The Man of Destiny

the high people are alike in one thing: they have no scruples, no morality. The low are beneath morality, the high above it. I am not afraid of either of them: for the low are unscrupulous without knowledge, so that they make an idol of me; whilst the high are unscrupulous without purpose, so that they go down before my will. Look you: I shall go over all the mobs and all the courts of Europe as a plough goes over a field. It is the middle people who are dangerous: they have both knowledge and purpose. But they, too, have their weak point. They are full of scruples⁠—chained hand and foot by their morality and respectability. Lady Then you will beat the English; for all shopkeepers are middle people. Napoleon No, because the English are a race apart. No Englishman is too low to have scruples: no Englishman is high enough to be free from their tyranny. But every Englishman is born with a certain miraculous power that makes him master of the world. When he wants a thing, he never tells himself that he wants it. He waits patiently until there comes into his mind, no one knows how, a burning conviction that it is his moral and religious duty to conquer those who have got the thing he wants. Then he becomes irresistible. Like the aristocrat, he does what pleases him and grabs what he wants: like the shopkeeper, he pursues his purpose with the industry and steadfastness that come from strong religious conviction and deep sense of moral responsibility. He is never at a loss for an effective moral attitude. As the great champion of freedom and national independence, he conquers and annexes half the world, and calls it Colonization. When he wants a new market for his adulterated Manchester goods, he sends a missionary to teach the natives the gospel of peace. The natives kill the missionary: he flies to arms in defence of Christianity; fights for it; conquers for it; and takes the market as a reward from heaven. In defence of his island shores, he puts a chaplain on board his ship; nails a flag with a cross on it to his topgallant mast; and sails to the ends of the earth, sinking, burning and destroying all who dispute the empire of the seas with him. He boasts that a slave is free the moment his foot touches British soil; and he sells the children of his poor at six years of age to work under the lash in his factories for sixteen hours a day. He makes two revolutions, and then declares war on our one in the name of law and order. There is nothing so bad or so good that you will not find Englishmen doing it; but you will never find an Englishman in the wrong. He does everything on principle. He fights you on patriotic principles; he robs you on business principles; he enslaves you on imperial principles; he bullies you on manly principles; he supports his king on loyal principles, and cuts off his king’s head on republican principles. His watchword is always duty; and he never forgets that the nation which lets its duty get on the opposite side to its interest is lost. He⁠— Lady W-w-w-w-w-wh! Do stop a moment. I want to know how you make me out to be English at this rate. Napoleon Dropping his rhetorical style. It’s plain enough. You wanted some letters that belonged to me. You have spent the morning in stealing them⁠—yes, stealing them, by highway robbery. And you have spent the afternoon in putting me in the wrong about them⁠—in assuming that it was I who wanted to steal your letters⁠—in explaining that it all came about through my meanness and selfishness, and your goodness, your devotion, your self-sacrifice. That’s English. Lady Nonsense. I am sure I am not a bit English. The English are a very stupid people. Napoleon Yes, too stupid sometimes to know when they’re beaten. But I grant that your brains are not English. You see, though your grandfather was an Englishman, your grandmother was⁠—what? A Frenchwoman? Lady Oh, no. An Irishwoman. Napoleon Quickly. Irish! Thoughtfully. Yes: I forgot the Irish. An English army led by an Irish general: that might be a match for a French army led by an Italian general. He pauses, and adds, half jestingly, half moodily, At all events, you have beaten me; and what beats a man first will beat him last. He goes meditatively into the moonlit vineyard and looks up. She steals out after him. She ventures to rest her hand on his shoulder, overcome by the beauty of the night and emboldened by its obscurity. Lady Softly. What are you looking at? Napoleon Pointing up. My star. Lady You believe in that? Napoleon I do. They look at it for a moment, she leaning a little on his shoulder. Lady Do you know that the English say that a man’s star is not complete without a woman’s garter? Napoleon Scandalized⁠—abruptly shaking her off and coming back into the room. Pah! The hypocrites! If the French said that, how they would hold up their hands in pious horror! He goes to the inner door and holds it open, shouting, Hallo! Giuseppe. Where’s that light, man. He comes between the table and the sideboard, and moves the chair to the table, beside his own. We have still to burn the letter. He takes up the packet. Giuseppe comes back, pale and still trembling, carrying a branched candlestick with a couple of candles alight, in one hand, and a broad snuffers tray in the other. Giuseppe Piteously, as he places the light on the table. Excellency: what were you looking up at just now⁠—out there? He points across his shoulder to the vineyard, but is afraid to look round. Napoleon Unfolding the packet. What is that to you? Giuseppe Stammering. Because the witch is gone⁠—vanished; and no