Bertrand And Gourgaud Talk Over Old Times

Gourgaud, these tears are tears - but look, this laugh,     How hearty and serene - you see a laugh     Which settles to a smile of lips and eyes     Makes tears just drops of water on the leaves     When rain falls from a sun-lit sky, my friend,     Drink to me, clasp my hand, embrace me, call me     Beloved Bertrand. Ha! I sigh for joy.     Look at our Paris, happy, whole, renewed,     Refreshed by youth, new dressed in human leaves,     Shaking its fresh blown blossoms to the world.     And here we sit grown old, of memories     Top-full - your hand - my breast is all afire     With happiness that warms, makes young again.     You see it is not what we saw to-day     That makes me spirit, rids me of the flesh: -     But all that I remember, we remember     Of what the world was, what it is to-day,     Beholding how it grows. Gourgaud, I see     Not in the rise of this man or of that,     Nor in a battle's issue, in the blow     That lifts or fells a nation - no, my friend,     God is not there, but in the living stream     Which sweeps in spite of eddies, undertows,     Cross-currents, what you will, to that result     Where stillness shows the star that fits the star     Of truth in spirits treasured, imaged, kept     Through sorrow, blood and death, - God moves in that     And there I find Him.             But these tears - for whom     Or what are tears? The Old Guard - oh, my friend     That melancholy remnant! And the horse,     White, to be sure, but not Marengo, wearing     The saddle and the bridle which he used.     My tears take quality for these pitiful things,     But other quality for the purple robe     Over the coffin lettered in pure gold     "Napoleon" - ah, the emperor at last     Come back to Paris! And his spirit looks     Over the land he loved, with what result?     Does just the army that acclaimed him rise     Which rose to hail him back from Elba? - no     All France acclaims him! Princes of the church,     And notables uncover! At the door     A herald cries "The Emperor!" Those assembled     Rise and do reverence to him. Look at Soult,     He hands the king the sword of Austerlitz,     The king turns to me, hands the sword to me,     I place it on the coffin - dear Gourgaud,     Embrace me, clasp my hand! I weep and laugh     For thinking that the Emperor is home;     For thinking I have laid upon his bed     The sword that makes inviolable his bed,     Since History stepped to where I stood and stands     To say forever: Here he rests, be still,     Bow down, pass by in reverence - the Ages     Like giant caryatides that look     With sleepless eyes upon the world and hold     With never tiring hands the Vault of Time,     Command your reverence.             What have we seen?     Why this, that every man, himself achieving     Exhausts the life that drives him to the work     Of self-expression, of the vision in him,     His reason for existence, as he sees it.     He may or may not mould the epic stuff     As he would wish, as lookers on have hope     His hands shall mould it, and by failing take -     For slip of hand, tough clay or blinking eye,     A cinder for that moment in the eye -     A world of blame; for hooting or dispraise     Have all his work misvalued for the time,     And pump his heart up harder to subdue     Envy, or fear or greed, in any case     He grows and leaves and blossoms, so consumes     His soul's endowment in the vision of life.     And thus of him. Why, there at Fontainebleau     He is a man full spent, he idles, sleeps,     Hears with dull ears: Down with the Corsican,     Up with the Bourbon lilies! Royalists,     Conspirators, and clericals may shout     Their hatred of him, but he sits for hours     Kicking the gravel with his little heel,     Which lately trampled sceptres in the mud.     Well, what was he at Waterloo? - you know:     That piercing spirit which at mid-day power     Knew all the maps of Europe - could unfold     A map and say here is the place, the way,     The road, the valley, hill, destroy them here.     Why, all his memory of maps was blurred     The night before he failed at Waterloo.     The Emperor was sick, my friend, we know it.     He could not ride a horse at Waterloo.     His soul was spent, that's all. But who was rested?     The dirty Bourbons skulking back to Paris,     Now that our giant democrat was sick.     Oh, yes, the dirty Bourbons skulked to Paris     Helped by the Duke and Blcher, damn their souls.     What is a man to do whose work is done     And does not feel so well, has cancer, say?     You know he could have reached America     After his fall at Waterloo. Good God!     If only he had done it! For they say     New Orleans is a city good to live in.     And he had ceded to America     Louisiana, which in time would curb     The English lion. But he didn't go there.     His mind was weakened else he had foreseen     The lion he had tangled, wounded, scourged     Would claw him if it got him, play with him     Before it killed him. Who was England then? -     An old, mad, blind, despised and dying king     Who lost a continent for the lust that slew     The Emperor - the world will say at last     It was no other. Who was England then?     A regent bad as husband, father, son,     Monarch and friend. But who was England then?     Great Castlereagh who cut his throat, but who     Had cut his country's long before. The duke -     Since Waterloo, and since the Emperor slept -     The English stoned the duke, he bars his windows     With iron 'gainst the mobs who break to fury,     To see the Duke waylay democracy.     The world's great conqueror's conqueror! - Eh bien!     Grips England after Waterloo, but when     The people see the duke for what he is:     A blocker of reform, a Tory sentry,     A spotless knight of ancient privilege,     They up and stone him, by the very deed     Stone him for wronging the democracy     The Emperor erected with the sword.     The world's great conqueror's conqueror - Oh, I sicken!     Odes are like head-stones, standing while the graves     Are guarded and kept up, but falling down     To ruin and erasure when the graves     Are left to sink. Hey! there you English poets,     Picking from daily libels, slanders, junk     Of metal for your tablets 'gainst the Emperor,     Melt up true metal at your peril, poets,     Sweet moralists, monopolists of God.     