SCENE I
THE PLAIN OF VITORIA
[It is the eve of the longest day of the year; also the eve of the
battle of Vitoria. The English army in the Peninsula, and their
Spanish and Portuguese allies, are bivouacking on the western side
of the Plain, about six miles from the town.
On some high ground in the left mid-distance may be discerned the
MARQUIS OF WELLINGTON’S tent, with GENERALS HILL, PICTON, PONSONBY,
GRAHAM, and others of his staff, going in and out in consultation
on the momentous event impending. Near the foreground are some
hussars sitting round a fire, the evening being damp; their horses
are picketed behind. In the immediate front of the scene are some
troop-officers talking.]
FIRST OFFICER
This grateful rest of four-and-twenty hours
Is priceless for our jaded soldiery;
And we have reconnoitred largely, too;
So the slow day will not have slipped in vain.
SECOND OFFICER [looking towards the headquarter tent]
By this time they must nearly have dotted down
The methods of our master-stroke to-morrow:
I have no clear conception of its plan,
Even in its leading lines. What is decided?
FIRST OFFICER
There are outshaping three supreme attacks,
As I decipher. Graham’s on the left,
To compass which he crosses the Zadorra,
And turns the enemy’s right. On our right, Hill
Will start at once to storm the Puebla crests.
The Chief himself, with us here in the centre,
Will lead on by the bridges Tres-Puentes
Over the ridge there, and the Mendoza bridge
A little further up.—That’s roughly it;
But much and wide discretionary power
Is left the generals all.
[The officers walk away, and the stillness increases, so the
conversation at the hussars’ bivouac, a few yards further back,
becomes noticeable.]
SERGEANT YOUNG19
I wonder, I wonder how Stourcastle is looking this summer night, and
all the old folks there!
SECOND HUSSAR
You was born there, I think I’ve heard ye say, Sergeant?
SERGEANT YOUNG
I was. And though I ought not to say it, as father and mother are
living there still, ’tis a dull place at times. Now Budmouth-Regis
was exactly to my taste when we were there with the Court that
summer, and the King and Queen a-wambling about among us like the
most everyday old man and woman you ever see. Yes, there was plenty
going on, and only a pretty step from home. Altogether we had a
fine time!
THIRD HUSSAR
You walked with a girl there for some weeks, Sergeant, if my memory
serves?
SERGEANT YOUNG
I did. And a pretty girl ’a was. But nothing came on’t. A month
afore we struck camp she married a tallow-chandler’s dipper of Little
Nicholas Lane. I was a good deal upset about it at the time. But
one gets over things!
SECOND HUSSAR
’Twas a low taste in the hussy, come to that.—Howsomever, I agree
about Budmouth. I never had pleasanter times than when we lay there.
You had a song on it, Sergeant, in them days, if I don’t mistake?
SERGEANT YOUNG
I had; and have still. ’Twas made up when we left by our bandmaster
that used to conduct in front of Gloucester Lodge at the King’s Mess
every afternoon.
[The Sergeant is silent for a minute, then suddenly bursts into
melody.]
SONG “BUDMOUTH DEARS”
I
When we lay where Budmouth Beach is,
O, the girls were fresh as peaches,
With their tall and tossing figures and their eyes of blue
and brown!
And our hearts would ache with longing
As we paced from our sing-songing,
With a smart CLINK! CLINK! up the Esplanade and down
II
They distracted and delayed us
By the pleasant pranks they played us,
And what marvel, then, if troopers, even of regiments of renown,
On whom flashed those eyes divine, O,
Should forget the countersign, O,
As we tore CLINK! CLINK! back to camp above the town.
III
Do they miss us much, I wonder,
Now that war has swept us sunder,
And we roam from where the faces smile to where the faces frown?
And no more behold the features
Of the fair fantastic creatures,
And no more CLINK! CLINK! past the parlours of the town?
IV
Shall we once again there meet them?
Falter fond attempts to greet them?
Will the gay sling-jacket20 glow again beside the muslin gown?—
Will they archly quiz and con us
With a sideways glance upon us,
While our spurs CLINK! CLINK! up the Esplanade and down?
[Applause from the other hussars. More songs are sung, the night
gets darker, the fires go out, and the camp sleeps.]
