Читать книгу L'Aiglon - Edmond Rostand - Страница 5

[To Theresa, presenting Dietrichstein.] My son's tutor. And, by the way, I've never thought of asking— Do you read well? Tiburtius. Oh, very! Theresa. I don't know. Maria Louisa. Take one of Franz's books from yonder table, Open it anywhere. Theresa. [Taking a book and reading the title.] "Andromache"— [She reads.] "What is this fear, my lord, which strikes the heart? Has any Trojan hero slipped his chains? Their hate of Hector is not yet appeased: They dread his son! fit object of their dread! A hapless child, who is not yet aware His master's Pyrrhus and his father Hector." [General embarrassment.] I— Gentz. Charming voice. Maria Louisa. Select another passage. Theresa. "Alas the day, when, prompted by his valor, To seek Achilles and to meet his doom, He called his son and wrapped him to his heart: 'Dear wife,' quoth he, and brushed away a tear, 'I know not what the fates may have in store. I leave my son to thee—'" [General embarrassment.] H'm—yes— Maria Louisa. Let's try Some other volume. Take— Theresa. The "Meditations"? Maria Louisa. I know the author! 'Twill not be so dull. He dined with us. [To Scarampi.] The Diplomat, you know. Theresa. [Reads.] "Never had hymns more strenuous and high From seraph lips rung through the listening sky: Courage! Oh, fallen child of godlike race—" The Duke. [Who has entered unnoticed.] Forgive the interruption, Lamartine! Maria Louisa. Well, Franz? A pleasant ride? The Duke. Delightful, mother. But, Mademoiselle, where did my entrance stop you? Theresa. [Looking at him with emotion.] "Courage! Oh, fallen child of godlike race, The glory of your birth is in your face! All men who look on you—" Maria Louisa. That's quite sufficient. The Archduchess. [To the children.] Go, bid good morrow to your cousin. [The children run up to the Duke, who is seated, and surround him.] Scarampi. [To Theresa.] Fie! Theresa. Why, what? A Lady. [Looking at the Duke.] How pale he is! Another Lady. He looks half dead! Scarampi. [To Theresa.] You chose such awkward passages. Theresa. The book Fell open by itself. I did not choose. Gentz. [Who has overheard.] Books always open where most often read. Theresa. [Looking at the Duke.] Archdukes upon his knees! The Archduchess. [Leaning over the back of the Duke's chair.] I am delighted To see you, Franz. I am your friend. [She holds out her hand to him.] The Duke. [Kissing her hand.] I know it. Gentz. [To Theresa.] What do you think of him? I say he's like A cherub who had secretly read "Werther." The Little Girl. [To the Duke.] How nice your collar is! The Duke. Your Highness flatters. Theresa. His collars! The Little Boy. No one has such sticks! The Duke. No. No one. Theresa. His sticks! The Other Little Boy. Oh! and your gloves! The Duke. Superb, my dear. The Little Girl. What is your waistcoat made of? The Duke. That's cashmere. Theresa. Oh! The Archduchess. And you wear your nosegay—? The Duke. Latest fashion: In the third buttonhole. So glad you noticed. [At this moment Theresa bursts into sobs.] The Ladies. Eh? What's the matter? Theresa. Nothing. I don't know. Forgive me. I'm alone here—far from friends. Oh, it was silly!—suddenly— Maria Louisa. Poor dear! Theresa. I held my heart in— Maria Louisa. Tears will do you good. The Duke. What's this I trod on? Why, a white cockade! Metternich. H'm! The Duke. [To the Attaché.] Yours, no doubt, sir. Favor me: your hat. [The Attaché gives him his hat unwillingly. The Duke sees the tricolor cockade.] Ah! [To Metternich.] I was not aware—but then—the flag? Metternich. Highness— The Duke. Is that changed, too? Metternich. A trivial detail. The Duke. Nothing. Metternich. Question of color— The Duke. Of a shade. See for yourself. Looked at in certain lights, I really think this is the more effective. [He moves a few steps.] [His mother takes him by the arm and leads him to the butterfly-cases, which the Doctor, who has come back, has spread out.] The Duke. Butterflies? Maria Louisa. You admire the black one? The Duke. Charming. The Doctor. The plants it loves are umbelliferous. The Duke. It seems to see me with its wings. The Doctor. Those eyes? We call them lunulæ. The Duke. Indeed? I'm glad. The Doctor. Are you examining the spotted grey? The Duke. No, sir. The Doctor. What then, my lord? The Duke. The pin that killed it. The Doctor. [To Maria Louisa.] No use. Maria Louisa. [To Scarampi.] We'll wait. I count on the effect— Scarampi. Ah, yes!