 | A Son of The Soil |  |
ACT I.
Scene First.
—A Room in Martel's house; doors at R. and L. 2 E.; table with papers, &c., L.; chairs; table with drinking cups, R.Hoche, Aristides, and Others discovered.
Aristides.
(R.)
You are ready, then, General? If the Aristocrats
should get to their old work again in Brittany, as we
expect, the Republic counts upon your sword.
Hoche.
(L.)
Now as ever, citizen. It is almost rusting for
want of use. But, till it is needed, we wear pleasant faces as
before, and amuse ourselves in the fine ladies' drawing rooms.
Committee Member.
(L.)
Agreed, by all means.
Aris.
Those may who like it. Your fine ladies are the devil,
General.
Hoche.
Then the devil must be a very pleasant person.
You stand alone in your opinion. I think, Citizen Aristides,
that you are the only member of the Committee of Public Safety
who declines to attend Madame Tallien's receptions.
Aris.
Oh, no, there's one amongst us who hates women
worse than I do.
Com.
You forget the Citizen Martel.
Hoche.
Our host; he is indeed incorrigible. These rooms of
his certainly seem better fitted for a meeting of good Republicans
than for an assembly of ladies.
Aris.
A woman in Martel's house! Dont talk sacrilege.
Com.
Well, General, we leave you to fight the ladies' battle
with our stern moralists here. Our business is over for the
day, and we may look to the evening's pleasure. The Committee
thank you for your attendance. We meet to-night at
Madame Tallien's?
Hoche.
I hope so. Au revoir!
Exeunt all but Hoche and Aristides, door R.
Aris.
And this is the Committee of Public Safety! If the
object of your meeting is to arrange visits to fine ladies, you
had better call yourselves the Committee of Public Danger.
Hoche.
Come, my Diogenes! Your classical godfathers
What makes you so savage to-day? Have the Committee
been too merciful to the Aristocrats this morning?
Aris.
Far too merciful for my taste, and they will pay for
their confidence some day. More nobles released this morning
without trial, and without rhyme or reason. One Count de
Valmont especially, a pestilent young intriguer, who should
be under the guillotine now if I had my way.
Hoche.
Thank heaven you have not, and that the times are
not what they were. I would pardon all the Aristocrats if I
could.
Aris.
And I'd take all their heads off—that's the only
difference.
Hoche.
You are in a minority.
Aris.
Worse luck. If it wasn't for Martel and me we
should be having half the emigrants and absentees back in
Paris, and taking their names off the black list. He knows
better. He was a serf himself (we've done with that word
now, thank heaven) on the estate of one of them.
Hoche.
I have heard him speak of that; kindly enough,
too. The Duke de Lille, was it not?
Aris.
Ay, an absentee, whose name was before us the other
day. There was a difference of opinion about him, and many
were for letting the fellow come back to Paris. Even Martel
had a weakness that way, and, if he says the word, it will be
done.
Hoche.
Then I hope he will say it. Haven't I heard him
speak of a daughter of that same Duke's as a friend of his?
I have almost fancied he kept a soft corner in his heart for her.
Aris.
His heart has no corners. It is as round and as
sound as mine. The girl you speak of was some twelve years
old, as I happen to know, and a cursed little Aristocrat. No
fear of anything in the shape of a petticoat from twelve years
old upwards coming between Citizen Martel and the Republic.
Would that others were like him, for the Republic is all but
lost.
Hoche.
Bah! the Republic is well enough; you need not
wear mourning for her yet awhile. Do you mean to tell me
that, because a woman revives the reign of good manners, and
teaches two men of different opinions to know each other for
the good fellows they are in private, though they may go on
hating in public as much as they please, that the Republic is
lost? She wanted men to defend her in the time of danger,
let women brighten her hour of peace.
(crosses, R.)
Aris.
You are hopeless.
(crosses, R.)
Here comes one who
may convert you better than I can. I wonder the sound of
the word women did not bring him down upon us sooner!
Mart.
I have sent off the despatches. Still at work
On the old argument?
(sits at table, L.)
Hoche.
Yes, I was saying
A good word for the women.
Mart.
Our worst foes!
The women always hated the Republic.
Hoche.
Let our task be to teach them how to love her.
Mart.
Impossible! Our lives and theirs are two,
As fire and water are. Their shallow brain
Has room for nothing but for lace and jewels,
For red-heeled boots and for black-painted eyes.