SCENE II
THE SAME, FROM THE PUEBLA HEIGHTS
[It is now day; but a summer fog pervades the prospect. Behind
the fog is heard the roll of bass and tenor drums and the clash
of cymbals, with notes of the popular march “The Downfall of Paris.”
By degrees the fog lifts, and the Plain is disclosed. From this
elevation, gazing north, the expanse looks like the palm of a
monstrous right hand, a little hollowed, some half-dozen miles
across, wherein the ball of the thumb is roughly represented by
heights to the east, on which the French centre has gathered; the
“Mount of Mars” and the “Moon” [the opposite side of the palm] by
the position of the English on the left or west of the plain;
and the “Line of Life” by the Zadorra, an unfordable river running
from the town down the plain, and dropping out of it through a
pass in the Puebla Heights to the south, just beneath our point
of observation—that is to say, toward the wrist of the supposed
hand. The left of the English army under GRAHAM would occupy the
“mounts” at the base of the fingers; while the bent finger-tips
might represent the Cantabrian Hills beyond the plain to the north
or back of the scene.
From the aforesaid stony crests of Puebla the white town and
church towers of Vitoria can be descried on a slope to the right-
rear of the field of battle. A warm rain succeeds the fog for a
short while, bringing up the fragrant scents from fields, vineyards,
and gardens, now in the full leafage of June.]
DUMB SHOW
All the English forces converge forward—that is, eastwardly—the
centre over the ridges, the right through the Pass to the south, the
left down the Bilbao road on the north-west, the bands of the divers
regiments striking up the same quick march, “The Downfall of Paris.”
SPIRIT OF THE YEARS
You see the scene. And yet you see it not.
What do you notice now?
There immediately is shown visually the electric state of mind that
animates WELLINGTON, GRAHAM, HILL, KEMPT, PICTON, COLVILLE, and other
responsible ones on the British side; and on the French KING JOSEPH
stationary on the hill overlooking his own centre, and surrounded by
a numerous staff that includes his adviser MARSHAL JOURDAN, with,
far away in the field, GAZAN, D’ERLON, REILLE, and other marshals.
This vision, resembling as a whole the interior of a beating brain
lit by phosphorescence, in an instant fades back to normal.
Anon we see the English hussars with their flying pelisses galloping
across the Zadorra on one of the Tres-Puentes in the midst of the
field, as had been planned, the English lines in the foreground under
HILL pushing the enemy up the slopes; and far in the distance, to the
left of Vitoria, whiffs of grey smoke followed by low rumbles show
that the left of the English army under GRAHAM is pushing on there.
Bridge after bridge of the half-dozen over the Zadorra is crossed by
the British; and WELLINGTON, in the centre with PICTON, seeing the
hill and village of Arinez in front of him [eastward] to be weakly
held, carries the regiments of the seventh and third divisions in a
quick run towards it. Supported by the hussars, they ultimately
fight their way to the top, in a chaos of smoke, flame, and booming
echoes, loud-voiced PICTON, in an old blue coat and round hat,
swearing as he goes.
Meanwhile the French who are opposed to the English right, in the
foreground, have been turned by HILL; the heights are all abandoned,
and the columns fall back in a confused throng by the road to
Vitoria, hard pressed by the British, who capture abandoned guns
amid indescribable tumult, till the French make a stand in front
of the town.
SPIRIT OF THE PITIES
What’s toward in the distance?—say!
SEMICHORUS I OF RUMOURS [aerial music]
Fitfully flash strange sights there; yea,
Unwonted spectacles of sweat and scare
Behind the French, that make a stand
With eighty cannon, match in hand.—
Upon the highway from the town to rear
An eddy of distraction reigns,
Where lumbering treasure, baggage-trains,
Padding pedestrians, haze the atmosphere.
SEMICHORUS II
Men, women, and their children fly,
And when the English over-high
Direct their death-bolts, on this billowy throng
Alight the too far-ranging balls,
Wringing out piteous shrieks and calls
From the pale mob, in monotones loud and long.
SEMICHORUS I
To leftward of the distant din
Reille meantime has been driven in
By Graham’s measure overmastering might.—
Henceforward, masses of the foe
Withdraw, and, firing as they go,
Pass rightwise from the cockpit out of sight.
