailed, has found a favouring wind,
And by this hour has touched its destined shores.
The enterprise will soon be hot aglow,
The invaders making first the Cadsand coast,
And then descending on Walcheren Isle.
But items of the next step are withheld
Till later days, from obvious policy. [Cheers.]
[Faint throbbing sounds, like the notes of violincellos and
contrabassos, reach the ear from some building without as the
speaker pauses.
In worthy emulation of us here
The county holds to-night a birthday ball,
Which flames with all the fashion of the town.
I have been asked to patronize their revel,
And sup with them, and likewise you, my guests.
We have good reason, with such news to bear!
Thither we haste and join our loyal friends,
And stir them with this live intelligence
Of our staunch regiments on the Spanish plains. [Applause.]
With them we'll now knit hands and beat the ground,
And bring in dawn as we whirl round and round!
There are some fair ones in their set to-night,
And such we need here in our bachelor-plight. [Applause.]
[The PRINCE, his brothers, and a large proportion of the other
Pavilion guests, swagger out in the direction of the Castle
assembly-rooms adjoining, and the deserted banqueting-hall grows
dark. In a few moments the back of the scene opens, revealing
the assembly-rooms behind.]
SCENE VII
THE SAME. THE ASSEMBLY ROOMS
[The rooms are lighted with candles in brass chandeliers, and a
dance is in full movement to the strains of a string-band. A
signal is given, shortly after the clock has struck eleven, by
MR. FORTH, Master of Ceremonies.]
FORTH
His Royal Highness comes, though somewhat late,
But never too late for welcome! [Applause.] Dancers, stand,
That we may do fit homage to the Prince
Who soon may shine our country's gracious king.
[After a brief stillness a commotion is heard at the door, the band
strikes up the National air, and the PRINCE enters, accompanied by
the rest of the visitors from the Pavilion. The guests who have
been temporarily absent now crowd in, till there is hardly space
to stand.]
PRINCE OF WALES [wiping his face and whispering to Sheridan]
What shall I say to fit their feeling here?
Damn me, that other speech has stumped me quite!
SHERIDAN [whispering]
If heat be evidence of loy—-
PRINCE OF WALES
If what?
SHERIDAN
If heat be evidence of loyalty,
Et caetera—something quaint like that might please 'em.
PRINCE OF WALES [to the company]
If heat be evidence of loyalty,
This room affords it truly without question;
If heat be not, then its accompaniment
Most surely 'tis to-night. The news I bring,
Good ladies, friends, and gentlemen, perchance
You have divined already? That our arms—
Engaged to thwart Napoleon's tyranny
Over the jaunty,
jocund land of Spain
Even to the highest apex of our strength—
Are rayed with victory! [Cheers.] Lengthy was the strife
And fierce, and hot; and sore the suffering;
But proudly we endured it; and shall hear,
No doubt, of its far consequence
Ere many days. I'll read the details sent. [Cheers.]
[He reads again from the dispatch amid more cheering, the ball-
room guests crowding round. When he has done he answers questions;
then continuing:
Meanwhile our interest is, if possible,
As keenly waked elsewhere. Into the Scheldt
Some forty thousand bayonets and swords,
And twoscore ships o' the line, with frigates, sloops,
And gunboats sixty more, make headway now,
Bleaching the waters with their bellying sails;
Or maybe they already anchor there,
And that level ooze of Walcheren shore
Ring with the voices of that landing host
In every twang of British dialect,
Clamorous to loosen fettered Europe's chain! [Cheers.]
A NOBLE LORD [aside to Sheridan]
Prinny's outpouring tastes suspiciously like your brew, Sheridan.
I'll be damned if it is his own concoction. How d'ye sell it a
gallon?
SHERIDAN
I don't deal that way nowadays. I give the recipe, and charge a
duty on the gauging. It is more artistic, and saves trouble.
[The company proceed to the supper-rooms, and the ball-room sinks
into solitude.]
SPIRIT OF THE PITIES
So they pass on. Let be!—But what is this—
A moan?—all frailly floating from the east
To usward, even from the forenamed isle?...
Would I had not broke nescience, to inspect
A world so ill-contrived!
SPIRIT OF THE YEARS
But since thou hast
We'll hasten to the isle; and thou'lt behold—
Such as it is—the scene its coasts enfold.
SCENE VIII
WALCHEREN
[A marshy island at the mouth of the Scheldt, lit by the low
sunshine of an evening in late summer. The horizontal rays from
the west lie in yellow sheaves across the vapours that the day's
heat has drawn from the sweating soil. Sour grasses grow in
places, and strange fishy smells, now warm, now cold, pass along.
Brass-hued and opalescent bubbles, compounded of many gases, rise
where passing feet have trodden the damper spots. At night the