Equality and liberty are sounds
Too rude and rugged for their squeamish ears;
A people's cries are too loud for good taste:
And in the tribune's shouts is hushed and drown'd
The gossip of the drawing-room.
Hoche.
Poor fellow!
How you hate women. I could never see
Why lace and jewels should not hide a heart
As honest as a soldier's uniform.
But we must make the best of them, poor things!
We can't abolish women, or prevent
Their keeping half creation to themselves.
And if the sex and our laws can't agree,
So much the worse—for our laws.
(crosses, C.)
Mart.
Can such men
Speak in such fashion! While our thoughts and time
Were filled with high and holy purposes,
These women studied decency. But now
That we have given up steel for gold, they flaunt
Their classic mockeries in the theatres,
Half dressed, and unashamed. The Grecian girdle
Will be enough to clothe them soon, without
Even the Grecian tunic that it clasps.
Aris.
Hear—hear!
Hoche.
You are too young to talk like that.
Has never pair of bright eyes in your heart
Pleaded the cause of woman?
Mart.
No, indeed;
Bright eyes don't trouble me. My life is still
Tribune at home, and battle-field abroad,
And has no leisure time for sighs and loves.
My country is my mistress, and for her
I breathe my only vows; for her I feel
The lover's passions and the lover's fears.
In all her triumphs, and adore her beauty!
And wonder much that living man can find,
In these our grand and spirit-stirring days,
Room in his heart for a divided love.
Aris.
How well he talks! My sentiments exactly.
(crosses to L.—sits)
Hoche.
I've heard all that before. Such men as you
Are just the very stuff a woman moulds
Into a helpless slave. Converted rebels
Have ever been the most devoted subjects.
Come, dare you stand the test?
Mart.
What test you please.
Hoche.
I dine to-night at Madame Tallien's;
You shall come with me.
Mart.
I?
Hoche.
That is my test.
Mart.
You are joking, General.
Aris.
(to Martel)
Don't think of it.
No compromise with the idolater.
Hoche.
First hear me for a moment—then refuse.
Believe me, times are changed, and Athens reigns
Instead of Sparta. Throw your lot with me,
Among the softened spirits of the time;
Leave uncouth manner and untidy dress
To the low spouters of the clubs and streets.
To-night, at Madame Tallien's, you will find
Science and war shake hands, and even see,
Under the presidency of good taste,
A marquis bowing to a peasant.
Mart.
Thank you,
Your good taste à la mode is not for me;
I cannot put friendships and enmities,
Like old gloves, on and off. Were I to meet
A traitor in your model drawing-rooms,
Why, I should call him traitor, to his face;
Among these women and these men who ape them,
I should be rude or awkward, insolent,
If not insulted. You may go alone;
And when you meet these nobles in Vendée,
At the sword's point, may you fight none the worse
For having met with them before—at dinner!
Hoche.
Incorrigible man! Good night.
Mart.
Good-bye.
Exit Hoche, R. 2 E.
Aris.
Bravo! that's the way to talk; you've come out of the
fire without a singe. Let him hob and nob with his Aristocrats;
none of your bare shoulders and gold hangings, but honest
cotton gowns and wooden shoes; good women of the people,
fit for nothing but to applaud our speeches and mend our
stockings, with no female charms about them whatever, thank
heaven!
Mart.
Well said!
(laughing)
I will start with you directly,
but must sign some orders of release first, the most welcome
work I have to do. Let me see.
(sitting at a table, L., and
looking over papers)
Enter Leonidas, L. 2 E.
Leon.
Wanted.
Mart.
By whom?
Leon.
Woman.
Marg.
What kind of woman?
Leon.
Lady.
Marg.
An Aristocrat? (Leonidas nods)
Young or old?
Leon.
Young, and— (waking up)
pretty—very!
Aris.
The devil!
Exit precipitately, L. 2 E.
Mart.
Is she so anxious to see me?
Leon.
Insists!
Mart.
Show her in.
Leonidas goes to the door, R., and beckons—then enter Beatrice and Leonidas retires, R., after a stare at her—Martel at his papers, L., does not look up—Beatrice pauses at the door, R.
Beat.
(aside)
In the lion's den. Courage.
Mart.
(not looking up)
What do you want, citizen?
Beat.
(quietly)
A chair, sir.
(Martel turns his head, rises and gives her a chair, R. C.)
Thank you.
(Martel remains standing)
Mart.
Now, will you tell me—
Beat.
You may be seated yourself.
