[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?
The Duke.
I am his son.
The Young Man.
Well! Feeble, feverish, dreaming of the past,
Like you rebellious, what is left to do?—
We're all, to some extent, your father's sons.
The Duke.
You are his soldiers' sons: that's just as glorious.
And 'tis no less redoubtable a burden;
But it emboldens me, for I can say
They're but the sons of heroes of the empire:
They'll be content to take the Emperor's son!
The Countess Camerata.
[Coming out of Maria Louisa's apartments.]
The scarf!—Oh, hush! I'm doing such a trade!
The Duke.
Thank you!