—Of our surprise. Gentz. [Who has approached the Duke.] A sweetmeat? The Duke. [Taking one and tasting it.] Perfect. A flavor of verbena and of pear, And something else—wait—yes— Gentz. It's not worth while— The Duke. What's not worth while? Gentz. To feign an interest. I'm not so blind as Metternich. [He offers him another sweetmeat.] A chocolate? The Duke. What do you see? Gentz. I see a youth who suffers, Rather than live a favored prince's life. Your soul is still alive, but here at court They'll lull it fast asleep with love and music. I had a soul once, like the rest of the world; But—! And I wither, decently obscene— Till some day, in the cause of liberty, One of those rash young fools of the University Amid my sweetmeats, perfumes, and dishonor Slays me as Kotzebue was slain by Sand. Yes, I'm afraid—do try a sugared raisin— That I shall perish at his hand. The Duke. You will. Gentz. What?—How? The Duke. A youth will slay you. Gentz. But— The Duke. A youth of your acquaintance. Gentz. Sir—? The Duke. His name Is Frederick. 'Tis the youth you were yourself. For now he's risen again in you; and since He whispers in your ear like dull remorse, All's over with you: he will show no mercy. Gentz. 'Tis true, my youth cuts like a knife within me. Ah, well I knew that gaze had not deceived me! 'Tis that of one who ponders upon Empire. The Duke. I do not understand, sir, what you mean. [He moves away.] Metternich. [To Gentz.] You've had a chat with—? Gentz. Yes. Metternich. Delightful? Gentz. Very. Metternich. He's in the hollow of my hand. Gentz. Entirely. The Duke. [Stopping before Theresa.] Why did you weep? Theresa. Because, my Lord— The Duke. Ah, no! I know. But do not weep. Metternich. [Bowing to the Duke.] I take my leave. [He goes out with the Attaché.] The Duke. [To Maria Louisa and Dietrichstein, who are turning over some papers on his table.] Examining my work? Dietrichstein. It's excellent. But why on purpose make mistakes in German? Pure mischief! Maria Louisa. Oh! and at your age, mischief! The Duke. How can I help it? I am not an eagle. Dietrichstein. You still make France a noun of feminine gender. The Duke. I never know what's der or die or das. Dietrichstein. In this case neuter is correct. The Duke. But mean. I don't much care about a neuter France. Maria Louisa. [To Thalberg, who is playing softly on the piano.] My son detests all music. The Duke. I detest it. Lord Cowley. [Coming toward the Duke.] Highness— Dietrichstein. [Aside to the Duke.] A pleasant word. The Duke. Eh? Dietrichstein. The English Ambassador. Lord Cowley. Where had you been just now When you came galloping and out of breath? The Duke. I? To Saint Helena. Lord Cowley. I beg your pardon? The Duke. A wholesome, leafy nook. So gay!—At evening Delightful. I should like to see you there. Gentz. [Hastily to the Ambassador, while the Duke moves away.] They call the village in the Helenenthal Saint Helena. A fashionable stroll. Lord Cowley. Ah, really? I was almost wondering Whether he meant it as a hit—? [He turns away.] Gentz. [Lifting his hands in amazement at Lord Cowley's dulness.] These English! Voices. We're off! The Archduchess. [To Maria Louisa.] Louisa? Maria Louisa. No, I stay at home. Voices. The carriages. The Archduchess. [To the Duke.] And you, Franz? Maria Louisa. He hates nature. He even gallops through Saint Helena. The Duke. Yes! I gallop! [General leave-taking and gradual departure. Maria Louisa. So devoid of fancy! Montenegro. [Going.] I know a place for supper where the cider— Cries. [Without.] Good-bye! Good-bye! Gentz. [On the terrace.] Don't talk about the hydra! Theresa. [To Tiburtius.] Brother, good-bye! Tiburtius. Good-by. [He goes out with Bombelles.] Maria Louisa. [To the Maids of Honor, indicating Theresa.] Show her her rooms. [Theresa goes out accompanied by the Maids of Honor. Maria Louisa calls the Duke, who was going toward the garden.] Maria Louisa. Franz! [He turns.] Now I'm going to amuse you. The Duke. Really? [Scarampi carefully closes all the doors.] Maria Louisa. Hush!