(he pauses for a moment, then bows, and sits at his desk, L.)
Beat.
(R. C.)
So I may count upon your courtesy?
Mart.
(L. C.)
Why not?
Beat.
They told me that Republicans
Despised such trifles, and I felt afraid—
But without cause, I think.
Mart.
You are good to say so.
Beat.
It is but justice. I am glad to feel
That an acknowledged patriot, like you,
And stainless democrat, can be polite,
And still receive a woman as a woman,
Not as a—citizen.
If our rough ways
Stand in some need of mending, I for one
Would gladly take my lesson from your lips.
Beat.
A compliment! Then I feel quite at home,
And proffer my petition fearlessly.
I have a right of audience. The bond
That links us both is of no common kind:
In the same canton you and I were born.
Mart.
You come from—
Beat.
Villeneuve. Have you quite forgotten
The old grey manor-house upon the hill?
Mart.
(his manner changing)
I have forgotten nothing; no, nor shall.
Such memories are dangerous, Madame.
A thousand years of outrage and of wrong,
Humiliation's bitterest record,
Were written on that manor's wicked walls,
To be torn out for ever, in a day,
By an awakened people's lifted hand.
Bonds between us! Would you have said so once?
We miserable serfs are not as you,
But of a different form, and flesh, and life!
Your nobles have no country but your caste,
And the blue-blooded alien Englishman
Is more your countryman than such as we.
The thought of marrying with us and ours
Would be a shame and horror in your eyes!
Forgotten! Have you taught us to forget?
Beat.
Were our bad deeds, then, written upon rock,
And the good traced in sand, to fade so soon?
Have you no kinder memories of those
Your revolution beggared? In their ranks
Was there no woman numbered, by whose hand
Your sorrows were relieved, your wants supplied—
Who watched the bedside of your dying? None?
Mart.
True. I did know one such. She was a child.
Beat.
Some children grow to women, for you know
They cannot help it. Do you not remember
Your childhood's little playmate, in whose lap
You used to pour your wealth of fruits and flowers?
Mart.
You—was that you?
Beat.
Yes, it was I, indeed.
Then how you used to take me in your arms,
And carry me across the running streams,
Great, strong boy that you were?
Mart.
Ah! and how proud
I was of my sweet burden! With what care
Afraid to breathe, for fear of wetting you!
Beat.
And all the toys you used to make for me!
Mart.
And then our hunts after the butterflies!
Beat.
The bonfires that we lighted in the woods!
Mart.
The books you lent me, which I carried off,
Rich and forbidden treasures, to my house,
More mindful of the lender than the loan!
Can it be you?
Beat.
What years have passed since then!
Mart.
And yet it seems to me but yesterday.
Ah, nothing speaks to the man's heart so loud
As do the happy memories of the boy!
Beat.
When you had left the village, how I missed
My old companion! But I heard with pride
When Rumour whispered of your growing fame;
My father tore the papers where the news
Of all your great exploits was written. I
Would sew the bits together, and would go
And read them to your mother.
Mart.
You did that?
Beat.
Was it so wrong?
Mart.
Oh, no.
Beat.
But I did more.
Your father died, and all his property
Fell to the lord, as you had left your home.
My father waived his rights, at my entreaty,
And for your mother's sake.
Mart.
Heaven bless you for it!
I can say nothing more.
Beat.
Then peace is made!
And you allow that an Aristocrat
May have some little good in her?
Mart.
Madame!
Beat.
You should be generous now, for we have learnt
Lessons of poverty, of cold and hunger;
We know what suffering and exile mean,
And we have worked, like you, to earn a living.
These very hands of mine have done no less,
And washed out drinking-cups upon the Rhine.
Mart.
What do you mean?
Beat.
Precisely what I say.
I was a barmaid, and a very good one!
Mart.
This little hand—
Beat.
Has carried draughts of ale
Most humbly to my peasant customers,
And in exchange closed tight upon the coins
They gave me for my pains.
What sacrilege!
What an abomination! But the reasons
That brought you to such work?
Beat.
Necessity.
My father with the army, house and home
Pillaged and burned, friendless and destitute,
What could I do?
Mart.
Your husband, where was he—
The Duke D'Armine?
Beat.
Dead! and the guillotine
That widowed, hardly spared me. Penniless
I had no choice but to work, beg, or starve,
And I preferred the first. A barmaid's place
Was all that I was fit for, and I took it.
Mart.