CHORUS
The sunset slants an ochreous shine
Upon the English knapsacked line,
Whose glistering bayonets incline
As bends the hot pursuit across the plain;
And tardily behind them goes
Too many a mournful load of those
Found wound-weak; while with stealthy crawl,
As silence wraps the rear of all,
Cloaked creatures of the starlight strip the slain.
SCENE III
THE SAME. THE ROAD FROM THE TOWN
[With the going down of the sun the English army finds itself in
complete possession of the mass of waggons and carriages distantly
beheld from the rear—laden with pictures, treasure, flour,
vegetables, furniture, finery, parrots, monkeys, and women—most
of the male sojourners in the town having taken to their heels
and disappeared across the fields.
The road is choked with these vehicles, the women they carry
including wives, mistresses, actresses, dancers, nuns, and
prostitutes, which struggle through droves of oxen, sheep, goats,
horses, asses, and mules— a Noah’s-ark of living creatures in
one vast procession.
There enters rapidly in front of this throng a carriage containing
KING JOSEPH BONAPARTE and an attendant, followed by another vehicle
with luggage.]
JOSEPH [inside carriage]
The bare unblinking truth hereon is this:
The Englishry are a pursuing army,
And we a flying brothel! See our men—
They leave their guns to save their mistresses!
[The carriage is fired upon from outside the scene. The KING leaps
from the vehicle and mounts a horse.
Enter at full gallop from the left CAPTAIN WYNDHAM and a detachment
of the Tenth Hussars in chase of the King’s carriage; and from the
right a troop of French dragoons, who engage with the hussars and
hinder pursuit. Exit KING JOSEPH on horseback; afterwards the
hussars and dragoons go out fighting.
The British infantry enter irregularly, led by a sergeant of the
Eighty-seventh, mockingly carrying MARSHAL JOURDAN’S baton. The
crowd recedes. The soldiers ransack the King’s carriages, cut
from their frames canvases by Murillo, Velasquez, and Zurbaran,
and use them as package-wrappers, throwing the papers and archives
into the road.
They next go to a waggon in the background, which contains a large
chest. Some of the soldiers burst it with a crash. It is full of
money, which rolls into the road. The soldiers begin scrambling,
but are restored to order; and they march on.
Enter more companies of infantry, out of control of their officers,
who are running behind. They see the dollars, and take up the
scramble for them; next ransacking other waggons and abstracting
therefrom uniforms, ladies raiment, jewels, plate, wines, and
spirits.
Some array them in the finery, and one soldier puts on a diamond
necklace; others load themselves with the money still lying about
the road. It begins to rain, and a private who has lost his kit
cuts a hole in the middle of a deframed old master, and, putting
it over his head, wears it as a poncho.
Enter WELLINGTON and others, grimy and perspiring.]
FIRST OFFICER
The men are plundering in all directions!
WELLINGTON
Let ’em. They’ve striven long and gallantly.
—What documents do I see lying there?
SECOND OFFICER [examining]
The archives of King Joseph’s court, my lord;
His correspondence, too, with Bonaparte.
WELLINGTON
We must examine it. It may have use.
[Another company of soldiers enters, dragging some equipages that
have lost their horses by the traces being cut. The carriages
contain ladies, who shriek and weep at finding themselves captives.]
What women bring they there?
THIRD OFFICER
Mixed sorts, my lord.
The wives of many young French officers,
The mistresses of more—in male attire.
Yon elegant hussar is one, to wit;
She so disguised is of a Spanish house,—
One of the general’s loves.
WELLINGTON
Well, pack them off
To-morrow to Pamplona, as you can;
We’ve neither list nor leisure for their charms.
By God, I never saw so many wh—-s
In all my life before!
[Exeunt WELLINGTON, officers, and infantry. A soldier enters with
his arm round a lady in rich costume.]
SOLDIER
We must be married, my dear.
LADY [not knowing his language]
Anything, sir, if you’ll spare my life!
SOLDIER
There’s neither parson nor clerk here. But that don’t matter—hey?
LADY
Anything, sir, if you’ll spare my life!
