Der Tag: or, The Tragic Man

Emperor. In my dream I thought England was grown degenerate and would not fight.

Culture. She fought you where Crécy was, and Agincourt, and Waterloo, with all their dead to help her. The dead became quick in their ancient graves, stirred by the tread of the island feet, and they cried out: "How is England doing?" The living answered the dead upon their bugles with the "All's well." England, O Emperor, was grown degenerate, but you, you, have made her great.

Emperor. France, Russia?

Culture. They are here around your walls.

Emperor. My people?

Culture. I see none marching but men whose feet make no sound. Shades of your soldiers who pass on and on, in never-ending lines.

Emperor. Do they curse me?

Culture. None curses; they all salute you as they pass. They have done your bidding.

Emperor. The women curse me?

Culture. Not even the women. They, too, salute you. You were their Father and could do no wrong.

Emperor. And you?

Culture. I have come with this gaping wound in my breast to bid you farewell.

Emperor. God cannot let my Germany be utterly destroyed.

Culture. If God is with the Allies, Germany will not be destroyed. Farewell.

(She is going. She lifts a pistol from the table and puts it in his hand. It is all she can do for her old friend. She goes away with shining eyes. The penny dip burns low. The great Emperor is lost in its shadows.)