But this is horrible! That such as you
Should work for your own living, drudge, and slave,
And take the wages of a servant. You
Were only born to order, not be ordered.
Those little hands are far too soft and white,
For menial offices, but should be kept
To be admired, and looked at. Ruffians! Brutes!
Beat.
What a consistent democrat you are!
Don't be excited, for I rather liked it.
The air was pure; the food, not choice, but wholesome,
And the whole place was rest and peace itself.
You should have seen the honest German boors
Sit staring at me with their big round eyes,
Admiring my neat figure, and the ankle
That peeped from under my short petticoat.
It so distracted them, that more than once
They wavered in their duty to the beer.
All was so strange, that I could think myself
Acting a part upon some private stage.
And then, to earn my living!—it was grand
To be a useful member of mankind.
If you had seen me in my servant's dress,
Would you have pardoned my old fineries?
You should respect me now, as you respect
The workers of the world, and let the inn
Atone for the offences of the manor,
The barmaid for the duchess.
Mart.
It is you
Who must forgive. I knew not what I said.
What can I do to win my pardon—tell me?
Command me, I obey.
Beat.
I will command you.
You are a member of the great Committee.
From the proscribed list of the absentees.
Mart.
He is an absentee.
Beat.
He's at the frontier;
What matter on which side by a few yards—
That can't concern the safety of the State.
You told me to command, and so I do;
I ask you for my father.
Mart.
What a tyrant!
Beat.
'Tis no great boon I ask, for you to give,
But everything to me. You know my father.
His faults are of his race, more than redeemed
By his own virtues. We, bad as we are,
Have not unlearned the old-fashioned lessons yet
Of filial duty, love, obedience;
And well has he deserved them at my hands.
I never loved but him; he is my world;
His lightest wish has ever been my law.
For him I gave my hand without my heart—
For him would sacrifice my heart's desire,
Unmurmuring, at a word. That is my creed,
And must be to the end. Give him me back.
And think what payment you will earn from me.
Mar.
Well, I will do my best, if you, Madame,
Stand surety for his good behaviour.
Beat.
Most gladly. If he keep not faith with you,
You shall imprison me, and be my jailor.
Mart.
Such pledges might make traitors of us all.
What other orders have you, citizen—
Your grace, I should say?
Beat.
There is yet one more
For whom I play the suppliant. My cousin,
The Count de Valmont, lies in prison here,
In Paris, charged with treason to the State.
He is not worth the compliment, believe me,
And cannot harm you. He is young, light-headed,
But dangerous to no man but himself.
Mart.
And to no woman?
Beat.
Pshaw, he is my cousin.
The veriest trifle Paris ever tossed
Upon her pleasure sea in smoother times.
Mart.
(aside)
She does not care for him. I am glad of that.
He were not worthy, and she said she loved
Her father only. What is that to me?
The Count de Valmont (looking at his papers)
Ah, I fear, madame,
That this I cannot do.
Say that you will not.
Mart.
It is already done. This very day
We signed the order of release. The Count
Is free by this time. And I cannot hope
To do you service there.
Beat.
Service unsought
Is still the greater service, and from this
I draw a happy omen for my father;
And so I have your promise?
Mart.
I will look
Into the case.
Beat.
We have looked into it.
Mart.
I must consult my colleagues. I am not
The entire Committee!
Beat.
I expected that,
And know what you must do. Except yourself
All the Committee meet, this very night,
At Madame Tallien's, and you must come;
She is my friend, and so will welcome you.
A word from you, Puritan that you are,
Will be all-powerful with your wavering colleagues.
So come to-night to Madame Tallien's.
Mart.
No, nothing shall persuade me.
Beat.
Disobeying
Commands already? You must come to night.
Are you so fearful of a drawing-room,
Where I shall be?
Mart.
Not that, but I have sworn
I would not go.
Beat.
You had not seen me then.
And to be forsworn in a woman's cause
Was never counted for a perjury.
I was sent here as an ambassador,
And if my mission fails, my friends will say
The post was ill-appointed.
Mart.
Hear my reasons—
Beat.
(R.)
I will, to-night, at Madame Tallien's—
But not before. I am now upon my road,
And if you still desire to win my pardon,
You follow instantly.
Mart.
(R. C.)
Can we not meet
Elsewhere, some other time?
Beat.
No; there or nowhere!
You have my ultimatum; so, good-bye
For an hour—or for ever. (going to the door, R., then looking at his face, with a curtsey)
For an hour!