SOLDIER
And if we’ve got to unmarry at cockcrow, why, so be it—hey?
LADY
Anything, sir, if you’ll spare my life!
SOLDIER
A sensible ’ooman, whatever it is she says; that I can see by her
pretty face. Come along then, my dear. There’ll be no bones broke,
and we’ll take our lot with Christian resignation.
[Exeunt soldier and lady. The crowd thins away as darkness closes
in, and the growling of artillery ceases, though the wheels of the
flying enemy are still heard in the distance. The fires kindled
by the soldiers as they make their bivouacs blaze up in the gloom,
and throw their glares a long way, revealing on the slopes of the
hills many suffering ones who have not yet been carried in.
The last victorious regiment comes up from the rear, fifing and
drumming ere it reaches its resting-place the last bars of “The
Downfall of Paris”:—
Transcriber’s Note: There follows in musical notation four bars
from that song in 2/4 time, key of C—
\\E EF G F\E EF G F\E EC D DB\C \\
SCENE IV
A FETE AT VAUXHALL
[It is the Vitoria festival at Vauxhall. The orchestra of the
renowned gardens exhibits a blaze of lamps and candles arranged
in the shape of a temple, a great artificial sun glowing at the
top, and under it in illuminated characters the words “Vitoria”
and “Wellington.” The band is playing the new air “The Plains
of Vitoria.”
All round the colonnade of the rotunda are to be read in the
illumination the names of Peninsular victories, underneath them
figuring the names of British and Spanish generals who led at
those battles, surmounted by wreaths of laurel The avenues
stretching away from the rotunda into the gardens charm the eyes
with their mild multitudinous lights, while festoons of lamps
hang from the trees elsewhere, and transparencies representing
scenes from the war.
The gardens and saloons are crowded, among those present being the
KING’S sons—the DUKES OF YORK, CLARENCE, KENT, and CAMBRIDGE—
Ambassadors, peers, and peeresses, and other persons of quality,
English and foreign.
In the immediate foreground on the left hand is an alcove, the
interior of which is in comparative obscurity. Two foreign
attachés enter it and sit down.]
FIRST ATTACHE
Ah—now for the fireworks. They are under the direction of Colonel
Congreve.
[At the end of an alley, purposely kept dark, fireworks are
discharged.]
SECOND ATTACHE
Very good: very good.—This looks like the Duke of Sussex coming in,
I think. Who the lady is with him I don’t know.
[Enter the DUKE OF SUSSEX in a Highland dress, attended by several
officers in like attire. He walks about the gardens with LADY
CHARLOTTE CAMPBELL.]
FIRST ATTACHE
People have been paying a mighty price for tickets—as much as
fifteen guineas has been offered, I hear. I had to walk up to the
gates; the number of coaches struggling outside prevented my driving
near. It was as bad as the battle of Vitoria itself.
SECOND ATTACHE
So Wellington is made Field-Marshal for his achievement.
FIRST ATTACHE
Yes. By the by, you have heard of the effect of the battle upon
the Conference at Reichenbach?—that Austria is to join Russia and
Prussia against France? So much for Napoléon’s marriage! I wonder
what he thinks of his respected father-in-law now.
SECOND ATTACHE
Of course, an enormous subsidy is paid to Francis by Great Britain
for this face-about?
FIRST ATTACHE
Yes. As Bonaparte says, English guineas are at the bottom of
everything!—Ah, here comes Caroline.
[The PRINCESS OF WALES arrives, attended by LADY ANNE HAMILTON
and LADY GLENBERVIE. She is conducted forward by the DUKE OF
GLOUCESTER and COLONEL ST. LEDGER, and wears a white satin train
with a dark embroidered bodice, and a green wreath with diamonds.
Repeated hurrahs greet her from the crowd. She bows courteously.]
SECOND ATTACHE
The people are staunch for her still!... You heard, sir, what
Austrian Francis said when he learnt of Vitoria?—“A warm climate
seems to agree with my son-in-law no better than a cold one.”
FIRST ATTACHE
Ha-ha-ha!
Marvellous it is how this loud victory
Has couched the late blind Europe’s Cabinets.