But who was England? Byron driven out,     And courts of chancery vile but sacrosanct,     Despoiling Shelley of his children; Southey,     The turn-coat panegyrist of King George,     An old, mad, blind, despised, dead king at last;     A realm of rotten boroughs massed to stop     The progress of democracy and chanting     To God Almighty hymns for Waterloo,     Which did not stop democracy, as they hoped.     For England of to-day is freer - why?     The revolution and the Emperor!     They quench the revolution, send Napoleon     To St. Helena - but the ashes soar     Grown finer, grown invisible at last.     And all the time a wind is blowing ashes,     And sifting them upon the spotless linen     Of kings and dukes in England till at last     They find themselves mistaken for the people.     Drink to me, clasp my hand, embrace me - tiens!     The Emperor is home again in France,     And Europe for democracy is thrilling.     Now don't you see the Emperor was sick,     The shadows falling slant across his mind     To write to such an England: "My career     Is ended and I come to sit me down     Before the fireside of the British people,     And claim protection from your Royal Highness" -     This to the regent - "as a generous foe     Most constant and most powerful" - I weep.     They tricked him Gourgaud. Once upon the ship,     He thinks he's bound for England, and why not?     They dine him, treat him like an Emperor.     And then they tack and sail to St. Helena,     Give him a cow shed for a residence.     Depute that thing Sir Hudson Lowe to watch him,     Spy on his torture, intercept his letters,     Step on his broken wings, and mock the film     Descending on those eyes of failing fire. ...     One day the packet brought to him a book     Inscribed by Hobhouse, "To the Emperor."     Lowe kept the book but when the Emperor learned     Lowe kept the book, because 'twas so inscribed,     The Emperor said - I stood near by - "Who gave you     The right to slur my title? In a few years     Yourself, Lord Castlereagh, the duke himself     Will be beneath oblivion's dust, remembered     For your indignities to me, that's all.     England expended millions on her libels     To poison Europe's mind and make my purpose     Obscure or bloody - how have they availed?     You have me here upon this scarp of rock,     But truth will pierce the clouds, 'tis like the sun     And like the sun it cannot be destroyed.     Your Wellingtons and Metternichs may dam     The liberal stream, but only to make stronger     The torrent when it breaks. "Is it not true?     That's why I weep and laugh to-day, my friend     And trust God as I have not trusted yet.     And then the Emperor said: "What have I claimed?     A portion of the royal blood of Europe?     A crown for blood's sake? No, my royal blood     Is dated from the field of Montenotte,     And from my mother there in Corsica,     And from the revolution. I'm a man     Who made himself because the people made me.     You understand as little as she did     When I had brought her back from Austria,     And riding through the streets of Paris pointed     Up to the window of the little room     Where I had lodged when I came from Brienne,     A poor boy with my way to make - as poor     As Andrew Jackson in America,     No more a despot than he is a despot.     Your England understands. I was a menace     Not as a despot, but as head and front,     Eyes, brain and leader of democracy,     Which like the messenger of God was marking     The doors of kings for slaughter. England lies.     Your England understands I had to hold     By rule compact a people drunk with rapture,     And torn by counter forces, had to fight     The royalists of Europe who beheld     Their peoples feverish from the great infection,     Who hoped to stamp the plague in France and stop     Its spread to them. Your England understands.     Save Castlereagh and Wellington and Southey.     But look you, sir, my roads, canals and harbors,     My schools, finance, my code, the manufactures     Arts, sciences I builded, democratic     Triumphs which I won will live for ages -     These are my witnesses, will testify     Forever what I was and meant to do.     The ideas which I brought to power will stifle     All royalty, all feudalism - look     They live in England, they illuminate     America, they will be faith, religion     For every people - these I kindled, carried     Their flaming torch through Europe as the chief     Torch bearer, soldier, representative."     You were not there, Gourgaud - but wait a minute,     I choke with tears and laughter. Listen now:     Sir Hudson Lowe looked at the Emperor     Contemptuous but not the less bewitched.     And when the Emperor finished, out he drawled     "You make me smile." Why that is memorable:     It should be carved upon Sir Hudson's stone.     He was a prophet, founder of the sect     Of smilers and of laughers through the world,     Smilers and laughers that the Emperor     Told every whit the truth. Look you at Europe,     What were it in this day except for France,     Napoleon's France, the revolution's France?     What will it be as time goes on but peoples     Made free through France?         I take the good and ill,     Think over how he lounged, lay late in bed,     Spent long hours in the bath, counted the hours,     Pale, broken, wracked with pain, insulted, watched,     His child torn from him, Josephine and wife     Silent or separate, waiting long for death,     Looking with filmed eyes upon his wings     Broken, upon the rocks stretched out to gain     A little sun, and crying to the sea     With broken voice - I weep when I remember     Such things which you and I from day to day     Beheld, nor could not mitigate. But then     There is that night of thunder, and the dawning     And all that day of storm and toward the evening     He says: "Deploy the eagles!" "Onward!" Well,     I leave the room and say to Steward there:     "The Emperor is dead." That very moment     A crash of thunder deafened us. You see     A great age boomed in thunder its renewal -     Drink to me, clasp my hand, embrace me, friend.