(closed in)
Scene Second.
—Ante-room in Madame Tallien's House.Enter Hoche and Madame Tallien, R. 1 E.
Mad. T.
Your wonderful Martel will not come then, General?
Hoche.
Nothing will persuade him. He is the most intolerant,
intolerable, excellent fellow whom this giddy wheel
of ours has brought to the surface.
Mad. T.
And yet a member of that bloodthirsty Committee,
to which brave men like you lend their swords!
Hoche.
I lend mine to our common country, not to them.
They are but the accidents of the hour-glass, but Time itself
is not more steady than she.
Mad. T.
Then why do men like you bend to these accidents
of the moment? Such stories as we hear of them! They
have their sittings in the richest saloons of the Tuileries, and
to them the best men of your party come humbly to solicit
missions and commands. The National Representatives are
the mere shadow of their power, and the Convention exists
only to register their decrees. And they are the mere dregs
of the people! One of them—my guest to-night—worked for
me as a joiner, and now we pay him eighteen francs a day to
decimate us. Why do you submit to these men, General?
Hoche.
Why do you invite them to your house, madame?
Mad. T.
Because I have no wish to go to theirs. I submit
because I can't help myself.
Hoche.
Nor can I. We never know in France why we
obey this leader or that. It is enough for me that the country
is above all, and Martel at least is not like his fellows. I obey
him as readily in the council-chamber as he obeys me in the
field; a pure and noble heart, without a touch of bloodthirstiness,
or selfish ambition. His influence has already done as
much to humanise his colleagues as even yours.
Mad. T.
Yet you cannot bring these influences together.
Hoche.
I have done my best, but he is an incurable woman-hater.
Mad. T.
How many women does he know? A woman-hater
generally means a man whom some woman wouldn't like!
Let me once see him here, and I will soon convert him.
Believe me, in my way I work for my country too.
Hoche.
I know it, or I should not be here. But the task
you have undertaken is almost impossible. The clouds are
gathering again in Brittany.
Mad. T.
We shall disperse them yet; but I want the good
men of all parties to help me. I am bent upon securing Martel.
Hoche.
He will never come.
Mad. T.
Must I try another ambassador?
Hoche.
If I fail, no one will succeed.
Mad. T.
(to Beatrice)
Have you seen him?
Beat.
(to Madame Tallien)
Yes.
Mad. T.
Have you succeeded?
Beat.
In obtaining my father's pardon? Yes.
Mad. T.
And in bringing this Martel here?
Beat.
I think so.
Mad. T.
That means that you know you have. Well done.
(to Hoche)
General, go and join the company. Before the
evening is over you will see Martel there.
(Hoche laughs)
Are
you open for a wager?
Hoche.
I have nothing to wager but my sword, and a pair
of white horses with which the Republic presented me this
morning.
Mad. T.
All she ever presented you with? Grateful
Republic.
Hoche.
I will venture them on such a stake as this—Martel
will not come.
Mad. T.
He will.
Hoche.
And if he does, let your fine gentlemen guests be
more careful of their tonges. You will be sorry he came
before the evening is over.
Mad. T.
Now, must I yield the palm to you, indeed;
My fascinations are but weak to yours;
My magic arts, so boasted and so feared,
Ne'er tamed so fierce a lion in his den,
Or civilised so tough a democrat.
You are like Cæsar, with a difference—
You come, are seen, and conquer! Tell me, now—
What is the thing like, dear? Is it an ogre?
Beat.
N—no!
Mad. T.
No! But awkward? heavy? badly dressed?
Like some of my menagerie within—
A happy family of bears and peacocks.
He'll be a bear, of course?
Beat.
Yes. I suppose so.
And yet his words are strangely passionate,
Fired with a soul that checks the rising smile
Upon a softer lip. You know I hate
The paltry talk and sickly gallantries
That make up all the fashion of our world.
His rough and rude sincerity was new,
And moved me more than polished compliment.
For the first time, I found myself alone
With one of these, our deadly enemies,
Frightened and curious both, at first. But soon,
By a strange feeling—sympathy—I know not.
Oh! after all, these men are great and strong
To do the work that they have done in France;
To break the mighty statue of the past
In atoms from its storied pedestal,
To wipe out rank and manners, form and laws.
As they had never been—to change a dream
To a reality that rules the world.
There is more manhood in their nameless blood
Than in the pride of all our coats of arms.
Mad. T.