—I've conspired! The Duke. Mother! You!—Conspired! Maria Louisa. Hush! They've forbidden whatever comes from France— But I have ordered secretly from Paris, From the best houses—Oh! my fop shall smile!— For you, a tailor, [Pointing to Scarampi.] and for us, a fitter. I really think the notion— The Duke. Exquisite! Scarampi. [Opening the door of Maria Louisa's apartment.] Come in! [Enter a young lady, dressed with the elegance of a milliner's dummy, and carrying two great card-board dress-boxes, and a young man dressed like a fashion plate, who also carries two big boxes.] The Tailor. [Coming down to the Duke, while the young lady unpacks the dresses on a sofa at the back.] If you will favor me, my Lord— I've here some charming novelties. My clients Are good enough to trust my taste: I guide them. The neck-cloths first. A languid violet; A serious brown. Bandannas are much worn. I note with pleasure that your Highness knows The delicate art of building up a stock. Here's a check pattern makes an elegant knot. How does this waistcoat strike your Lordship's fancy, Down which meander wreaths of blossoms? The Duke. Hideous! The Tailor. Will these, I wonder, leave your Highness cold? Here's doeskin. Here a genuine Scottish tweed. Bottle-green riding-coat with narrow cuffs; Extremely gentlemanly. Here's a waistcoat: Six-buttoned. Three left open. Very tasty. Now, what about this blue frock-coat? We've rubbed The newness off artistically. Worn With salt and pepper trousers, what a picture! We'll throw aside this heavy yellow stuff— Can Hamlet wear the clumsy clouts of Falstaff?— We'll pass to mantles, Prince. A splendid plaid, Demi-collar with simili-sleeves behind. Eccentric? Granted.—This, called the Roulière: Sober, a large, Hidalgo-like effect; The very thing to woo a Doña Sol in. Excellent workmanship; a silver chain; the collar Of finest sable; made in our own workshops; Simple, but what a cut! The cut is everything. Maria Louisa. The Duke is weary of your chatter. The Duke. No. He sets me dreaming. I'm not used to it. For when my tailor from Vienna comes I never hear these bright, descriptive words; And so this wealth of curious adjectives And all that seems to you mere vulgar chatter, Has moved me—stirred me. Let him be, dear mother. Maria Louisa. [Going to the fitter.] We'll look at ours. Shoulder of mutton sleeves? The Fitter. Always. The Tailor. [Displaying a pattern.] This cloth is called Marengo. The Duke. What? Marengo? The Tailor. Yes; it wears uncommon well. The Duke. So I should think. Marengo lasts forever. The Tailor. Your Highness orders—? The Duke. I have need of nothing. The Tailor. One always needs a perfect-fitting coat. The Duke. I might invent— The Tailor.. To suit your personal taste? O client, soar to fancy's wildest heights! Speak! We will follow! That's our special line; Why, we are Monsieur Théophile Gautier's tailors. The Duke. Let's see— The Fitter. A Panama with muslin trimmings— That's not the sort of hat for everybody. The Duke. Could you make— The Tailor. Anything. The Duke. A— The Tailor. What you choose! The Duke. A coat? The Tailor. Assuredly. The Duke. Of broadcloth. Yes But now the texture? Simple? The Tailor. Certainly. The Duke. And then the color. What do you say to green? The Tailor. Green's capital. The Duke. A little coat of green. With glimpses of the waistcoat? The Tailor. Coat wide open! The Duke. Then, to give color when the wearer moves, The skirts are lined with scarlet. The Tailor. Scarlet! Oh, ravishing. The Duke. Well, but about the waistcoat. How do you see the waistcoat? The Tailor. Shall we say—? The Duke. The waistcoat's white. The Tailor. What taste! The Duke. And then I think Knee breeches. The Tailor. Ah! The Duke. Yes. The Tailor. Any color? The Duke. No. I rather think I see them white cashmere. The Tailor. Well, after all, white is the more becoming. The Duke. The buttons are engraved. The Tailor. That's not good style. The Duke. Yes; something—nothing—merely little eagles. The Tailor. Eagles! The Duke. Well? What are you afraid of, sir? And wherefore does your hand shake, master tailor? What is there strange about the suit of clothes? Do you no longer boast your skill to make it? The Fitter. Coalscuttle bonnet neatly trimmed with poppies. The Duke. Take home your latest fashions and your patterns; That little suit's the only one I want. The Tailor. But I— The Duke. 