It's Chinese. The hideous gilded birds! The nightmare faces Sneering with scorpion-smiles from every corner! They lodge me in the famous lacquered chamber So that my uniform may seem more white Against the blackness of its glowing walls! PROKESCH. Prince! THE DUKE. They've surrounded me with fools and knaves. PROKESCH. What have you done these last six months? THE DUKE. I've raged! PROKESCH. I'd never seen this Schönbrunn. THE DUKE. It's a tomb. PROKESCH. The Gloriette looks well against the sky. THE DUKE. Yes, while my heart is hungering for glory I've that diminutive: the Gloriette! PROKESCH. You've all the park to ride in. THE DUKE. Oh, the park Is much too little. PROKESCH. Well, then, the valley. THE DUKE. The valley is too little for a gallop. PROKESCH. What do you want for galloping? THE DUKE. All Europe! PROKESCH. Oh, hush! THE DUKE. When from the glowing page of history I lift dazed eyes, a forehead splashed with glory, Closing my Plutarch, leap with thee, O Cæsar, Upon a conquered land, with Alexander, With Hannibal, with thee, my Father-- A LACKEY. [_Entering._] What Will your Highness please to wear to-night? THE DUKE. [_To_ PROKESCH.] There! [_To the_ LACKEY.] I'm not going out. [_The_ LACKEY _disappears._] PROKESCH. [_Who has been turning over some books._] They let you read? THE DUKE. Oh, anything. The days are past when Fanny, That I might learn, learnt history by heart. And, later, books were handed me in secret. PROKESCH. The good Archduchess--? THE DUKE. Every day a book. Locked safe all night I read it. I was drunk! When it was finished, to conceal my crime, I tossed it on the tester's canopy, And there the heap grew, hidden in the darkness; I slept beneath a dome of history. All day the heap lay quiet, but at night, When I was sleeping, it began to stir, And from the pages clamorous with battles. The battles issued, stretching torpid wings; And laurels showered upon my slumbering eyes. Austerlitz gleamed among my curtains, Jena Glowed in the gilded tassels holding them And on a sudden lapsed into my dream. Till once, when Metternich was gravely telling His version of my father's history, Down comes my canopy crushed by the glory; A hundred volumes with their fluttering pages Shouting one name! PROKESCH. Metternich started? THE DUKE. No. He smiled benignantly, and said, "My Lord, Why keep your library so out of reach?" And since that day I've read whate'er I choose. PROKESCH. Even "_Le Fils de l'homme_?" THE DUKE. Yes. PROKESCH.