Why, Beatrice!
Beat.
I grant you all their crimes,
Nor would excuse them,—I myself their victim,
Their victim's child and widow. But I feel
That we had driven them to extremity;
And on my life, had I been peasant born,
My very soul had risen in arms with them,
Against the tyranny and wrongs of years.
Mad. T.
Ah!—tell me—Is he young, this citizen?
Beat.
Four or five years my elder,
Mad. T.
So exact?
Beat.
His father was a serf on our estate,
Did not I tell you so? The young Martel
Was a close student, taught himself to read,
But left the village when the wars began,
Enlisted in the Army of the Rhine,
There won high name and honour, and is now
All powerful in the Convention.
Mad. T.
We live in curious times, when ranks change places.
Shall I tell you what fancy crossed my mind?
Beat.
What was it?
Mad. T.
Too absurd, even for days
When most absurdities are probable;
So never mind it. But just tell me, dear,
Have you obtained the Count de Valmont's freedom?
Beat.
He was released to-day.
Mad. T.
By this Martel?
Your hand, I think, is promised to the Count?
Beat.
Half-promised—yes. It is my father's wish
That I some day should be my cousin's wife,
But this is not the time to think of it.
Mad. T.
You love him?
Beat.
I suppose so. Change the subject.
Mad. T.
Most willingly. I am rather sorry for him;
His head was never fit for graver work
Than theatres and horses. Poor De Valmont!
Valm.
(L.)
A woman pitying me! Who was the fool who
said that listeners never hear any good of themselves?
Mad. T.
(C.)
M. de Valmont!
Beat.
(R.)
Ah! you are free already.
Valm.
What a chilling reception! more free than welcome,
I fear! I see you are afraid of giving way to your feelings in
public. But our hostess will excuse us, I know. My beautiful
cousin and betrothed, come to my arms! You won't! Then
I must come to yours!
(crosses R.)
Beat.
The hand is far enough. There!
(gives him her hand
to kiss)
Valm.
As cold as ever!
Beat.
As foolish as ever!
Valm.
If devotion be folly, yes! I declare, cousin mine,
that you don't seem half rejoiced at my escape from captivity.
Beat.
I am not sure, cousin, that captivity is not better for
you than freedom! I fear that a fortnight's imprisonment is
scarcely enough to teach you common sense.
Valm.
That quality is perfectly thrown away in these days.
And what does it mean, at the best? To lay plans which an
accident may upset in a moment—to be always looking forward,
and always on your guard. Life isn't worth having at the price.
My philosophy is to laugh at what makes the rest of the world
cry, and throw myself blindly into the arms of the great god,
Chance, who carries me wherever he pleases, which is sure
to please me.
Beat.
Extravagant as ever!
Valm.
Not I. It's the world that's extravagant, and has
been for the last four years, not to say mad. Peasants turn
into kings, bootmakers into generals, and dukes into dancing-masters.
It would be horrible, if it wasn't so deliciously
absurd. I met a fellow as I came in, all gold and feathers, who
condescended to bow to me. He was one of my own farmers,
and has millions, while I haven't a half-penny. Isn't it funny?
Mad. T.
And you propose to devote your newly acquired
freedom to enjoying this kind of fun?
Valm.
Not entirely. I shall combine business with pleasure.
I have begun conspiring already, I have.
Mad. T.
Oh, hush! Take care!
Valm.
I have, I assure you; but that's nothing. Everybody
does it, and everybody knows that everybody does. Seriously,
this game of plunder and death is nearly played out, and the
accursed Republic will soon commit suicide, if we only wait and
encourage her. It will be a good joke to see her cut her own
throat in her own den.
(aside)
The Republic is not quite so easy to deal with,
I suspect.
Mad. T.
Stop. You are becoming dangerous, and as a
hostess I must not encourage you. Come, both of you, and
join my animals. Count, give me your hand.
Valm.
Too much honoured. It is worth going to prison,
for the new relish it gives to an evening party!
Mad. T.
(to Beatrice)
Beatrice!
Beat.
I follow you.
Exeunt Madame Tallien and Valmont, R. 1 E.
So, we have met again.
The mistress and the serf, the helpless woman,
And the all-powerful ruler—in whose hand
Are names and fortunes, lands, and laws, and lives!
The foremost of the dread decemvirate,
Whose seat of justice is the guillotine.
Is this the man I thought to find so changed?
It is the very boy I knew of old.
