And so I tried him out in the little role of Narcissus. Certainly he had little to do but move like a God … and he moved like a God. Of course obeying my every command, no words to speak, himself; but the camera was kind to him. And I was the master, I dictated every gesture, every look, every tilt of his head, every breath he drew, and he obeyed me completely, unquestioningly. the clay in the potter’s hand and I the potter. But … but! Clay has no resistance until it is fired; it is fluid, soft, pliable, it accepts the expert touch of a master craftsman as easily as it accepts the coarser hand of the peasant potter. I am the Master Craftsman, that I can say with no fear of doubt. But have I chosen common clay to try and fashion a piece of Meissen? Have I made the most appalling error? He will give me the grace of my prince, but can he give me the fury? For fury I must have. l’Aiglon was possessed of fury. A boy who could beat a horse almost to death, who could fight with a will of iron the slow rotting of his body, who was blazing to rule over France, Belgium, Italy and Poland, son of an Emperor! Can he give me this, this Wolf Hagel? Can he suggest the force, the passion, the rage to live? I can teach him the manners of a prince, naturally … but can I teach him rage? We wrestle; he gives in, pleasing me, he thinks, by losing. We fence; he crumbles when I prick him. I humiliate him, he accepts, meekly. He rides but is afraid to take a jump … Ah no! He is weak! Weak! Cheap peasant clay.

He stared furiously up at the village of St Paul strapped tightly within its ramparts, a ship stranded upon a hill. But strong! Proud upon its ridge, serene, having defied centuries of invaders from Saracens to Moors and turned them back with brute force, remaining unconquered, victorious, secure. Strength! Fist jammed hard against his cheek he glared balefully at the clutter of jumbled roofs from which the square church tower rose indomitably, glowing like cornelian in the sun. It had even managed to repel the new invaders, the builders and tourists who had littered the gentle hills about it with a sea of ugly villas and sodium lamps, a tide of metropolitan mediocrity lapping at the very base of its foundations. But a masculine village, strong, brave, resolute, surviving. There is nothing weak there: but I have chosen from a frail stratum for my l’Aiglon; common clay better suited to a chamber pot than a work of art. Flawed rubbish which will explode in the furnace of my creativity or else reveal its blemishes under my master’s hand. Why was I so sure at first? Why so captivated? Am I indeed losing touch? Am I completely mad?