Der Tag: or, The Tragic Man

Der Tag: or, The Tragic Man
James Barrie

Barrie James Matthew

Der Tag; or, The Tragic Man

"DER TAG"

OR

THE TRAGIC MAN

A bare chamber lighted by a penny dip which casts shadows. On a hard chair by a table sits an Emperorin thought. To him come his Chancellor and an Officer.

Chancellor. Your Imperial Majesty – Officer. Sire – Emperor (the Emperorrises). Is that the paper?

(Indicating a paper in the Chancellor'shand.)

Chancellor (presenting it). It awaits only your Imperial Majesty's signature.

Officer. When you have signed that paper, Sire, the Fatherland will be at war with France and Russia.

Emperor. At last, this little paper – Chancellor. Not of the value of a bird's feather until it has your royal signature. The – Emperor. Then it will sing round the planet. The vibration of it will not pass in a hundred years. My friend, how still the world has grown since I raised this pen! All Europe's listening. Europe! That's Germany, when I have signed! And yet – Officer. Your Imperial Majesty is not afraid to sign? Emperor (flashing). Afraid!

Officer (abject). Oh, Sire!

Emperor. I am irresistible to-day! "Red blood boils in my veins. To me every open door is the gift of a world! I hear a thousand nightingales! I would eat all the elephants in Hindustan and pick my teeth with the spire of Strassburg Cathedral."

Officer. That is the Fatherland to-day. Such as we are, that you have made us, each seeking to copy you in so far as man can repeat his deity. It was you fashioned us into a sword, Sire, and now the sword must speak.

Emperor (approvingly). There the sword spoke – and yet the wise one said: "Take not your enemies together, but separately, lest the meal go to them instead of to you." One at a time. (To Chancellor) Why am I not a friend of Russia till France is out of the way, or France's friend until the bear is muzzled? That was your part.

Chancellor. For that I strove, but their mean minds suspected me. Sire, your signature!

Emperor. What of Britain?

Officer (intently). This – The Day, to which we have so often drunk, draws near!

Emperor. The Day! To The Day! (All salute The Day with their swords.) But when?

Officer. Now, if she wants it!

Emperor. There is no road to Britain – until our neighbors are subdued. Then, for us, there will be no roads that do not lead to Britain.

Chancellor (suavely). Your Imperial Majesty, Britain will not join in just now.

Emperor. If I was sure of that!

Chancellor. I vouch for it. So well we've chosen our time, it finds her at issue with herself, her wild women let loose, her colonies ready to turn against her, Ireland aflame, the paltry British Army sulking with the civic powers.

Emperor. These wounds might heal suddenly if German bugles sounded. It is a land that in the past has done things.

Officer. In the past, your Imperial Majesty, but in the past alone lies Britain's greatness.

Emperor. Yes, that's the German truth. Britain has grown dull and sluggish; a belly of a land, she lies overfed; no dreams within her such as keep powers alive – and timid, too – without red blood in her, but in its stead a thick, yellowish fluid. The most she'll play for is her own safety. Pretend to grant her that and she'll seek her soft bed again. Britain's part in the world's making is done. "I was," her epitaph.

Chancellor. How well you know her, Sire! All she needs is some small excuse for saying, "I acted in the best interests of my money-bags." That excuse I've found for her. I have promised in your name a secret compact with her, that if she stands aloof the parts of France we do not at present need we will not at present take.

Emperor. A secret bargain over the head of France, her friend! Surely an infamous proposal.

Chancellor. The British Government will not think so. Trust me to know them, Sire. Your signature?

Emperor (gleaming). I can fling a million men within the week across the border by way of Alsace and Lorraine.

Officer (with a frown). There are a hundred gates to open that way.

Emperor. My guns shall open them.

Officer (with meaning). You can think of no easier road, Sire?

Emperor. I think of it night and day.

Officer. One further north – through Belgium?

Emperor. If I could dare! But no, that road is barred.

Officer (misunderstanding). On the contrary, Sire – Emperor. Barred by a fortress no gun of mine may bear against – by honor, by my plighted word.

Officer. Yet, Sire – Emperor (after hesitating). No, no! I will not so stain my name.

Chancellor. I am with you, Sire, but I fear it will not be so with France. She has grown cynical. She will find the road through Belgium.

Emperor. You seek to tempt me. She also signed the treaty.

Chancellor. Your Imperial Majesty judges others by yourself. I have private ground for fearing that in the greed for a first advantage France will call the treaty but a scrap of paper.

Emperor. I think your private ground may be your own private newspaper.

Chancellor. She will say that necessity knows no law, or some such dastard words.

Emperor. Belgium is no craven. She will fight the betrayer.

Chancellor. France will hack her way through her.

Emperor. My Chancellor, that is a hideous phrase.

Chancellor. I ask your pardon, Sire. It came, somehow, pat to my lips.

Officer. Your Imperial Majesty, the time passes. Will it please you to sign?