'Tis well. Begone, and be discreet. The Tailor. Yet— The Duke. 'Twould not fit me. The Tailor. It would fit you. The Duke. What! The Tailor. It would fit you well. The Duke. You're very bold, sir! The Tailor. And I'm empowered to take your order for it. The Duke. Ah! The Tailor. Yes! The Fitter. A flowing cloak of China crape; Embroidered lining with enormous sleeves. The Duke. Indeed? The Tailor. Yes, Highness. The Duke. A conspirator? Now I no longer wonder you cite Shakespeare! The Tailor. The little coat of green holds in its thrall Deputies, schools, a Peer, and a Field Marshal. The Fitter. Spencer of figured muslin. Satin skirt. The Tailor. We can arrange your flight. The Duke. Should I agree I must beforehand—ay, and there's the rub— Consult my friend Prince Metternich. The Tailor. You'll trust us When you are told our leader is your cousin The Countess Camerata. The Duke. Ah, I know! The daughter of Elisa Baciocchi. The Tailor. The strange, unarmored amazon, who bears Her father's likeness proudly in her face, Seeks dangers, rides unbroken horses, fences— The Fitter. A little sleeveless gown of lightest muslin. The Tailor. And when you know it's this Penthesilea— The Fitter. The collar's only pinned, the shoulders basted— The Tailor. Who heads the plot I spoke of— The Duke. Give me proof! The Tailor. Turn round, your Highness; glance at the young person Who on her knees unpacks the clothes. The Duke. 'Tis she! Not long ago I met her in Vienna, Wrapped in a cloak. She swiftly kissed my hand And fled, exclaiming, Haven't I the right To greet the Emperor's son who is my master? She is a Bonaparte! We are alike!— Ay, but her hair is dark; not fair like mine. Maria Louisa. We'll try them on in there. Come, follow me. Only Parisians, Franz, know how to fit us. The Duke. Yes, mother. Maria Louisa. Don't you love Parisian taste? The Duke. It's very true they dress you well in Paris. [Maria Louisa, Scarampi, and the Fitter go into Maria Louisa's apartment with the things they are to try on.] The Duke. Now! Who are you, sir? The Tailor. I? A nameless atom. Weary of life in mean and paltry times, Of smoking pipes and dreaming of ideals. Who am I? How do I know? That's my trouble. Am I at all?—It's very hard to "be." I study Victor Hugo; spout his odes— I tell you this, because this sort of thing Is all contemporary youth. I spend Extravagant fortunes in acquiring boredom. I am an artist, Highness, and Young France. Also I'm carbonaro at your service. And as I'm always bored I wear red waistcoats, And that amuses me. At tying neck-cloths I once was very good indeed. That's why They sent me here to-day to play the tailor. I'll add, to make the picture quite complete, That I'm a liberal and a king-devourer. My life and dagger are at your command. The Duke. I like you, sir, although your talk is crazy. The Young Man. You must not judge me by my whirling words; The itch of notoriety consumes me, But the disease beneath is very real, And makes me seek forgetfulness in danger. The Duke. Disease? The Young Man. A shuddering disgust. The Duke. Your soul Heavy with foiled ambitions? The Young Man. Dull disquiet— The Duke. Morbid enjoyment of our sufferings, And pride in showing off our pallid brows? The Young Man. My Lord! The Duke. Contempt for those who live content? The Young Man. My Lord! The Duke. And doubt? The Young Man. In what mysterious volume Has one so young learnt all the human heart? For that is what I feel. The Duke. Give me your hand! For, as a sapling, friend, which is transplanted, Feels all the forest in its ignorant veins, And suffers when its distant mates are hurt, So I, who knew you not, here, all alone, Felt the distemper stirring in my blood Which at this moment blights the youth of France. The Young Man. Rather I think our malady is yours, For whence upon you falls this giant robe? Child, whom beforehand they have robbed of glory, Pale Prince, so pale against your sable suit, Why are you pale, my Prince?