Would I could spell precisely what was phrased
’Twixt Bonaparte and Metternich at Dresden—
Their final word, I ween, till God knows when!—
SECOND ATTACHE
I own to feeling it a sorry thing
That Francis should take English money down
To throw off Bonaparte. ’Tis sordid, mean!
He is his daughter’s husband after all.
FIRST ATTACHE
Ay; yes!... They say she knows not of it yet.
SECOND ATTACHE
Poor thing, I daresay it will harry her
When all’s revealed. But the inside o’t is,
Since Castlereagh’s return to power last year
Vienna, like Berlin and Petersburg,
Has harboured England’s secret emissaries,
Primed, purse in hand, with the most lavish sums
To knit the league to drag Napoléon down....
[More fireworks.] That’s grand.—Here comes one Royal item more.
[The DUCHESS OF YORK enters, attended by her ladies and by the
HON. B. CRAVEN and COLONEL BARCLAY. She is received with signals
of respect.]
FIRST ATTACHE
She calls not favour forth as Caroline can!
SECOND ATTACHE
To end my words:—Though happy for this realm,
Austria’s desertion frankly is, by God,
Rank treachery!
FIRST ATTACHE
Whatever it is, it means
Two hundred thousand swords for the Allies,
And enemies in batches for Napoléon
Leaping from unknown lairs.—Yes, something tells me
That this is the beginning of the end
For Emperor Bonaparte!
[The PRINCESS OF WALES prepares to leave. An English diplomatist
joins the attachés in the alcove. The PRINCESS and her ladies go
out.]
DIPLOMATIST
I saw you over here, and I came round. Cursed hot and crowded, isn’t
it?
SECOND ATTACHE
What is the Princess leaving so soon for?
DIPLOMATIST
Oh, she has not been received in the Royal box by the other members
of the Royal Family, and it has offended her, though she was told
beforehand that she could not be. Poor devil! Nobody invited her
here. She came unasked, and she has gone unserved.
FIRST ATTACHE
We shall have to go unserved likewise, I fancy. The scramble at the
buffets is terrible.
DIPLOMATIST
And the road from here to Marsh Gate is impassable. Some ladies have
been sitting in their coaches for hours outside the hedge there. We
shall not get home till noon to-morrow.
A VOICE [from the back]
Take care of your watches! Pickpockets!
FIRST ATTACHE
Good. That relieves the monotony a little.
[Excitement in the throng. When it has subsided the band strikes
up a country dance, and stewards with white ribbons and laurel
leaves are seen bustling about.]
SECOND ATTACHE
Let us go and look at the dancing. It is “Voulez-vous danser”—no,
it is not,—it is “Enrico”—two ladies between two gentlemen.
[They go from the alcove.]
SPIRIT OF THE YEARS
From this phantasmagoria let us roam
To the chief wheel and capstan of the show,
Distant afar. I pray you closely read
What I reveal—wherein each feature bulks
In measure with its value humanly.
[The beholder finds himself, as it were, caught up on high, and
while the Vauxhall scene still dimly twinkles below, he gazes
southward towards Central Europe—the contorted and attenuated
ecorche of the Continent appearing as in an earlier scene, but
now obscure under the summer stars.]
Three cities loom out large: Vienna there,
Dresden, which holds Napoléon, over here,
And Leipzig, whither we shall shortly wing,
Out yonderwards. ’Twixt Dresden and Vienna
What thing do you discern?
SPIRIT OF THE PITIES
Something broad-faced,
Flat-folded, parchment-pale, and in its shape
Rectangular; but moving like a cloud
The Dresden way.
SPIRIT OF THE YEARS
Yet gaze more closely on it.
SPIRIT OF THE PITIES
The object takes a letter’s lineaments
Though swollen to mainsail measure,—magically,
I gather from your words; and on its face
Are three vast seals, red—signifying blood
Must I suppose? It moves on Dresden town,
And dwarfs the city as it passes by.—
You say Napoléon’s there?
SPIRIT OF THE YEARS
The document,
Sized to its big importance, as I told,
Bears in it formal declaration, signed,
Of war by Francis with his late-linked son,
The Emperor of France. Now let us go
To Leipzig city, and await the blow.
[A chaotic gloom ensues, accompanied by a rushing like that of a
mighty wind.]
