+Characters+: +King Frederick William III+ _and_ +Queen Louisa+ _of
Prussia; their two sons, the_ +Crown Prince Fritz+ _and his
younger brother_ +William+; _their infant daughter_ +Louisa+.
_The_ +Countess Voss+, _Mistress of the Queen’s Household._
+Baron von Hardenburg+, _Generals_ +Scharnhorst+ _and_ +Blücher+.
_Two_ +Maids+ _of the Queen’s retinue. The infant Princess’s_
+Nurse+. _Of these only the principals need appear. The others
may be inferred from being addressed._ +Napoleon Bonaparte+,
_Emperor of France_; +Talleyrand-Perigord+, _his Minister of
Foreign Affairs._
+Scene+: _A hall in a house at Tilsit._
+Time+: _July, 1807._
_To render this scene effective great care must be exercised in
the stage management. The_ +Queen+ _throughout is the pivotal
person, the central figure. At no moment is the full group in
view; the characters press forward as the text requires, those
invisible lending their assistance by exclamations indicative
of the emotions roused--hatred of_ +Bonaparte+, _love of the
Fatherland, and the like. In minor details historical accuracy
has obviously been sacrificed to dramatic effect. The two princes
did not accompany their mother to Tilsit_, +Princess Louisa+ _was
not born till the year following the truce. Nor does Richter’s
painting, the final tableau, represent the Tilsit lodging. The
main story, however, lies close to fact. In the short dialogue
between mother and lads the general pictorial effect should
follow the painting by Steffeck_, +Queen Louisa+ _and Her Two
Elder_ +Sons+ _on the Luisenweg near Koenigsberg. For the scene
between the_ +Queen+ _and_ +Napoleon+ _a hint may be gathered
from Gosse’s picture. Portraits of_ +Frederick William III+,
+Countess Voss+ _and others may be found in historical works. The
final tableau shows Richter’s painting of_ +Queen Louisa+. _For
this, by a simple mechanical contrivance the picture area must
be narrowed, the frame closing in so as to present the solitary
figure on the stairs in the right picture-proportion._
[_As the curtain rises the_ +Queen’s+ _maids laden with wraps and
hand-baggage are seen, disappearing up the stair. The royal party
enters from the left, the_ +King+, _bareheaded, escorting the_
+Queen+, _who is in travelling attire._]
+The King.+
This, dear one, is our lodgment. Poor the best
The fiend allows us.
[_He sighs. The others groan._]
+The Queen.+
[_Cheerfully._]
It will serve. A comb,
Water to cleanse this travel-soil, and then--
Napoleon!
[_The others sigh heavily._]
+The King.+
[_With solicitude._]
Louisa, did I well
To countenance your coming? Hardenberg,
The Czar, all think your woman’s wit may win
Some peace for Prussia far beyond the terms
The monster yields to our diplomacy!
But an that devil Corsican you fear
To meet--!
+The Queen.+
_I_ fear!
[_Laughs._]
Daughter of Mecklenburg,
And Frederick William’s wife!
[_Kisses the_ +King+.]
That I may fail,
Ah, that alone I fear! And yet if one,
One fort, one smallest village, aye, one foot
Of earth for our belovèd Fatherland
I gain I shall not wholly fail!
[_The_ +King+ _embraces her, while the others cry “Long live
her Gracious Majesty Queen Louisa.” The_ +Queen+, _having
acknowledged the demonstration, continues._]
What mannered brute
This mushroom Emperor?
[_Checks the_ +King+ _who is about to reply._]
Nay; tell me not.
I’ll meet him unprepared, unprejudiced.
+The King.+
A brute describes it. Just a brute, replete
With ill-got conquest. Tyrant, petty, mean.
The Czar, myself, his guests enforced, his slaves,
Almost I said!--he heaps with insult, guised
As compliment!
[_The others groan._]
Oh, we must dine with him!
Our sweet society he’ll not forego!
And so, bethink you, I, who love the meal
At homely noon, now eat at eight at night!
Not born to such convention, yet the beast
Would change the clock, elect himself a god--
Napoleon!
[_Great demonstration from the rest._]
+The Countess Voss.+
[_Impressively._]
He apes the English. More,
He passes them! Their heathen dinner hour
Absorbs the afternoon, I’m told, from four
To five!
[_A shocked murmur from all._]
+The Queen.+
[_Excited._]
Hope! Hope! Huzzah! A ray of hope,
The first! Who apes, mark you, that thing he fears;
And by that thing he fears will some day fall!
O little upstart, self-elected god,
Invincible no more proclaim yourself!
Unwitting your Achilles heel you’ve bared!
Oh, I could hug those English!
+The King.+
[_With a caress._]
Optimist!
[_Sighs heavily again._]
Noon or nocturne, his bread sticks i’ my throat!
The pliant Alexander smiles, digests!
But I--
[_Breaks off with emotion._]
’Tis for my Prussia!
[_Cries of “Long live His Gracious Majesty.”_]
+The Queen.+
[_With a caress._]
Dearest one!
The hour of tryst approaches! Take the boys!
[_The_ +Princes+ _come forward._]
’Tis ages since you’ve seen them. Mark their growth!
And you, dear Voto
[_addressing_ +Countess Voss+],
look to baby!
[_The_ +Nurse+ _with the_ +Infant+ _advances. The_ +Queen+ _shows
the_ +King+.]
See!
The love!
+The Countess Voss.+
Her Royal Highness lacks a name!
+The King.+
Louisa for her peerless mother! Yet,
O hapless child, our kingdom in the dust,
What crownèd heads will dare to sponsor thee?
+The Queen.+
A fig for kings and queens who hold aloof
From sorrow! Goethe, Schiller, all
Blood-princes of the realm of intellect,
In spirit lay your hands upon her brow!
And, present, Blücher, grim old warrior;
Dear Scharnhorst, who have cleft your upward way
With consecrated sword to noble heights;
Germans of Germany, where’er ye bide,
Godparent this poor infant; guide her steps
In ways God-fearing, like your own, to Heav’n!
[_Presenting the child to the group. All press about her with
great demonstration and cries of “Long live Her Royal Highness
Princess Louisa!”_]
They go, singing: “All hail, our Gracious King!
Long live our noble King, God save the King!”
+The King.+
You’d hearten stones!
[_Kisses her hands._]
Until we meet again!
+Prince William.+
[_Clinging to the_ +Queen’s+ _right arm._]
I’ll go pick you some cornflowers. And yet
’Tis said that blossoms blue mean hope deferred,
Desires beyond fulfilment!
+The Queen.+
Thus they bring
Sky to our earth!
+The Crown Prince.+
[_On the_ +Queen’s+ _left._]
Stoop, Mother. Whisper low.
You’re fighting for the throne ... my throne to be!
Yet ... whisper! I don’t want to be a king!
Poor father, see how sad it makes him! Then
Last Christmas did not Santa Claus pass by
Our wretched palace? No gift-laden tree
He brought, for, sooth, we’re children of a king!
+The Queen.+
[_Tenderly._]
My Fritz, our burdens ’tis not ours to choose!
Come, lift your head! That’s my brave lad! Now say
The little catechism that we made
Together!
+The Crown Prince.+
Crown Prince am I
Of Prussia.
+Prince William.+
[_Takes his brother’s hand._]