A silver echo from our native hills
Rings in his voice, tender and true as then.
His presence brought my girlhood back again;
We moved again in the green woods, and dreamed
Under the open sky. Is this man cruel?
Is it of him that half France is afraid?
If so, all France should be afraid of me.
Why, I could melt this iron with mine eye,
And in these little finger-tips there lurks
A spirit of power to draw him where I would.
Oh, thou down-trodden country of my love,
Dear France, what might I do through him, for thee!
Exit, R. 1 E.
Scene Third.
—A Suite of Rooms in Madame Tallien's house, richly furnished in the classical style.Guests grouped about the stage in the different dresses of the day; Representatives, Nobles, Ladies in the Greek dress, &c.; amongst the others, Martel, L., conversing with the Members of the Committee, L.; in another part of the room, Hoche.
Mart.
(to Member of Committee)
It is arranged, then,
about the Duke de Lille?
1st Committeeman.
His name shall be removed from the
proscription list at once. Your reasons are all-sufficient.
(he
retires—Hoche comes forward, C., seeing Martel)
Hoche.
Can I believe my eyes?
Mart.
That depends on what they tell you.
Hoche.
You here? Here, you?
Mart.
Obviously.
Hoche.
I had no idea that I was so eloquent. You reflected
on all I said, and changed your mind?
Mart.
Precisely. I changed my mind.
Hoche.
Bravo! Come and be introduced to our hostess.
Mart.
(C., drawing back)
Later!
Hoche.
(C.)
No, at once. Courage! Let us face the enemy
together.
(leads Martel to Madame Tallien)
Madame, I
bring you one of my oldest and best friends, as you desired me,
Citizen Martel, representative and member of the Committee,
but better known on the bivouac by the Rhine than in the
drawing-rooms of Paris, and more afraid of one woman than of
twenty regiments.
Mad. T.
My dear General, we owe you all thanks
(with a
look at Beatrice)
for your conquest. I trust that your friend,
in whose praise I have heard so much, has only to know us, to
fear us a little less than his enemies fear him. You see I did
not overrate that winning tongue of yours, after all.
Hoche.
My horses are gone!
Mad. T.
I would not rob you for the world. I only wanted
to teach you not to mistrust yourself or me.
Mart.
(after bowing to Madame Tallien, crosses to Beatrice, R.)
I have done as you wished, madame. Your
father may return to Paris.
Beat.
(R.)
Thank you from the bottom of my heart. You
have acted generously, and have a lasting claim on my friendship.
I can never thank you enough.
Mad. T.
(to one of the Guests)
Well, Barras, what news?
Guest.
Nothing particular. The democrats are agitating,
and the absentees are conspiring. Bah! nothing but last dying
struggles. My best news is, that the wines are good, and the
women pretty; and that we have a delightful concert to-night.
Mad. T.
A concert is well enough in its way; but when
are we to have the Opera again? where the spiders are spinning
their webs over the dear old decorations. Ah, Mr. Martel,
give us back our Opera!
Beat.
Give us back something better, first. The very air
is sighing for a different music, now long dumb—the music of
the church bells. How long must God's house be turned into
a barrack room? Oh, M. Martel, give us back our churches!
Mart.
But, madame—
Hush! You shall not blaspheme before me. I mean
to convert you in spite of yourself. Come to my house, tomorrow,
and hear the rest of my sermon.
A Young Girl.
(to Madame Tallien)
Ah, madame, when
are we to get something better than the Opera! Shall we never
have another ball?
Mad. T.
That is a real want, is it not?
Girl.
It is, indeed. We are tired of wearing eternal
mourning—two years of scaffolds, and murders, and all sorts
of dreadful things. We want to see if our feet have forgotten
how to keep time in their horrid Republican shoes. A ball—
gives us a ball!
Guests.
Yes, Madame Tallien, give us a ball.
Valm.
(coming forward)
Young ladies, you shall have one.
Indeed, we have just been arranging the victims' ball.
Mad. T.
What does that mean?
Valm.
All the guests are to be people who have suffered
from Mother Guillotine.
Girl.
How horrid!
Valm.
I don't mean personally, of course; but by the loss
of some relation—a father, mother or wife. We have settled
the preliminaries, and everything is to be typical of the
occasion. Instead of bowing we are to nod our heads, as if
they were just cut off, like this.
(making a sign with his hand)
The ladies are to wear cypress in their hair. Pretty idea, is
it not?
Mad. T.
Cheerful, very! When is the entertainment to
come off?
Valm.
In a fortnight.
Mad. T.
The authorities will scarcely permit it.
Valm.
Ah, bah! We'll carry loaded canes with us, and our
Jacobin friends will run like hares when they see them.
(Martel, who has heard Valmont, starts up, Beatrice stops him)
Beat.
(to Martel)
He is speaking of the assassins who
disgrace your cause; and not of you.
(Martel sits down, looking at Valmont, who has not observed him)
Valm.
We know these heroes pretty well by this time; a
pack of bloodhounds, who only bark round the guillotine, and
attack those who can't show fight. We have thrashed them
at the Club, in the Palais Royal, at the Tuileries; and given
many a Jacobin a cold bath in the fountain—not before he
wanted it.
Guests.
(laughing)
Bravo!
Mart.
(rising)
Damnation!
Beat.
(aside to him)
Be still.
We will lay siege to their Club some day with stones,
or smoke the fellows out of their lair.
Mart.
The puppy! Am I to bear—
Beat.
Why should you mind what he says? Restrain
yourself, I command—I entreat you.
(Martel remains quiet;
to Valmont)
Count, in this company your remarks are not
in the best taste. Let me beg you to say no more, if I have
any influence with you.
Valm.
My sweet cousin!
Mart.
(aside)
The Count de Valmont!
Valm.
Your influence is unbounded already. When will
you give yourself the right to use it openly?
Mart.
(aside)
What does he mean?
Valm.
Madame Tallien, help me to subdue this charming
rebel. Tell her it is high time we were married, after being
engaged six months.
Mart.
Great Heaven!
Beat.
Don't talk of that now. You are just out of prison;
still suspected; you would only compromise me.
Valm.
Then secure the protection of the government for
love's young dream. Your eyes could do that any day, for I
hear that the Committee are highly susceptible, and never say
“No” to a pretty woman.
Beat.
Count!
Valm.
Don't frown, it's unbecoming. You can't have any
scruple in fascinating these awkward tyrants of ours, and
giving them a lesson, surely. Make use of them first, madame,
and laugh at them afterwards.
Mart.
(springing up)
Right! that is the way to treat those
fellows on whom all honourable scruples are thrown away.
You do them too much honour, madame, in condescending to
play with them.
Val.
I don't know who you are, sir, but you are a very
sensible man.
Beat.
Be silent! (to Valmont)
and you! (to Martel— Valmont turns away laughing—Guests approach and form in groups about the rooms)
Mart.
Poor devils! Monsters, we all know they are!
But they are children, too, in ignorance!
Under their rough and scarred outsides there lie
Fresh feelings easily stirred, soft hearts that need
Small skill to trifle with, and to deceive.
We never learnt the polished treacheries
And the fine treasons of nobility.
This gentleman and his good friends, I hope,
Will bring the old times back again, and then
You need not stand on ceremony with us.
You will hire slaves to beat us.
Beat.
(to Martel, aside)
Are you mad?
What are you doing? Oh, for your own sake
Be silent, or for mine! Do you not see
You draw all eyes upon us? It is cruel
To shame me thus.
Mad. T.
(coming forward)
M. Martel, I beg you,
In common courtesy, to spare her this.
Or, as you are a man, to leave my house.
Beatrice—gentlemen—
Mart.
(throwing aside all restraint, as all gather round to listen)
Yes, I will go!
Would that my foot had withered on the threshold,
Before I ever crossed it. I will go,
But not till I have thrown back in your teeth
Your scorn of the Republic I adore.
You think, you miserable Royalists,
That with your petty plots and trickeries
You can undo the Revolution's work,
Upset the giant brood her womb has borne
In place of dolls like you! We have beaten back
Europe in arms, with ten kings at her head,
With rags upon our backs, and pike in hand!
Our heroes struck Prussians and Englishmen,
Not their own womankind and helpless babes!
Our nobles fought barefooted—but for fame,
And not for gold! Our patriots died for France,
Which you had harried with your foreign friends.
Will you face such as we are? We shall toss you
Even to the winds, like straw! Sneer as you please,
Insult us, and awake the memories
Of your own evil story, whose black roll
We would forget and bury but for you!
Worry with your small stings the lazy lion,
Whose roar would drive you to your caves and holes!
Stand back, you hounds, and let a Frenchman pass!
He rushes out, L., all standing back to let him pass—the doors are thrown wide open—group.
| A Son of The Soil | |